February 14, 2008

Apollo and Daphne
By: Ovid from book 1 of the Metamorphoses

Now Daphne—daughter of the river-god, Peneus—was the first of Phoebus’ loves. This love was not the fruit of random chance: what fostered it was Cupid’s cruel wrath. For now, while Phoebus still was taking pride 5 in his defeat of Python, he caught sight of Cupid as he bent his bow to tie the string at the two ends. He said: “Lewd boy, what are you doing with that heavy bow? My shoulders surely are more fit for it; 10 for I can strike wild beasts—I never miss. I can fell enemies; just recently I even hit—my shafts were infinite— that swollen serpent, Python, sprawled across whole acres with his pestilential paunch. 15 Be glad your torch can spark a bit of love: don’t try to vie with me for praise and wreaths!” And Venus’ son replied: “Your shafts may pierce all things, o Phoebus, but you'll be transfixed by mine; and even as all earthly things 20 can never equal any deity, so shall your glory be no match for mine.” That said, he hurried off; he beat his wings until he reached Parnassus’ shady peak; there, from his quiver, Cupid drew two shafts 25 of opposite effect: the first rejects, the second kindles love. This last is golden, its tip is sharp and glittering; the first is blunt, its tip is leaden—and with this blunt shaft the god pierced Daphne. With the tip 30 of gold he hit Apollo; and the arrow pierced to the bones and marrow. And at once the god of Delos is aflame with love; but Daphne hates its very name; she wants deep woods and spoils of animals she hunts; 35 it is Diana, Phoebus’ virgin sister, whom she would emulate. Around her hair— in disarray—she wears a simple band. Though many suitors seek her, she spurns all; she wants to roam uncurbed; she needs no man; 40 she pays no heed to marriage, love, or husbands. Her father often said: “You’re in my debt: a son-in-law is owed me.” And he said: “You owe me grandsons.” But his daughter scorns, as things quite criminal, the marriage torch 45 and matrimony; with a modest blush on her fair face, she twines her arms around her father’s neck: “Allow me to enjoy perpetual virginity,” she pleads; “o dear, dear father, surely you’ll concede 50 to me the gift Diana has received from her dear father.” And in fact, Peneus would have agreed. 0 Daphne, it’s your beauty that will prevent your getting that dear gift. Your fair form contradicts your deepest wish. 55 Phoebus is lovestruck; having seen the girl, he longs to wed her and, in longing, hopes; but though he is the god of oracles, he reads the future wrongly. Even as, when grain is harvested, the stubble left 60 will burn, or as the hedges burn when chance has led some traveler to bring his torch too close, or to forget it on the road when he went off at dawn, so Phoebus burns, so is his heart aflame; with hope he feeds 65 a fruitless love. He looks at Daphne’s hair as, unadorned, it hangs down her fair neck, and says: “Just think, if she should comb her locks!” He sees her lips and never tires of them; her fingers, hands, and wrists are unsurpassed; 70 her arms—more than half-bare—cannot be matched; whatever he can’t see he can imagine; he conjures it as even more inviting. But swifter than the lightest breeze, she flees and does not halt—not even when he pleads: 75 “0, daughter of Peneus, stay! Dear Daphne, I don’t pursue you as an enemy! Wait, nymph! You flee as would the lamb before the wolf, the deer before the lion, or the trembling dove before the eagle; thus 80 all flee from hostile things, but it is love for which I seek you now! What misery! I fear you’ll stumble, fall, be scratched by brambles and harm your faultless legs—and I'm to blame. You're crossing trackless places. Slow your pace; 85 I pray you, stay your flight. I’ll slow down, too. But do consider who your lover is. I’m not a mountain dweller, not a shepherd, no scraggly guardian of flocks and herds. Too rash, you don’t know whom you’re fleeing from; 90 in fact, that’s why you run. I am the lord of Delphi’s land, and Claros, Tenedos, and regal Patara. Jove is my father. Through me, all is revealed: what’s yet to be, what was, and what now is. The harmony 95 of song and lyre is achieved through me. My shaft is sure in flight; but then there’s he whose arrow aimed still more infallibly, the one who wounded me when I was free of any love within my heart. I am 100 the one who has invented medicine, but now there is no herb to cure my passion; my art, which helps all men, can’t heal its master.” He’d have said more, but Daphne did not halt; afraid, she left him there, with half-done words. 105 But even then, the sight of her was striking. The wind laid bare her limbs; against the nymph it blew; her dress was fluttering; her hair streamed in the breeze; in flight she was more fair. But now the young god can’t waste time: he’s lost 110 his patience; his beguiling words are done; and so—with love as spur—he races on; he closes in. Just as a Gallic hound surveys the open field and sights a hare, and both the hunter and the hunted race 115 more swiftly—one to catch, one to escape (he seems about to leap on his prey’s back; he’s almost sure he’s won; his muzzle now is at her heels; the other, still in doubt— not sure if she is caught—slips from his mouth; 120 at the last instant, she escapes his jaws): such were the god and girl; while he is swift because of hope, what urges her is fear. But love has given wings to the pursuer; he’s faster—and his pace will not relent. 125 He’s at her shoulders now; she feels his breath upon the hair that streams down to her neck. Exhausted, wayworn, pale, and terrified, she sees Peneus’ stream nearby; she cries: “Help me, dear father; if the river-gods 130 have any power, then transform, dissolve my gracious shape, the form that pleased too well!” As soon as she is finished with her prayer, a heavy numbness grips her limbs; thin bark begins to gird her tender frame, her hair 135 is changed to leaves, her arms to boughs; her feet— so keen to race before—are now held fast by sluggish roots; the girl’s head vanishes, becoming a treetop. All that is left of Daphne is her radiance. And yet Apollo loves her still; he leans against 141 the trunk; he feels the heart that beats beneath the new-made bark; within his arms he clasps the branches as if they were human limbs; and his lips kiss the wood, but still it shrinks 145 from his embrace, at which he cries: “But since you cannot be my wife, you’ll be my tree. 0 laurel, I shall always wear your leaves to wreathe my hair, my lyre, and my quiver. When Roman chieftains crown their heads with garlands 150 as chants of gladness greet their victory, you will be there. And you will also be the faithful guardian who stands beside the portals of Augustus’ house and keeps a close watch on the Roman crown of oak leaves. 155 And even as my head is ever young, and my hair ever long, may you, unshorn, wear your leaves, too, forever: never lose that loveliness, o laurel, which is yours!” Apollo’s words were done. With new-made boughs 160 the laurel nodded; and she shook her crown, as if her head had meant to show consent.

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Notes & Commentary

Works Cited

• Harrison, Stephen (2002). "Ovid and Genre: Evolutions of an Elegist". In Hardie, Philip. The Cambridge Companion to Ovid. Cambridge UP. pp. 79–94.
• Nersessian, Anahid (2021). Keats’s Odes: A Lover’s Discourse. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.