In Thessaly there is a deep-set valley
surrounded on all sides by wooded slopes
that tower high. They call that valley Tempe.
And the Peneus River, as it flows
down from Mount Pindus’ base—waves flecked with foam—
runs through that valley. In its steep descent,
a heavy fall, the stream gives rise to clouds
and slender threads of mist—like curling smoke;
and from on high, the river sprays treetops;
its roar resounds through places near and far.
This is the home, the seat, the sanctuary
of that great stream. And here, within a cave
carved out of rock, sat Daphne’s father, god
and ruler of these waters and of all
the nymphs who made their home within his waves.
And it was here that—though they were unsure
if they should compliment or comfort him—
first came the river-gods of his own region:
Enipeus, restless river; poplar-rich
Sperchios; veteran Apidanus
and gentle Aeas and Amphrysus; then
the other, distant rivers came—all those
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who, on whatever course their currents flow,
lead down their wayworn waters to the sea.
The only missing god was Inachus.
He had retreated to his deepest cave,
and as he wept, his tears increased his waves;
the disappearance of his daughter, Io,
had left him desperate. He did not know
if she was still alive or with the Shades;
he could not find her anywhere, and so
he thought that she was nowhere; in his heart
his fears foresaw things devious and dark.
Now it was Jove who had caught sight of Io;
she was returning from her father’s stream,
and Jove had said: “O virgin, you indeed
would merit Jove and will make any man
you wed—whoever he may be—most glad.
But now it’s time for you to seek the shade
of those deep woods” (and here he pointed toward
a nearby forest); “for the sun is high—
at its midcourse; such heat can’t be defied.
And do not be afraid to find yourself
alone among the haunts of savage beasts:
within the forest depths you can be sure
of safety, for your guardian is a god—
and I am not a common deity:
for I am he who holds within his hand
the heavens’ scepter: I am he who hurls
the roaming thunderbolts. So do not flee!”
But even as he spoke, she’d left behind
the pasturelands of Lema, and the plains
around Lyrceus’ peak, fields thick with trees.
Then with a veil of heavy fog, the god
concealed a vast expanse of land; Jove stopped
her flight; he raped chaste Io.
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Meanwhile Juno,
from heaven’s height, had chanced to cast her eyes
on Argus’ center; she was stupefied
to see that hovering clouds, in full daylight,
had brought about a darkness deep as night;
she knew that this could not be river mist
or fog that rises up from the damp soil.
So Saturn’s daughter looked around to see
just where her Jove might be—so frequently
she’d caught him sneaking or, more flagrantly,
at play. And since he wasn’t in the sky,
she said: “I am mistaken or betrayed”;
and then, descending from the heavens’ height,
she stood upon the ground and told the clouds
that they must now recede.
Jove had foreseen
his wife’s arrival; he had changed the daughter
of Inachus: she now was a white heifer.
And even as a heifer she was lovely.
Great Juno—grudgingly—praised the cow’s beauty,
then asked who was her owner, where did she
come from, what herd did she belong to—all
as if she were aware of nothing. Jove,
contriving, said the earth had given birth
to this fine heifer—hoping that would stop
his wife’s barrage. And Juno asked to have
the heifer as a gift. What should he do?
It would be cruel to consign his love;
but if he kept her, he would just raise doubts.
On one side, shame keeps urging: Give her up.
Love, on the other side, insists: Do not.
Love could have overcome his shame, but if
he should refuse so slight, so poor a gift
to one who was his sister and his wife,
he’d have to run a disconcerting risk,
since Juno could conclude that, after all,
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this heifer was no cow. So, in the end,
the goddess got her rival as a present.
Yet Juno still suspected treachery;
to ward off any wiles, she now entrusted
the heifer to Arestor’s son; for Argus
was gifted with a hundred eyes, and he
would sleep with only two of those eyes shut
at any time, in turn—the rest he left
awake and watchful. He was Io’s guardian;
no matter where he turned, he always kept
some eyes on her; though he might turn his back,
he still had her in view. By day he let
the heifer graze; but when the sun had set,
he locked her in and tied, around her neck,
a shameful halter. She was always fed
on leaves from trees and bitter herbs, and slept
upon the ground—and it was often bare
of grass; poor Io drank from muddy streams
and, when she tried to lift her arms to plead
with Argus, found she had no arms to stretch;
and when she tried to utter some lament,
nothing but lowings issued from her lips,
a sound that she was frightened to emit—
her own voice frightened her.
And Io reached
the shores on which she had so often played,
the river banks of Inachus; she stared
at her strange horns reflected in the waves,
and at her muzzle; and she fled, dismayed
and terrified. Not even Inachus
and all his Naiads knew just who she was;
but she would trail her father and her sisters
and let them touch her as she sidled up
to be admired. Once, old Inachus
had plucked some grass and held it out to her:
she licked her father’s hands, and tried to kiss
his palms, and then began to weep; and if
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she could have uttered words, she would have told
her name and wretched fate and begged for aid.
Instead of words, it’s letters that she traced
in sand—she used her hoof: so she revealed
her transformation—all of her sad tale.
“What misery!” cried Inachus; he clasped
her horns and neck; and snow-white Io moaned.
“What misery!” he wailed. “Are you my daughter,
the one whom I have sought through all the world?
My sorrow at the loss of you was less
than in my finding you; and now there’s silence;
my words receive no answer, only sighs
and lowing—these must serve as your reply.
To think that—unaware, oblivious—
I was intent on all your wedding rites,
your marriage torch, and I was hoping for
a son-in-law and then grandsons. But now
it is a bull whom you must wed; you’ll bear
a bull as son. And I can’t kill myself,
however deep my grief: sad fate indeed
to be a god: the gate of death is closed
against me; I am doomed to bear this sorrow
eternally.”
And while her father mourned,
Argus, the many-eyed, came up, and drove
old Inachus away; her guardian grabbed
poor Io; and to other pasturelands,
he thrust her. Then he sat upon a peak
and, from that height, kept all the fields in sight.
. . .
But now the ruler of the gods cannot
endure his Io’s suffering so much;
he summons Mercury, the son that Jove
had by the shining Pleiad; he instructs
his son to murder Argus. And at once,
with his winged sandals, Mercury flies off;
within his hand, he grasps the potent wand
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that can bring sleep; his cap is on his head.
And so arrayed, the son of Jove descends—
down from his father’s fortress high in heaven
to earth. He sets aside his cap, his wings;
the wand is all he keeps but makes it seem
a shepherd’s crook; and then, in rural guise,
along stray paths, the son of Maia drives
some goats he’d rustled from the countryside;
and as he goes, upon the reeds he’d tied
together—rustic pipes—he plays a song.
And Argus is entranced by those strange sounds:
“Whoever you may be,” he says, “sit down
beside me on this rock; no other spot
can offer richer grass to all your flock;
and there is perfect shade for shepherds here.”
So Mercury joins Argus on the rock
and whiles away the time with varied talk;
he plays upon the reeds—with that he hopes
that Argus’ watchful eyes will drop their guard.
But Argus tries to ward off languid sleep;
and though some of his eyes have shut, he keeps
the rest awake and watchful. And indeed,
since pipes had been invented recently,
he asks how that invention came about.