“And Paphos’ son was Cinyras, a man
who, if he’d not had children, might have found
some happiness. The tale I now would sing
is dread indeed: o daughters, fathers, leave;
or if your minds delight in listening,
do not put trust in me, do not believe
the truth that I will tell; or if you must
believe it, then believe the penalty
that punishes such acts. In any case,
if nature can permit so foul a sin
to see the light, I do congratulate
this region of the world, my Thracian race;
I’m grateful that we are so far away
from lands where such obscenities take place.
“Panchaea’s land is rich in balsam and
in cinnamon and unguents; and its trees
drip incense, and its soil has many flowers.
What need had it for myrrh? Did it deserve
so sad a plant? O Myrrha, Cupid had
no part in your undoing—for he says
his arrow did not strike you; he declares
his torches innocent. The firebrand
and venom-swollen snakes were brought from Styx
by one of the three Sisters: she did this
to crush you. Yes, to hate a father is
a crime, but love like yours is worse than hate.
“Young lords from every land, the noblest men
from all the Orient, have sought your hand;
among all these, choose one as your dear husband.
But, Myrrha, there is one who can’t belong
to those from whom you choose.
Latin [297–318]
“And she, in truth,
knows that; she strives; she tries; she would subdue
her obscene love: ‘Where has my mind led me?
What am I plotting? Gods, I do beseech,
and, too, I call upon the piety
I owe my parents: check my sacrilege,
prevent my sinning—if it is a sin.
Parental piety does not exclude
such love: the other animals pursue
delight and mate without such niceties.
There’s nothing execrable when a heifer
is mounted by her father; stallions, too,
mate with their daughters; and a goat can choose
to couple with his child; the female bird
conceives from that same seed which fathered her.
Blessed are those who have that privilege.
It’s human scruples that have stifled us
with jealous edicts; law is envious—
what nature would permit, the law forbids.
And yet they say that there are tribes in which
the mother mates with her own son, the daughter
with her own father, and the loving bonds,
so reinforced, make families more fond.
But I—to my misfortune—was not born
among those tribes; instead I am—forlorn—
denied the very man for whom I long.
But why do I keep coming back again, again,
to this? I must dismiss such thoughts:
blot out my lust. Yes, Cinyras deserves
much love—but as a father. Were I not
his daughter, I could lie with him; but since
I’m his, he can’t be mine; and that close link
dictates my loss. If I were but a stranger,
I would have had some chance. But now I want
to leave my native land: nothing but flight
can save me from so foul a flaw. And yet
I stay: this evil ardor holds me here,
that I may gaze at Cinyras, and touch
Latin [319–43]
and speak to him, and give him kisses if
I cannot hope for more. Would you transgress
beyond that? Can you let such sacrilege
incite you? Do you know what holy ties
and names would be confronted by your crimes?
Would you be your own mother’s rival and
your father’s mistress? Would you want to be
a sister to your son? Your brother’s mother?
And those three Sisters, don’t they make you fear?
Their hair is wreathed with serpents, and they bear
barbaric brands when they appear before
the eyes and faces of unholy souls.
Come now, your body’s still unstained: do not
debauch your soul with lust, defile the code
of nature with a lawless mating. Though
you will it, nature will not have it so;
for Cinyras is pious in his ways,
a man of virtue. Would that he were prey
to my same frenzy, to that passion’s sway!’
“These were her words. Now Cinyras, confused,
does not know what to do: the suitors crowd—
so many worthy men. He calls upon
his daughter to select the one she wants,
and he lists all their names. At first, the girl
is silent: staring at him, she’s in doubt;
and warm tears veil her eyes. Her father thinks
these tears are simply signs of modesty,
forbids her weeping, dries her cheeks; and then
he kisses her. She takes too much delight
in this; and when he asks what kind of man
she’ll have her husband be, she answers: ‘One
like you.’ Not understanding what is hid
beneath her words, he praises her for this:
‘And may you always be so filial.’
When she hears him say ‘filial,’ the girl
lowers her eyes: she knows she’s criminal.
Latin [343–67]
“Midnight: now sleep sets cares and flesh to rest.
But Myrrha does not sleep: she cannot check
the fire that feeds on her; she is held fast—
her madness does not slack; first she despairs
and then is set to try; she is ashamed;
but though she longs, she cannot find a plan.
As, when the axes strike the massive trunk,
the tree will waver at the moment just
before the final blow: one does not know
which way it is to fall; upon all sides
men now rush off—so, too, enfeebled by
so many blows from many sides, the mind
of Myrrha leans this way, then that. At last
it seems no thing can check her love, bring rest,
except for death. On death she now is set.
She rises from her bed: she ties her belt
around a ceiling beam—to hang herself.
“‘Dear Cinyras, farewell,’ his daughter moans,
‘I hope you come to know why I would die.’
Then she begins to run the cord around
her pallid neck. They say her murmurs reached
the ears of her old nurse, who faithfully
stood watch before the door of her dear charge.
The nurse leaps up at once; on opening
the door, she sees her Myrrha readying
the tools of death; in one same moment, she
cries out and beats her breast and tears her dress
and snatches off the rope from Myrrha’s neck.
And only after that, the nurse takes time
to weep, to clasp her Myrrha, and to ask
why she was driven to the noose. The girl
is silent, speechless; staring at the ground,
she’s sorry her attempt at death was foiled—
she was too slow. But her old nurse insists:
she bares her white hairs and her withered breasts;
she calls on all the days and nights she’d spent
on Myrrha in the cradle, and she begs:
Latin [368–93]
what grief had brought her Myrrha to this pass?
But Myrrha turns aside those pleas; she groans.
The nurse is set on finding out, and so
she promises not only to hold close
the secret but to help her: ‘I am old,
but I’m not useless. If it is a stroke
of madness that afflicts you, my dear girl,
I know a woman who has charms and herbs
to heal you; and if anyone has cast
an evil spell upon you, magic rites
can purify you; and to cure your plight,
you can bring offerings, a sacrifice
unto the gods, and so appease their wrath
if they, in anger, led you to this pass.
I’ve thought of all that could have brought distress.
This house can only bring you happiness:
yes, all things here go well; your mother and
your father are alive and prosperous.’
As soon as she has heard those words, ‘your father,’
the girl sighs deeply; but the nurse—although
she has begun to sense that Myrrha’s soul
is sick with love—does not as yet suspect
a passion so profane. And stubbornly,
she probes: she wants to hear in full the cause
of Myrrha’s pain—whatever it might be.
She hugs the tearful girl to her old breast
and, holding Myrrha in her frail arms, says:
‘I know, I know: you are in love. But set
your fears aside; you’ll find that I can help;
and I shall keep your secret; Cinyras
won’t hear a word of this. But, come, confess.’
The frenzied girl breaks loose and, on her bed,
collapses, helpless; as she sinks her head
into the cushions, Myrrha cries: ‘Don’t see
the source of this! Stop probing, I beseech!
The thing you want to find is my foul crime!’
Latin [393–413]
“At that, the girl’s old nurse is horrified.
And as she stretches out her hands that shake
with years and fears, the old nurse falls; prostrate
before the feet of her dear girl, she pleads
and menaces: she threatens to reveal
the noose, the try at suicide—but then
she promises to help if Myrrha will
just tell the truth about her secret love.
The young girl lifts her head; against the breast
of her old nurse, it’s many tears she sheds.
Again, again, she tries—she would confess—
but checks her voice; ashamed, she hides her face
within her robes and sighs: ‘How happy you,
my mother, are beside the mate you chose.’
And Myrrha says no more; she only moans.
Then through the nurse’s body, to the bone,
a shudder lances, sharp and cold (she knows,
she knows); her white hair stiffens on her head;
she tries with warning word on word to rid
the girl from that dread love; and Myrrha knows
the nurse’s pleas are just; but she is set
on death if what she wants cannot be had.
At this, the nurse says: ‘Live, for you will have
your . . .’ Daring not to utter ‘father,’ she
falls still; but then—before the gods on high—
she vows to keep the promise she had made.
“And now, their bodies clothed in snow-white robes,
all pious wives were honoring the feast
of Ceres; her first fruits, the ears of wheat,
were bound in garlands as an offering
on these, the days they celebrate each year.
This was the time when women, for nine nights,
shun union with their husbands; any touch
of man is banned. Cenchreis, the king’s wife,
has joined the throng; she shares these secret rites.
When, in her wretched zeal, the old nurse finds
that Cinyras is drunk with wine, deprived,
Latin [414–38]
without his lawful wife, she tells the king
that a young girl is now in love with him;
but she does not reveal the girl’s true name—
the girl whose beauty she is quick to praise.
And when he wants to know the young girl’s age,
she says, ‘the same as Myrrha’s.’ When he tells
the nurse to fetch that girl, she runs to find
her Myrrha and, ‘My dear, we’ve won,’ she cries;
‘you can rejoice!’ The wretched girl is stirred,
and yet her joy is not complete; a sad
foreboding grips her heart, but she is glad:
the virgin’s mind is torn by such discord.
“The hour when all is silent now is here.
And, seen between the stars of the two Bears,
Bootes, veering downward with his wain,
inclines his guide-pole. Myrrha makes her way
to her misdeed. The golden moon now flees
the sky; black clouds conceal the stars; the night
has lost its flaring lights. The first to hide
their faces at the shameless sight were you,
o Icarus, and dear Erigone,
your daughter, she whose holy love for you
won her a starry place—her sacred due.
Three times young Myrrha stumbles on her path,
an omen telling her she should turn back;
three times the screech-owl, with his eerie chant,
warns her. But still the longing daughter moves
ahead; her shame is muted by the black
of night. Her left hand grips her nurse hard fast,
and with her right she gropes and probes. At last
she’s at the threshold, opening the door;
and now she is inside the room. Her knees
are trembling; and as blood and color flee,
her face is pale; her courage leaves; as she
draws closer to her crime, her fears increase;
the girl repents of her audacity:
she would turn back if she could go unseen.
Latin [438–61]
As Myrrha hesitates, her old nurse takes
her hand; she draws her toward the high bed’s side—
consigns her to the king and says: ‘Take her,
o Cinyras; she’s yours.’ And she unites
those two in dark damnation. Cinyras
obscenely welcomes to his bed the flesh
of his own flesh; he helps her to defeat
her virgin’s shame; he sets her fears at ease.
Perhaps because she is so young, the king
calls timid Myrrha ‘daughter,’ even as
she calls him ‘father’; so do they complete
their sacrilege; they name their guilt in speech.
“Filled with her father, Myrrha leaves that room;
she bears his impious seed within her womb.
And on the second night, again they lie
together; so it went, time after time,
until the father, keen to recognize
the girl he’d held so often, carried in
a lamp—and saw his daughter and his sin.
Struck dumb by grief, he pulls his gleaming sword
out from its sheath, which hung along the wall.
“And Myrrha fled. The night was kind; the shades
and darkness favored her; the girl escaped
her death; she crossed the open fields; she left
palm-rich Arabia and Panchaea’s lands.
Nine times the moon had shown its crescent horns,
and still she wandered on. At last she stayed
her weary steps in the Sabaeans’ land.
Her womb was heavy now—so hard to carry.
Not knowing what to hope for—torn between
her fear of death and the fatigue of living—
she gathered up her wishes and beseeched:
‘Oh, if there is some god to hear the plea
of one who knows that she is guilty, I
accept the death that I deserve. But lest
I, in my life, profane the living and,
Latin [462–85]
in death, profane the dead, do banish me
from both these realms; transform me, and deny
both life and death to me.’
“And some god heard
the girl confess her guilt: her final plea
was answered. As she spoke, the earth enclosed
her legs; roots slanted outward from her toes;
supported by those roots, a tall trunk rose.
Her bones became tough wood (although her marrow
remained unchanged); her blood was turned to sap;
her arms became long boughs; her fingers, twigs;
her skin was now dark bark. And as it grew,
the tree had soon enveloped her full womb;
then it submerged her breasts and was about
to wrap itself around her neck; but she—
impatient—met the rising bark: she sank
down, down, until her face was also bark.
Her flesh had lost the senses it once had,
but she still wept—and, trickling down the tree,
tears fell. But even tears can gain long fame:
myrrh, dripping from that trunk, preserves the name
of Myrrha, mistress of that tree; and she
will be remembered through the centuries.