Orpheus

SUCH WERE THE SONGS of Orpheus: with these

the Thracian poet charmed the woodland trees

and souls of savage beasts; even the stones

were held in thrall by Orpheus’ tender tones.

 

But now the Thracian women—all had cast

the hides of beasts around their frenzied breasts—

down from a high hilltop, spied Orpheus

as he attuned his lyre and his sweet voice.

And one of these—hair streaming loose beneath

light winds—cried out: “He’s there! The man who dares

to scorn us.” Through the air she hurled her staff

against Apollo’s poet; it was meant

to smash his singing mouth; but since its tip

was wreathed with leaves, it left a glancing mark,

a hit that did no deadly work. At that,

another woman cast a stone; but as

it cleaved the air, it yielded to the spell

of his enchanting voice and lyre: it fell

at Orpheus’ feet as if compelled to seek

forgiveness for its mad audacity.

 

But nothing now can check the wild attack;

fanatic Fury whips their rage. In truth,

the song of Orpheus could have subdued

all of their weapons; but his lyre is drowned

by shrieks and caterwauls, the raucous sounds

of drums and twisted Berecynthian flutes,

bacchantes pounding hands, and strident howls.

And so, at last, the stones were stained with blood,

the blood of one whose voice could not be heard.

 

Then the bacchantes chose to slaughter first

the countless birds, the serpents, and the throng

of savage beasts—all who were still spellbound

by Orpheus: the trophies he had won,

the living proof of his triumphant song.

Then, with their gory hands, those women turned

 

Latin [1–23]

 

to Orpheus himself. They circled him

as birds will do when they catch sight—by day—

of some nocturnal bird of prey. The poet

was like the stag who, in a spectacle,

is doomed to die by morning light, when dogs

surround him in the bounds of the arena.

Some women, rushing at him, hurled their staffs,

their thyrsi wreathed with green leaves—hardly meant

to serve this purpose. Others cast thick clods,

and some flung branches ripped from trunks, while rocks

served others. And to stock the armory

of frenzy with true weapons, there—nearby—

by chance yoked oxen plowed the soil; not far

from these, well-muscled, sweating peasants toiled.

And when those peasants saw the women rush,

when they caught sight of the fanatic crowd,

those peasants fled at once, and on the ground

they left behind their tools. Deserted fields

were strewn with mattocks, heavy shovels, hoes.

The women—crazed—rushed off, picked up those tools;

and having torn apart the oxen—who

had menaced with their horns—they hurried back

to kill the poet. He, with arms outstretched,

for the first time spoke words without effect;

for the first time his voice did not enchant.

And they—in desecration—murdered him;

and from that mouth whose speech had even held

the stones and savage beasts beneath its spell—

o Jupiter—the soul, with its last breath,

was driven out.

 

                     The birds, in mourning, wept,

o Orpheus—the throngs of savage beasts,

and rigid stones, and forests, too—all these

had often followed as you sang; the trees

now shed their leafy crowns—as sign of grief,

their trunks were bare. They say that even streams

were swollen; yes, the rivers, too, shed tears;

 

Latin [23–48]

 

Naiads and Dryads fringed their veils with black

and left their hair disheveled. Orpheus’ limbs

lay scattered, strewn about; but in your flow,

you, Hebrus, gathered in his head and lyre;

and (look! a thing of wonder) once your stream

had caught and carried them, the lyre began

to sound some mournful notes; the lifeless tongue,

too, murmured mournfully; and the response

that echoed from the shores was mournful, too.

Borne by your seaward flow, they leave their own

dear Thracian stream; they’re carried to the coast.

And there, a savage snake attacked the head

that had been cast onto that foreign shore—

a head still drenched and dripping, damp with spray.

But Phoebus intervened: just as that snake

was set to bite, the god froze his spread jaws,

converting him to stone just as he was:

with open mouth.

 

                        The Shade of Orpheus

descends beneath the earth. The poet knows

each place that he had visited before;

and searching through the fields of pious souls,

he finds Eurydice. And there they walk

together now: at times they are side by side;

at times she walks ahead with him behind;

at other times it’s Orpheus who leads—

but without any need to fear should he

turn round to see his own Eurydice.