But not content with that, Bacchus now left
the Thracians; and with finer devotees,
he reached the vineyards of his own Timolus,
his Lydian land on the Pactolus’ banks,
although that river’s flow and bottom sands
were not yet precious, golden—such as men
would envy. There, his customary satyrs
and his bacchantes crowded round him—but
Silenus was not there. Some Phrygian farmers
had found him stumbling with the weight of years
and wine; they made him captive, bound him fast
with vines; that done, they led him to King Midas,
who’d been instructed in the rites of Bacchus
by Thracian Orpheus and by Eumolphus
of Athens. And when Midas recognized
his friend and old companion in those rites,
he welcomed him at once; and he decreed
a festival—to last ten days and nights,
Latin [71–96]
all in a row—to honor old Silenus.
But now, for the eleventh time, the rise
of Lucifer has driven from the sky
the stars of night. And Midas has arrived,
with joy, in Lydia, to reconsign
Silenus to his cherished protégé:
his foster-son, the god whom he had trained.
And Bacchus, glad to see his teacher safe,
rewarded Midas so: the god would give
to Midas anything that he might wish
(a gift both flattering and—if one picks
unwisely—perilous). The king made this
sad choice: “Do grant that anything that is
touched by my body turns to yellow gold.”
That prayer was granted by the god, and so
Bacchus discharged the fatal debt he owed.
And yet the god was sad, for he had hoped
the king would ask for something more than gold.
But Midas was delighted; quite content,
he went his way and, on his path, began
to touch this thing, then that—so he could test
the truth of Bacchus’ promise. It was hard
to trust his own eyes, but when he had bent
a green twig hanging from a low oak branch,
the twig was turned to gold. And, too,
a stone that he had picked up from the ground soon showed
the color of pale gold. He touched a clod;
beneath the spell his finger held, that soil
became a chunk of gold. He plucked dry stalks
of wheat, and what he harvested was gold.
He held an apple he’d picked off a tree:
you’d say it came from the Hesperides.
And if a towering pillar felt his touch,
at once he saw it glitter. Even when
he bathed his hands, and limpid water ran
Latin [96–117]
down from his fingers, Danae might well
have been beguiled. Beside himself, gone wild,
he dreamed that everything had turned to gold.
As he rejoices, Midas’ servants set
his table—high with meats and with no lack
of toasted bread. But when he reaches out
to touch the gifts of Ceres, they grow hard;
and if, with avid teeth, he bites a piece
of meat, where they have bit that piece, his teeth
meet yellow gold. He mixes some pure water
and wine of Bacchus, Midas’ benefactor;
and in his mouth it’s liquid gold that floats.
Amazed by his incredible mishap,
a wretch among such riches, he detests
what he had hoped to get; he cannot stand
those treasures. There’s no heap of food that can
appease his hunger, and he burns with thirst—
his throat is parched. And, just as he deserves,
he’s tortured and tormented now by gold.
Lifting his hands and gleaming arms to heaven,
“Forgive me, father Bacchus; I have sinned,”
he cries; “but do have mercy, I implore;
release me from the specious fate I sought.”
The gods are capable of kindness: since
King Midas recognized that he had sinned,
Bacchus restored his former state to him;
the god retrieved the gift that, after all,
he’d only given to make good his word.
He said: “Lest you be left within the clutch
of gold, the trap that you so rashly sought,
go to the river near the mighty town
of Sardis, and then walk upstream till you come,
as you ascend the hillside, to the source;
there, place your head beneath the fountain’s spray,
just where its jet is fullest; you must bathe
your body there—and wash your sin away.”
Latin [117–41]
So Bacchus ordered, and the king obeyed.
He reached the source; and even as he bathed,
the waters—from the human form they washed—
took on the force that once lay in his touch:
the power to transform things into gold.
Even today, along Pactolus’ shores,
the fields—which still receive the precious seed
from that old vein—are glittering, pale and cold:
the stream that soaks the soil is streaked with gold.
And Midas, hating riches, now frequents
the fields and forests; and he honors Pan,
who always makes his home in hillside caverns.
But Midas’ wits are what they always were—
not sharp; his mind, as it had done before,
seeks stupid things that are to do him harm.
The mountain-mass of Tmolus rises steep;
its peak looks out upon the distant sea;
upon one side its height slopes down to reach
the town of Sardis; on its other flank
lies small Hypaepa. There, one day, while Pan
was charming tender nymphs with melodies
and light cadenzas piped on shepherd’s reeds
held fast with wax, he dared to scorn the songs
Apollo sang, if set against his own.
Too rash, he now was matched—unequally—
against Apollo. Tmolus was to be
the judge; and so that tutelary god
was seated on his ancient mountaintop.
To hear, he shook his ears free from the trees.
To wreathe his dark green hair, he wore oak leaves;
around his hollow temples, acorns hung.
Then, facing Pan, the shepherd-god, he said:
“This judge is ready for you; go ahead.”
And Pan, upon his rustic reeds, began
to play, entrancing Midas (who by chance
was there) with his barbaric shepherd’s airs.
Latin [142–63]
When Pan was done, the sacred Tmolus turned
his face toward Phoebus’ face; and as he turned,
his forests followed him. The god-of-Delos’
fair hair was wreathed with laurel of Parnassus;
his mantle, steeped in purple dye from Tyre,
was long enough to sweep the ground. His lyre,
inlaid with gems and Indian ivory,
was held by his left hand; and in his right
he held the plectrum. Even in his stance
he seemed a master artist. With a thumb
adept, consummate in its craft, he plucked
the strings; and Tmolus, moved by notes so sweet,
declared defeat for Pan and his rude reeds.
And all approved the sacred mountain-god’s
decision. Only Midas—no one else—
protested, said the verdict was unjust.
Apollo cannot suffer that affront:
he can’t allow such stupid ears to vaunt
their human shape; and so he made them longer,
and added gray and shaggy hair as cover,
and made them, at their base, unstable, loose,
so that they could be moved. But just that part
was changed: all else retained its human cast.
This was the only punishment of Midas:
to wear the ears of a slow-moving ass.
He had to hide his shame, his horrid blot;
and so, around his temples, Midas wrapped
a purple turban. But the slave who cut
the king’s hair when it was too long, found out.
He did not dare reveal what he had seen;
yet he was keen to speak of the disgrace—
he was not one to keep it to himself.
So, leaving Midas, he went off to dig
a hole within the ground; and into this,
he murmured—all his words were soft and low—
what he had learned. Then, covering that hole,
he buried what he’d said; that done, he stole
Latin [163–89]
away in silence. But above that hole,
a stand of swaying reeds began to grow;
and when a year had passed, those reeds stood tall,
and they betrayed the servant who had sown
his secret there; for as the soft south wind
stirred them, they spoke his buried words, made known
King Midas’ shame—the ass’s ears he’d grown.