THE SOARING PALACE of the Sun, with all
its giant columns, was ablaze with gold
and bronze, as if aflame; its pediments
were crowned on high with polished ivory;
and glowing silver graced the double doors.
But even such materials could not match
the grace and power of the artist’s craft.
For, on those double doors, in high relief,
Vulcan had carved the world’s wide sphere, the reach
of all the seas that circle the dry land,
and, too, the skies that overhang earth’s span.
The sea has blue-gray gods: shown with his horn,
Triton; and Proteus, lord of shifting forms;
and, as his many mighty arms press down
on the enormous backs of whales, Algaeon.
There Doris and her daughters are arrayed:
some Nereids swim among the waves; some stay
along the shoals and dry their damp green hair;
still others ride on fishes. And their features
are not alike, yet not unlike—as sisters
indeed should be. And on the land, one sees
men and their cities; woods, wild beasts, and streams;
and Nymphs and other rural deities.
Over these scenes, the artist carved on high
the image of the heavens bright with light:
the zodiac—with six signs on the right,
and six that stand upon the left-hand side.
The road was steep, but when the boy had reached
the palace, he went straight to face the Sun;
he wanted to dispel all doubts, to learn
if Phoebus was indeed his father, but—
while still somewhat far off—he had to halt:
the light was dazzling—he could not draw close.
There, on a throne where fiery emeralds glowed,
sat Phoebus, in his regal purple cloak;
and Day and Month and Year and Century
Latin [1–25]
stood right and left of him; spaced equally,
the Hours, too, were seen. There, flower-crowned,
stood Spring; and naked Summer, wreathed with stalks
of grain; and Autumn, stained with trodden grapes;
and glacial Winter, with his stiff white locks.
There, with his eyes that oversee all things,
the Sun, down from his towering throne, could see
his son bewildered by this strange new scene.
He said; “Dear Phaethon, what brought you here?
What are you seeking in this fortress—why
come here, o son I never shall deny?”
The boy replied: “O you, the common light
of this vast world, o Phoebus, who are my
own father—if you say I have the right
to use that word, and if it is no lie,
a false guise that Clymene used to hide
her shame—remove my doubt, give me some proof,
o Father, that I am your son in truth!”
Then Phoebus set aside the dazzling rays
that wreathed his head; he had his son draw near
and said, embracing him: “I have no cause
to say you are not mine; Clymene’s words
about your birth are true. To set you free
of any doubts, ask what you will of me:
whatever gift you want, you shall receive.
And may the pool of Styx on which gods swear,
the pool my eyes have never seen, now be
the witness of my promise.” Just as soon
as Phoebus’ words were done, young Phaethon asked
to have his father’s chariot—for one day,
to guide its winged horses on their way.
Three and four times the god shook his bright head;
repenting of his promise, Phoebus said:
“If you ask this, my words indeed were rash!
Oh, if I could retract what I have pledged!
Believe me, son, this is the only gift
Latin [25–52]
I wish I could refuse you. But at least
I have to try dissuasion. What you seek
is too unsafe: it never would befit
your strength, your age—your tender years. For fate
made you a mortal, but what you request
is not a mortal’s task. Though you’re too young
to gauge what it involves, even the gods
would never dare to face a test so hard.
Each god is free to do as he desires,
but none can guide this chariot of fire
except for me; not even he who rules
immense Olympus, he whose deadly force
hurls savage thunderbolts, can keep on course
my chariot. And who’s more great than Jove?
The road starts off so steeply that my steeds
must struggle hard, though they are fresh from sleep;
midway, it runs so high across the sky,
that even I am often terrified—
my heart is rocked with terror and dismay
as I see earth and sea far, far below;
and in descent, the course needs firm control—
it plunges, sheer: then even Tethys, she
who, at my journey’s end, always receives me
into her waves, is anxious lest I fall
headlong. And add to this the heavens’ own
unending, wheeling round that draws along
the steep stars on its dizzying, swift course.
My path runs counter to the skies’ rotation;
I am the only one who can resist
its impetus, a thrust that overcomes
all else. But just imagine your own self
in my place. Can you hope to keep on course?
Can you withstand the poles’ compelling force?
Won’t heaven’s hurtling motion bear you off?
Perhaps you think you’ll find the sacred groves
and cities of the gods along that road—
and temples rich with gifts. Instead, you’ll meet
insidious snares and traps and savage beasts.
Latin [52–78]
And though you may hold firm and not mistake
your way, you’ll have to face the horns of Taurus,
the bow of Sagittarius, and the jaws
of the ferocious Lion; you must cross
the Scorpion, who curves his cruel arms
to one side while, out to the other, stretch
the Crab’s extended claws. You cannot check
these horses: there is fire in their chests—
it fuels their mouths’ and nostrils’ blazing breath!
It’s hard enough for me to rule those steeds
when their ferocious spirits feel such heat:
their necks rebel against the reins. My son,
be careful lest the gift you’d have me grant
prove fatal: while there still is time, relent—
don’t ask for such a task. The surest proof
that I’m your father is my fear for you.
Look at my face! And would you could inspect
my heart and learn what cares a father bears!
And, finally, look round you carefully:
what wealth the world arrays! What wonders grace
the sky and earth and sea; you need but choose
whatever you may want—and it is yours!
I won’t refuse you anything! But this—
and this alone—don’t ask of me: a gift
that will not gain you fame, but suffering.
My son, what you now seek is not a blessing,
but punishment. Why do you throw your arms
around my neck and coax me—senselessly?
Don’t doubt it: you’ll have anything you wish
(I’ve sworn it on the waters of the Styx).
But I implore you: make a wiser choice!”
His warning now is done. But Phaethon
resists his father’s plea: the boy insists;
he longs to guide the chariot. And Phoebus,
who stalled the boy as long as possible,
must grant what had been asked; he leads his son
to the high chariot—the gift of Vulcan.
Latin [79–106]
The axle was of gold, of gold the pole;
the wheels had rims of gold, and silver spokes
stretched from the hubs. Arrayed along the yoke,
topaz and gems, reflecting Phoebus, glowed.
And while—amazed—audacious Phaethon
gazed at this splendid handiwork, alert
Aurora, as the east shone, opened wide
her purple gates, her halls rich with rose light.
The stars retreat; their ranks are driven off
by Lucifer, who is the last to leave
his station in the sky.
When Phoebus saw
that Lucifer was gone, that all the world
was tinged with red, and that the moon’s slim horns
had faded, he commanded the swift Hours
to yoke his steeds. And they were quick to bring
the fire-breathing team from the high stalls:
those stallions—fed upon ambrosial nectar—
had clanking bits and bridles. Phoebus then
anointed his son’s face with sacred ointment,
that it might stand the heat’s ferocity;
upon his head he set the flaming rays;
and, sighing anxiously again, again—
foreseeing a calamity—he said:
“Dear boy, although I know you won’t turn back,
at least heed this advice. Avoid the lash;
just hold the reins hard fast. These horses need
no urging on to speed: your only task
will be to hold in check their racing feet.
And do not try to ride straight through the sky’s
five zones: there is a curving, slanting road
that stays inside the limits of three zones—
a course that does not cross the southern pole
and not the northernmost. That is your path:
you cannot miss the tracks my wheels have left.
Latin [107–33]
And so that earth and heaven may receive
in just and equal measure their due heat,
don’t ride too high, and do not sink too low:
too high—and heaven’s halls will burn; descend
too low—and earth will meet its flaming end.
And do not let your wheels veer too far right:
avoid the writhing Serpent on that side,
just as, upon the left, you are to shun
the stars that form the Altar. Keep your run
along a course between those constellations.
I leave the rest to Fortune: may she help
and guide you better than you do yourself.
Now, even as I speak, damp Night has reached
her goal upon the farthest western shore.
We can’t delay; our call has come; bright Dawn
has put to flight the shadows—they are gone.
Hold fast the reins; but if you still can change
your mind, forget my chariot—accept
the counsel that I gave you, while there’s time
and you’re on solid ground, and not yet launched
in ignorance—a dilettante—upon
the course you’ve chosen—your unhappy lot.
Let me bring light unto the world, the light
that you can see in safety—from the earth!”
Too late: with his young body, Phaethon
has leaped into the chariot: he takes
his place with pride. Rejoicing, he holds fast
the reins—and thanks his hesitating father.
Meanwhile the four winged horses of the Sun,
Eous, Aethon, Pyrois, and Phlegon,
neighing, fill the air with flames: their hooves
are pawing now; they pound the exit gate.
As soon as Thetis—knowing not what fate
awaits her grandson—has unbarred the way,
now free to cross the sky’s immensity,
the horses sprint ahead; and through the air,
Latin [134–58]
they drive their hooves; they cleave the clouds; they lift
themselves upon their wings; they pass beyond
the winds of Eurus—east winds that are born
in that same sky-zone where the chariot starts.
But now the weight those horses bear is light;
the pressure of the yoke is far more slight
than they are used to. Lacking proper ballast,
ships roll and rock among the waves—unbalanced:
so did that chariot leap through the air,
tossing on high, as if it had no rider.
The team can sense the difference: those four—
berserk—desert their customary course:
no rule, no order governs their wild rush.
The boy is terrified: he does not know
how to apply the reins he took on trust;
he does not know what is the charted road—
and even if he knew, he’s lost control.
Then, for the first time ever, the Sun’s rays
inflamed the northern Bears, who tried—in vain—
to plunge into the sea’s forbidden waves.
The Serpent, too, was driven wild: he lies
close to the icy pole: and numbing cold
had always kept him lazy, lumpish, slow,
until that blazing heat stirred his strange frenzy.
You, too, Bootes—so the tale is told—
however sluggish, struck by terror, fled—
though slowed down by the oxcart that you drag.
Sad Phaethon looked down from heaven’s heights
at earth, which lay so far, so far below.
He paled; his knees were seized by sudden fright;
and there, within the overwhelming light,
a veil of darkness fell upon his eyes.
Would he had never touched his father’s steeds!—
so he repents. Would he had not received
proof of his origins, would that his plea
had been refused. If only he had been
Latin [158–84]
a son of Merops! Like a ship that’s tossed
and battered by the blasts of Boreas—
a ship whose captain has renounced the helm
and now depends upon the gods and prayers—
such was the chariot of Phaethon.
What’s to be done? Behind his back lies much
of his sky-track, but more still lies ahead.
His mind is measuring both distances.
Westward, he sees the goal his fate forbids;
behind, there lies the east. He can’t decide
his course; he’s numb with fear; he does not grip
the reins hard fast nor let them dangle, slack;
he does not even know the horses’ names.
And more, across the speckled skies, he sees
things strange, the monstrous figures of fierce beasts:
the boy is terrified.
There is a point
just where the Scorpion’s curving pincers form
a pair of bows: his tail and arms stretch out
to either side—the space they occupy
is wide enough to span two constellations.
And when the boy beholds the Scorpion
steeped in black venom, threatening to strike
with his hooked point, he’s stunned; frozen with fright,
he loses grip; the reins fall slack; they slide
and graze the horses’ backs; those four feel that;
they dash, off course—their way depends on chance—
through unknown regions of the air; unchecked,
they follow random impulse; they collide
with stars embedded in the sky; they drag
the reeling chariot on pathless tracts.
Now they rush upward; now they hurtle down,
approaching earth. The Moon is thunderstruck—
she sees the stallions of her brother course
below her own. The clouds are scorched: they smoke.
Earth’s highest parts catch fire first: the soil
is drained of moisture; parched, it cracks; the fields
Latin [184–212]
are blanched; the trees are ravaged, stripped of green;
and, serving to efface itself, ripe grain
provides the fuel that abets the blaze.
Yet these were but small griefs. For greater still
was the destruction of huge towns and walls,
whole regions and their peoples. Woods and peaks
catch flame: Mount Athos, Taurus in Cilicia,
and Oete, Tmolus, and parched Ida (once
so rich with springs); and Helicon, the slopes
on which the virgin Muses had their home;
and Haemus, in those days not yet beneath
the sway of Orpheus. Etna now is one
vast pyre, with fire added to its flames;
both of Parnassus’ summits are ablaze,
and Eryx, Cynthus, Othrys, Rhodope
(at last, no longer snow-capped), Dindymus,
and Mimas, Mycale, and—famous for
the sacred worship on its heights—Cithaeron.
And Scythia is not reprieved despite
its frigid climate; and the Caucasus
is now aflame, as Ossa is, and Pindus,
and that peak higher than them both—Olympus;
the towering Alps and cloud-crowned Apennines.
The boy can see earth blaze upon all sides;
he cannot bear the torrid air he breathes,
much like the fiery gusts from some deep furnace;
his feet can feel his chariot’s white heat.
The ashes and the swirling sparks are fierce;
thick smoke has shrouded him; as black as pitch,
the darkness hems him in; he does not know
where he is heading, where he is; his team
of horses sweep him on—just as they please.
The Ethiopians—so it is said—
became black then as blood rushed to their skins;
and it was then that Libya became
Latin [212–37]
a desert, all her moisture dried; then, too,
the nymphs, their hair disheveled, mourned the loss
of springs and lakes—Boeotia cannot find
the fount of Dirce; Argos, Amymone;
and Corinth seeks in vain Pirene’s waves.
Nor are the streams with ample channels, those
whom fate had given shores set far apart,
exempt: even the center of the Don
is steaming now; and so is old Peneus;
in Teuthras’ land, Caicus; and the swift
Ismenus; and the Xanthus, destined now
to burn a second time; tawny Lycormas;
Meander, winding playfully along
its curving course; the Mela in Mygdonia;
and Taenarus’ Eurotas. Babylonian
Euphrates also blazes, and Orontes,
Thermodon, Ganges, Phasis, and the Danube.
Alpheus boils; Sperchios’ banks are scorched:
the golden sands borne by the Tagus’ course
have melted; and the singing swans that throng
the Lydian waters suffocate upon
Cayster’s waves. The Nile flees, terrified,
out to edges of the earth; it hides
its head—and it is hidden yet; and all
its seven mouths are parched and clogged with dust;
its seven riverbeds are stripped of waves.
The Hebrus and the Strymon share that fate,
as do the Rhine, the Rhone, the Po, as well
as Tiber, who is meant to rule the world.
At every point the soil has gaping cracks;
light penetrates the world below; it strikes
with fear Avemus’ ruler and his wife.
The sea shrinks; where, just now, the tracts of waves
spread wide, the dry sands spread; and peaks that once
were covered by the sea, jut here and there—
new islands in the scattered Cyclades.
The fish retreat into the deepest seas,
Latin [237–65]
and arching dolphins can no longer dare
to leap—as usual—into the air.
The corpses of sea-calves float on their backs.
They say that Nereus, Doris, and their daughters
sought refuge in their caves; but even these
were far too hot to bear. And Neptune tried—
three times—to lift his fierce face and his arms
above the waves; and he—three times—could not
endure the blazing air. And mother Earth,
around whom all the waters crowded close
(the waters of the sea and the parched springs
that on all sides were seeking some asylum
within her darkest innards), raised her face—
scorched to the neck—and, wearily, at last
lifted her hand up to her brow and shuddered,
shaking all things; and when she’d settled back
(a little lower than she’d been before),
her words were stifled as she begged: “Great lord
of all the gods, if I indeed deserve
this fate, and it’s decreed, do not delay
your thunderbolts! If I am meant to face
a death by fire, let it be your flames
that strike me down—for that would mitigate
my ruin. Even speech is hard for me—
just opening my lips” (a gust of smoke
had almost choked her). “See, my hair is singed:
how many ashes blur my eyes, my face!
Is this how you repay me—the reward
for my fertility, my patient work?
It’s I who bear the harrow and hooked plow;
yearlong, I get no rest; I furnish leaves
to feed the beasts and harvests for mankind,
their peaceful food; and I, for you, provide
incense. But even if I’ve earned this end,
what suffering have the waters merited?
What has your brother Neptune done? Why has
the sea, the realm that fell to him by lot,
shrunk so, retreating farther from the sky?
Latin [265–92]
And if your brother’s plight and mine do not
move you, then pity your own heaven’s fate.
Look here, look there: smoke runs from pole to pole!
If they should fall, your halls will also topple!
You see how even Atlas has to struggle:
he bears the white-hot axis on his shoulders—
but he is close to giving up. If all
three realms are mined—sea and land and sky—
then we shall be confounded in old Chaos.
Save from the flames what’s left, if anything
can still be saved. Think of the universe!”
Here Earth fell silent—and, in any case,
she could no longer stand the savage flames,
nor utter other words. And she withdrew
into herself—into her deepest caves,
recesses closest to the land of Shades.
Then the Almighty Father, calling on
the gods as witnesses (and, above all,
on Phoebus, who had lent that chariot),
declares that if he does not intervene,
all things will face a dread catastrophe.
He climbs to heaven’s highest point, the place
from which he sends his cloud banks down to earth,
from which he moves his thunder and deploys
his bolts of lightning. But he does not bring
his clouds, his downpours: thunder serves his cause;
and after balancing a lightning bolt
in his right hand, from his ear’s height he throws
that shaft at Phaethon; and it hurls him out
of both his chariot and his life; the god
quells fire with savage fire! Maddened now,
the horses, rearing back, tug free their necks.
Unyoked, they crack their gear and race away.
Here, bits and bridles fall, and there the axle
is torn free from the pole; elsewhere, the wheels
Latin [293–317]
and spokes are scattered—far across the sky,
the battered remnants of that chariot fly.
And as the flames devour his ruddy hair,
young Phaethon plummets down; he pivots round
his burning body, trailing in the air
the sort of track that one can sometimes see
when—through clear skies—a star will seem to fall
but then, in fact, does not. And he lands far
from his own country; in another part
of the earth’s span, the waves of the great Po
now bathe the boy’s scorched face. There, in the west,
the Naiads bury Phaethon’s body, burned;
upon his stone they carve these lines of verse:
HERE PHAETHON LIES:
HIS DARING DROVE THE BOY TO DRIVE
HIS FATHER’S CHARIOT: HE TRIED
AND FAILED. BUT IN HIS FALL HE GAINED
THE DEATH OF ONE SUPREMELY BRAVE.
Meanwhile his father, Phoebus, in despair,
hid his own face; the world, for one full day—
if we believe what ancient stories say—
was left without a single ray of sun.
The only light came from the conflagration:
that way, at least, the fires served some need.
But Clymene, once she had spoken all
that can be said when such disaster falls,
went wild; she tore her robes; across the world
she wandered, searching for his lifeless body
at first, and then his bones; and these she found
at last along the foreign riverbank
where they’d been buried. Clymene lay prone
upon that grave; her warm tears bathed the stone
on which she read his name; beside the Po,
with her bared breasts, she warmed his sepulcher.
Latin [317–39]