“For one whole year we stayed in Circe’s land,
and I saw much indeed in that long span
and heard of many things in tale and story.
And there’s one tale that I heard privately
from one of Circe’s four attendant nymphs
who helped her, as I said, by sorting herbs
for sacred spells. In fact, while Circe spent
her time alone with him—our chief, Ulysses—
that nymph showed me, within a sanctuary,
a snow-white marble statue wreathed with garlands:
it was the effigy of a young man
and—on his head—the form of a woodpecker.
And I, of course, was curious: I asked
whose effigy it was, and why he had
been honored with a shrine, and why his head
bore that carved bird. And, in reply, she said:
‘Just listen, Macareus—and understand
what power my mistress has at her command:
this tale has much to teach—pay careful heed.
“‘Picus, the son of Saturn, once was king
of Latium; and he was famous for
his love of horses that were fit for war.
His form you now see there in effigy,
and you yourself can judge his manly beauty—
the image points to the reality.
His spirit matched his body—although he
was not yet old enough to have seen four
quinquennial Olympiads at Elis.
His face had fascinated all the Dryads
who lived among the hills of Latium;
the goddesses of fountains sighed for him,
as did the Naiads of the Albula
and those of the Numicius and the Anio;
the Almo, with its short course; and the Nar,
the stream that’s so impulsive; and the Farfar,
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with its dark flow; and those who make their home
in Taurian Diana’s wooded realm
and in the lake that lies nearby. But he
spurned all of these; he courted only one,
the nymph who—so the story goes—was born
of honest Janus’ wife, Venilia,
upon the Palatine. And when her time
for marriage came, the man whom she most prized
of all the suitors was the Laurentine
Picus, and so the nymph became his bride.
Her beauty was most rare, but rarer still
her artistry in song: and for that gift
they called her Canens. With her song, she used
to move the woods, the stones; on hearing her,
wild beasts grew meek, long rivers stayed their flow
to listen, wandering birds would halt their course.
“‘One day, as with that womanly sweet voice
she sang, her husband Picus left to hunt
wild boars across the Latin fields; his mount
was an impulsive stallion. Picus bore
two javelins in his left hand and wore
a purple cloak that, at the top, was closed
by a gold brooch. And Circe, too, had come
to those same woods: the daughter of the Sun
had climbed up from the fields that now are called
Circean, after her—those fertile slopes
were richer hunting grounds for some new herbs.
And there the goddess, from behind a bush,
caught sight of the young man—and she was struck.
In her dismay, the herbs that she had plucked
fell from her hands, and through her marrow ran
fierce flames. As soon as she could—once again—
lay claim to sense and reason, she was just
about to tell him of her passion—but
his speeding horse and all the hunting band
surrounding Picus took away her chance.
At that, she cried: “But he will not escape,
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not even if the wind bears him away—
if I’m indeed the one I know I am,
if there’s some force my herbs can still command,
and I can count upon my spells and chants!”
That said, the goddess fashioned a feigned form:
she sent the phantom body of a boar
across prince Picus’ path, before his eyes—
a boar that, seeking cover, seemed to hide
within a wood so thick with trunks and leaves
that any horse was barred from entering.
And Picus, unaware of her deceit,
without delay, pursued that phantom prey;
and leaping swiftly from his foaming horse,
on foot he ventured deep into the woods—
he hunts for what may seem but cannot be.
And seeing this, the goddess called upon
infernal sorcery, her chants and charms,
invoking obscure gods with a strange spell—
the spell that Circe used when she would veil
the face of the white moon or hide the Sun,
her Titan father, with a rain-rich cloud.
And this time, too, as Circe sings that spell,
the sky grows dark, mist rises from the soil;
astray along blind paths his men are lost,
and Picus, left alone, has no escort.
And Circe, when the time and place are right,
cries out to Picus: “O, by your fair eyes
that have made captive mine—and by your grace,
for you are fair indeed—compelling me,
though I’m a deity, to beg and plead:
requite my love; and welcome as your own
father-in-law the one whose eyes see all,
the Sun: don’t scorn the daughter of a Titan.”
But, ruthless, he scorned her and her entreaties:
“I am not yours—whoever you may be.
Another holds me in captivity:
I only hope that heaven lets me stay
her slave until I reach a ripe old age.
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As long as destiny allots to me
my Canens, Janus’ daughter, I’ll not breach
the faith I pledged to her when we were wed.”
And after she’d beseeched again, again
in vain, Circe exclaimed: “But you will pay!
You won’t return to Canens anymore!
The wounds a woman can inflict when she
is hurt by one she loves—you now will feel
in fact, for Circe is in love and she
is hurt—and she’s a woman!” To the west
she turned two times, and two times to the east;
three times she touched the young man with her wand;
three times she chanted charms. And Picus turned
and raced away but was amazed to find
he was more swift than he had ever been;
he saw that wings were sprouting from his body.
And then, enraged to see that—suddenly—
he had been changed into a strange, new bird
within the woods of Latium, he pecked
with his hard beak at the wild oaks; his blows,
his wrath, inflicted wounds on the long boughs;
his wings took on the hue of his red cloak;
the gold that just before had been a brooch
that bit into his clothes was changed to feathers;
the band that ringed his neck was yellow-gold.
Nothing was left to him of his old self
except his name: that, Picus did retain.
“‘Meanwhile the friends of Picus, with hoarse cries,
kept calling for him through the countryside
but could not find him—they got no reply.
The one they found was Circe—it was she
who had in fact thinned out the mist by now.
And they accused her of the crime; they claimed
the right to have their ruler back again;
they readied an attack with deadly shafts.
But Circe sprinkled Picus’ men with venom
and her insidious juices; and she called
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on Night and all the gods of Night to come
from Erebus and Chaos; wailing long,
she summoned Hecate. And in response,
the forests—this is unbelievable—
leaped from their place within the ground; the soil
groaned, and the trees that stood nearby grew pale;
and on the pastures where her poisons fell,
the grass was stained with drops of blood; the stones
seemed to emit hoarse moans, and all the hounds
were barking; dark snakes swarmed across the ground;
one saw the thin Shades of the silent dead
flitting about. Astounded, that great crowd—
the men of Picus—trembled. Then the goddess
touched their dazed faces with her awesome wand;
and they were changed to beasts of every sort—
a wondrous change. Not one retained his form.
“‘By now the setting sun has spread its rays
across Tartessus’ shores, and Canens waits
in vain: her eyes, her heart are watching for
her husband. And, by torchlight, all her slaves,
her people comb the woods and search each glade.
And though she weeps and tears her hair and beats
her breast, all this is not enough: the nymph
runs out; across the fields she wanders—wild.
Six nights and just as many dawns have seen
poor Canens as she wanders—without sleep
or food—across the valleys and the peaks.
The Tiber sees her last: on its long banks
the nymph, worn out with grief and her hard path,
collapses. There, together with her tears,
she pours out words of sorrow—muffled, faint
and yet melodious; just as the swan,
while dying, sings a mournful final song.
At last, consumed by her despair, her flesh
wasted to thinnest marrow, she dissolves
and slowly vanishes into thin air.
And yet that place preserves her memory:
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in honor of the name the nymph had borne,
the Muses called it Canens—rightfully.’
“And there were many things of just that sort
I heard about—or saw—in those long months.
Our idleness had left us sluggish, weak;
and now Ulysses ordered us to sea;
again, we were to spread our sails. And Circe,
before we left, warned us how treacherous
our paths might be, how vast the ocean was,
what dangers wait along the savage sea.
Her words—I must confess—filled me with fright;
and when we reached this beach, I stayed behind.”