And meanwhile, Phaethon’s father, in despair,
without his radiance (as he appears
when he is in eclipse), detests the day
and light and his own rays: the god gives way
to sorrow—and to sorrow, he adds rage
He will not serve the world: “In every age,
Latin [362–85]
from first to last, I’ve had no rest! Enough!
I’m weary of my endless rounds,” he says,
“my unrewarded toil. Let someone else
now guide the chariot that bears the light!
If none will do that, and the gods confess
they can’t, let Jove himself take on that task!
And when he plies my reins, at least for once
he’ll have to set aside the thunderbolts
he uses to strip others of their sons.
Then he will learn firsthand what savage force
is in those fire-footed steeds: he will
admit that he who could not guide them well
did not deserve to die.” So said the Sun.
And all the gods crowd round him: suppliant,
they pray that he may yet relent, not let
the world be plunged into the dark. And Jove
offers excuses for the bolt he cast,
although—such is the way of kings—he adds
threats to his pleas.
The Sun then yokes his team—
they still are terrified, still wild. He grieves
and goads; he plies the lash ferociously
as he denounces them—he feels those steeds
are guilty in the death of his dear son.