“O goddess, if your merits had not won
for you much higher tasks than we perform,
you would have joined our band; and you are right
when you commend our home and praise our art,”
one sister answered; “we are fortunate—
as long as we can count on peace. But now
(when there’s no viciousness that’s not allowed)
we virgins find our minds are menaced by
all things; and always—there before our eyes—
we can recall the savage Pyreneus;
that scene of terror has not left me yet.
This cruel king, commanding Thracian ranks,
had captured Daulis and the lands of Phocys,
Latin [254–76]
and ruled with an unjust—an iron—hand.
While we were traveling toward Parnassus’ shrine,
he saw us passing, and he recognized
just who we were and, feigning reverence
for us as deities, said with deceit:
‘Stop here, you daughters of Mnemosyne;
don’t hesitate; the sky is menacing,
the rain has started falling’—and indeed
it had. ‘My house will shield you from the storm.
The gods have often entered humble homes.’
Persuaded by the weather and his words,
we entered, taking refuge in his hall.
But when the north wind won against the south,
and rain no longer fell, and shadowed clouds,
across a sky grown bright, were in retreat,
we all prepared to leave. But Pyreneus
was quick to shut the door: he wanted us—
by force. But putting on our wings, we fled.
And then, as if he could have followed us
across the air, he hurried to the top
of his tall fortress, shouting: ‘Just as you
can travel through the air, so can I, too.’
He’d lost his mind. Down from that pinnacle,
he hurled himself; headfirst he fell; his skull
was smashed; and as he died, he stained the soil,
defiling it with his foul blood.”