“Calliope was done: her learned song,
sung with such skill, stopped here. The Nymphs, as one,
agreed: we goddesses of Helicon
had won. The losers could not stand their loss.
They shouted insults at us. As they scoffed,
Calliope replied: ‘You challenged us:
for that alone, you merit punishment.
But now you dare to add your rude abuse.
Our patience is not endless: you would test
our anger, and our wrath will rage—unchecked.’
The sisters jeer and fleer; they scorn our threats;
but even as we warned them, when they lift
their hands to mock us, they now notice this:
Latin [650–70]
the feathers sprouting from their fingers and
the plumage covering their arms. And each
can see a sister’s face with rigid beak
protruding now, and see new birds retreat
into the trees. And when they try to beat
their breasts, they all are borne by flapping wings;
they fly into the air as insolent
magpies, the mocking dwellers in the woods.
Yet, though they now are winged, their endless need
for sharp, impulsive, harsh, derisive speech
remains: their old loquacity—they keep.”