All Lydia is stirred by this; the news
runs through the Phrygian cities; all around,
this is the sole event that men recount.
Now Niobe, before she wed, had lived
close to Mount Sipylus; and she had known
Arachne—they were both Maeonians.
Yet Niobe refused to learn just what
her countrywoman’s fate might well have taught:
do not compete with gods, and do not boast.
Yes, there was much that could incite her pride:
her husband’s art, the noble lineage
that both could boast, their regal wealth and might—
all these pleased Niobe, but her delight
and pride in her own children fueled far
more overweening arrogance in her.
One could have said that she was the most blessed
of mothers—had she not said so herself.
Now Manto, daughter of Tiresias,
went through the streets of Thebes: the prophetess
was driven by divine impulse. She said:
“Women of Thebes, come all and offer incense
and pious prayers before Latona’s shrine,
to honor her and her two children: wreathe
your hair with laurel. So Latona speaks,
through me.” And they obey. In all of Thebes,
Latin [141–62]
the women wreathe their brows with laurel leaves;
and they burn incense in the sanctuary,
reciting prayers.
But Niobe comes forward
together with a crowd of followers;
her Phrygian robes are sewn with threads of gold:
she is as lovely as her wrath allows.
And as she moves her shapely head, her hair,
in waves down to her shoulders, undulates.
She halts; imposing, tall, with haughty eyes,
she casts her gaze at all around and cries:
“Have you gone mad? Would you, at the expense
of deities you’ve seen, now reverence
those gods whom you have only heard about?
Why is Latona worshipped at this shrine,
while you, to my divinity, have yet
to offer incense? I have Tantalus
as father, and he was the only mortal
the gods invited to their banquet table;
I have as one grandfather mighty Atlas,
he who sustains the heavens on his shoulders;
and Jove himself not only is my other
grandfather but the father of my husband.
The Phrygian tribes all stand in awe of me;
I am the queen of what was Cadmus’ country;
these walls, which rose because my husband cast
a spell with his entrancing lyre—yes,
these walls and all the people they enclose—
are ruled by me and my beloved spouse.
Wherever I, within my palace, turn
my gaze, tremendous treasures meet my eyes.
My beauty, too, is worthy of a goddess.
Then add to this my children: seven sons
nd just as many daughters—and quite soon,
I shall have sons- and daughters-in-law. Now,
do say if I have reason to be proud:
do dare prefer a Titaness to me—
Latin [163–86]
that daughter of Coeus—whoever he may be.
Remember this: Latona is the one
to whom the earth—bound as it is—refused
the least of places where she could give birth.
Not welcome in the sky, on earth, on sea,
your goddess was exiled from all the world,
until the isle of Delos pitied her
and said: ‘On land, you are a wanderer,
and I shift places on the sea’—with that,
he gave Latona as a resting-place
his own unstable isle. There she became
the mother of two children—just one-seventh
of mine. I’m happy—that can’t be denied.
And I’ll stay happy—none can doubt that, too.
By now I have so many and so much,
that Fortune can’t do harm: I am secure—
there’s nothing I need fear. Even suppose
that some part of my brood—or better still,
my tribe—of children should be lost to me;
not even then would I be left to live
with just two children—all Latona has;
yes, she is near indeed to childlessness.
Go now, you’ve done enough for your Latona—
and take those laurel wreaths out of your hair!”
And they obey; their rites are cut in half.
Now all that they can do is venerate
Latona with words murmured inwardly.
Latona is indignant; on the peak
of Cynthus, this is how the goddess speaks
to her Apollo and Diana: “I,
your mother, proud that I gave birth to you,
I who, except for Juno, am supreme
among the goddesses, must now bear this:
one who would question my divinity!
If you, dear children, do not help me, I—
through all the centuries—will be denied
Latin [186–209]
the honors of the altar. This is not
the only hurt that I resent: insult
was added unto sacrilege: she dared
to say—comparing you to her own brood—
that you were their inferiors. She said—
and this is something she will yet repent—
that I was childless in effect; her tongue
is—like the tongue of Tantalus, her father—
profane.” And here she would have added more,
if Phoebus had not cut her short: “Enough!
A long complaint does nothing but delay
her punishment!” Diana said the same.
They glided swiftly through the air until,
concealed by clouds, they reached the citadel
of Cadmus.
And below the walls, nearby,
there stretched a plain, a broad and level field
that—passing and repassing—hard horse hooves
and pounding wheels had softened, evened out.
All of Amphion’s seven sons are there;
some leap on their tough horses; their knees press
against the flanks adorned with purple cloth;
they ply their bridles bossed with golden studs.
The firstborn son, Ismenus, rides his horse
with bit and bridle round a circling course;
his bit is tugging at the foaming mouth,
when he cries out: “Ah, me!” Apollo’s shaft
has just struck at the middle of his chest;
he lets the reins fall from his dying hands
and slides down slowly over the right flank.
Beside him, Sipylus, his brother, hears
the quiver rattle through the empty air;
and he begins to give full rein, to dash,
just as a captain, sighting dark cloudbanks,
foreseeing storms, spreads all his sails, to catch
even the wind’s least breath. He gives full rein.
He gallops, but the shaft none can outrace
Latin [209–35]
has caught him; quivering, it strikes his nape;
and piercing through his throat, nude iron showed.
Bent forward as he is, he now rolls down
and over his swift horse’s mane and legs;
his warm blood stains the ground. Poor Phaedimus
and Tantalus—who bore the name of his
grandfather—having finished riding, now
had turned to what is young men’s shining contest;
and they are wrestling, straining chest to chest,
entwined together, when an arrow shot
from the taut bow drives through both sons at once.
They groan as one; as one, in pain, collapse
and strike the ground; their eyes bulge, fixed in death;
as one, the brothers breathe their final breath.
Alphenor sees them fall; he beats his breast
and weeps; he runs to lift them up; he clasps
cold bodies. In that pious act, he falls;
the god of Delos, with a fatal shaft,
has pierced him through the chest. And when they draw
the arrow out, part of his lungs comes, too,
stuck to the barbs; and with his blood, his life
pours forth. His long-haired brother, Damasicthon,
is struck by more than one wound: first, a shaft
hits him just where the lower thigh begins,
the hollow just behind the knee. As he
tugged at that shaft, a second arrow drove—
up to the feathers—through his throat: the rush
of blood expelled that arrow, spurting up:
its long and slender stream arched through the air.
The last, Ilioneus, stretched out his arms
in prayer, a useless gesture; he implored:
“Oh, spare me, all you gods”—he did not know
that he need not beseech them all. Apollo
was moved—but mercy came too late. The arrow
had left the bow already. Yet that son
died from a wound less harsh; it struck his heart—
but not too deeply.
Latin [236–66]
Niobe learned quickly
of this calamity: the news had spread,
the people grieved, and her own close friends wept.
She was dismayed, amazed at this display
of power—angry at the gods who dared
this much. Amphion, on his part, at once
drove through his chest a sword—and put an end
to both his days and torment. Niobe
was different now from that Queen Niobe
who just before this, at Latona’s shrine,
had driven off the Thebans and had walked
the streets of Thebes with pride: that Niobe
was envied even by her friends, and this
was pitied even by her enemies!
She threw herself upon her sons’ cold bodies
and—frenzied—gave the final kiss to each.
Then, lifting to the sky her livid arms,
she cried: “Feed, fierce Latona, on my grief
and sate your savage heart. My enemy,
you can exult: you’ve triumphed over me!
What triumph? Even in my misery,
I’ve more than you have in felicity:
despite these deaths, I still claim victory!”
As soon as that was said, one heard a taut
bowstring, a twanging that astonished all—
except for Niobe: calamity
had toughened her. Her seven daughters stood
with loosened hair, in robes of black, before
their brothers’ biers. And one, while tugging out
the arrow that had struck her brother’s guts,
sank down and died; her face collapsed against
the body of that brother. And another,
while trying to console her wretched mother,
fell silent suddenly and doubled over—
an unseen wound had made her lock her lips
until her soul had left. Another fell
while trying to run off. Another breathed
Latin [267–95]
her last upon a sister’s corpse. One hid,
and one—who could be seen—was shuddering.
Six daughters now had died of different wounds.
The last was left. With all her body, all
her robes, her mother shielded her and cried:
“Do leave me one, my youngest, her alone!
I beg you, spare, of all my children, one!
She prayed, and as she did, the one for whom
she prayed met death.
And Niobe now sat
childless, among cadavers—daughters, sons,
and husband; grief had made her stony, stiff.
The air is still, not even one hair moves,
her face is deathly pale; above sad cheeks,
her eyes stare motionless. Even her tongue
is frozen in her mouth; her palate now
is hard; her veins can pulse no more; her neck
can’t bend; her arms can’t move; her feet can’t walk.
Within, her vitals, too, are stone. And yet
she weeps; and swept up in a strong whirlwind,
she’s carried to her native land and set
upon the peak of Sipylus—and there
she weeps, and to this day her rock sheds tears.