Works of Nonnus

by Nonnus

  [363] As he spoke, Nicaia grew angry. Madly she bared the baneful lid of the arrow-shooting quiver, and drew back a straight-coursing shot; to its full length she rounded the curved horn of the back-bent bow, like the wind she let fly a shot into the herdsman’s throat while he was speaking; irresistible the arrow sped, and in the midst of the stream of words sealed it with a fastening.

  [370] But the dead body was not without tears then. The Nymph of the mountain was sore offended at manslaying Nicaia, and lamented over the body of Hymnos; in her watery hall the girl of Rhyndacos groaned, carried along barefoot by the water; the Naiads wept, and up in Sipylos, the neighbouring rock of Niobe groaned yet more with tears that flow uncalled; the youngest girl of all, still unacquainted with wedded love, not yet having come to Bucolion’s pallet, the Naiad Abarbarea oft reproached the nymph; in the heights of Didymos, gathering near the woods, the Astacides upbraided the nymph of Cybele with her ways, singing the dirge, and not so loudly had the daughters of the Sun wept at the flaring fate of Phaëthon dead. And Eros, eyeing the untamed heart of the murderous girl, threw down his bow, and swore an oath by the oxherd, to bring the maiden unwilling under the yoke of Dionysos. Rheia Dindymis upon her lions’ car, with her tearless eyes, groaned for the gallant lad so heavily fallen, even the mother of Zeus, the queen; and maiden Echo who hated marriage whimpered at the lot of Hymnos perishing. Even the trees uttered a voice: “How did the oxherd offend you so much? May Cythereia never be merciful to you, Artemis never!”

  [392] Adrasteia saw the murderous girl, Adrasteia saw the body panting under the steel, and pointed out the newly slain corpse to the Cyprian, and upbraided Eros himself. Hard by the leafy woods tears were shed by the bull in pity for Hymnos, the young calf wept for him, the cow groaned for grief over the panting herdsman, and seemed to cry out these words:

  [399] “The handsome oxherd has perished, a handsome girl has killed him! A maiden has killed one who loved her; instead of love-charms she gave him his fate, she bathed her bronze in the blood of the love-smitten oxherd, and quenched the torch of love —

  [403] “The handsome oxherd has perished, a handsome girl has killed him! And she has pained the nymphs, she hearkened not to the mountain rock, she heard not the elm, and regarded not the prayer of the pine, ‘Shoot not your shot, slay not the oxherd!’ Even the wolf groaned for Hymnos, the merciless bears did groan, even the lion with grim eyes mourned for the oxherd.

  [409] “The handsome oxherd has perished, a handsome girl has killed him! Look for another scaur, ye cattle, seek a strange mountain, ye bulls; for my sweet oxherd is perished of love, and mangled by a woman’s hand. To what woods shall I guide my track? Farewell, our pastures, farewell our beds on the ground!

  [414] “The handsome oxherd has perished, a handsome girl has killed him! Goodbye, mountains and promontories, goodbye, ye brooks, goodbye, Naiads, and my trees!” Both Pan of the pastures and Phoibos cried aloud, “A curse on the fife! Where is Nemesis? Where is Cypris? Eros, handle not your quiver; ye pipes, make music no more; the harmonious oxherd has perished!”

  [420] Apollo showed his sister the lovemurder of the unhappy herdsman without blame; even Artemis herself groaned the dead love of Hymnos, although she was unacquainted with love.

  VOLUME II.

  SUMMARY OF THE BOOKS OF THE POEM

  HEADINGS OF THE NEXT TWENTY BOOKS OF THE DIONYSIACA

  (16) In the sixteenth, I sing Nicaia the bride, in her sleep the bedfellow of unresting Dionysos.

  (17) In the seventeenth, I celebrate war’s firstfruits, and the waters of a honey-trickling river turned to wine.

  (18) In the eighteenth come Staphylos and Botrys, inviting the mountain ranging son of Thyone to a feast.

  (19) In the nineteenth, Bacchos sets up a delightful contest over the fragrant bowl about the tomb of Staphylos.

  (20) The twentieth deals with the pole-axe of bloodthirsty Lycurgos, when Dionysos is chased into the fishy deep.

  (21) The twenty-first contains Earthshaker’s Wrath, and the man-breaking battle of Ambrosia, and the Indian ambush.

  (22) The twenty-second celebrates the battle and feats of Bromios, all the deeds of Aiacos both on the plain and in the Hydaspes.

  (23) In the twenty-third I sing Indian Hydaspes crossed, and the affray of water and fire.

  (16) The twenty-fourth has the infinite mourning of the Indians, and the shuttle and distaff of Aphrodite working at the loom.

  (17) In the twenty-fifth you have the struggle of Perseus, and the comparison of Heracles with the valour of Dionysos.

  (18) The twenty-sixth has the counterfeit shape of Athena, and the great assembly of the Indian host to stir up battle.

  (19) The twenty-seventh deals with the array in which Cronion musters the dwellers in Olympos for battle to help Dionysos.

  (20) Look at the twenty-eighth also, where you will see a great fiery fight of Cyclopians.

  (21) In the twenty-ninth, Ares retreats from the battle, being urged to another wedding of Cythereia.

  (22) In the thirtieth, Eurymedon sends Tectaphos slain to Hades, into the lowest house of constraint.

  (23) In the thirty-first, Hera propitiates Sleep for Cronides, and Persephone for Bacchos.

  (24) In the thirty-second are battles, and the bed of sleeping Zeus, and the madness of Bacchos.

  (25) In the thirty-third, furious Love masters Morrheus, and sets him aflame for the beauty of Chalcomedeia.

  (26) In the thirty-fourth, Deriades attacks and massacres the Bacchant women within the walls.

  (27) In the thirty-fifth, seek the love of Morrheus for the enemy, and the battle and bloodshed of Bassarid women.

  BOOK XVI

  In the sixteenth, I sing Nicaia the bride, in her sleep the bedfellow of unresting Dionysos.

  THE death of the plaintive shepherd was not unavenged; but valiant Eros caught up his bow and drew a shaft of desire, arming unseen himself against Dionysos as he sat by the bank of the pebbly stream.

  [5] Fleet Nicaia had finished her wonted hunt for game; sweating and tired by hard work in her beloved highlands, she was bathing her bare body in a mountain cascade. Now longshot Eros made no delay. He set the endshining beard of a winged arrow to the string, and rounded his bow, and buried the whole shot in the heart of love-maddened Lyaios. Then Dionysos saw the girl swimming in the water bareskin, and his mind was shaken with sweet madness by the fiery shaft. This way and that he went, wherever the maiden harehuntress went: now eyeing the clustering curls of her hair, shaken by the circling breezes as she hurried on her course; spying her bright neck, when the tresses moved aside and bared it till it gleamed like the moon. He cared not for Satyrs now, he had no pleasure in Bacchants; but gazing at Olympos, he cried in a love-compelling voice:

  [21] I will be there, where the dewy chase goes on, where the quiver is, where the bolt and the precious bow, where the very groundpallet is perfumed from the unwedded maiden; I will handle her stakes, and stretch her nets with my own hands: I also will go a-hunting, and kill a fawn like her. And if she scolds me, like some heavytempered Amazon, disgorging womanlike her load of honeysweet threatenings, I will lay my hand on the knees of the angry girl, and touch of her lovely skin like a suppliant; but I will carry aloft no spray of olive, because that is the tree of Athena, the maiden unwedded and unsoftened; instead of that bitter oily branch, I will lift to my honeysweet nymph a suppliant cluster of grapes, which contains the purple fruit of honeydropping vintage.

  [34] “If the crookbow virgin is vexed, let her not pierce my flesh with a lance, nor draw her murderous shot, let her be merciful and tap my body with the tip of her sweet bow: I do not mind a blow that soothes the heart! If it please her, let her hold the shag fast and pull my hair with her precious hands, she may tear out some of the braids and welcome! I will never fend off the maiden; but I will pretend to be cross, and squeeze with unsparing hand the right hand which holds me fast. I will hold the pink fingers imprisoned in my hooked talons, to soothe my love-l
onging. For the maiden has made prey of all the Olympian beauty.

  [45] “Forgive me, Cerne: the Astacid has budded as a new rosyfinger Dawn, a new lightbringer has risen: Nicaia is a younger Selene, who keeps her aspect unchanged. In my desire, I should be glad to take on a world of strange aspects, if respect and veneration for my father did not hold me back. I would go through the waters of Tyre a seafaring bull, and swim along carrying my Nicaia unsprinkled by the deep, like Europa’s bridegroom; and I would shake my back as if by accident, that the girl might take fright, and her allwhite right hand might pull at my horn. I would be a winged husband, to dance carrying lightly a wife on my back unshaken, as Cronides did with Aigina; that mated with her I might beget a new eagle, another birdstar to attend on weddings for the Loves. However, I will not strike with a thunderbolt my bedfellow’s begetter, and present a father’s death as an impious brideprice, that I may not vex sweet Nicaia for his taking off. Would I were a bastard bird well fledged, because my virgin herself loves winged arrow s! I would rather be the flowing form of Danae’s loves, a golden shower to lie by her side, myself the marriage gift, myself husband, that I might circle round her and pour forth love’s shower of generous dew; for it would suit well my girl Nicaia with her beautiful eyes, and her golden beauty, to have a golden bedmate.”

  [71] Such were the words he rang out in love’s madness with passionate voice. And one day, making his way into a fragrant meadow, he observed all the flowers blooming with the colours of the girl, and cried out thus to the airy breezes:

  [75] “Here at last, Nicaia, I have caught a glimpse of your form! Have you lent your beauty to the flowers? For as I gaze on the fairgrowing rosebed, I recognize your cheeks: but your rose blooms always, for you hold implanted in you the blushing anemone also, that ceases not. When I turn my eye to the lily, I see your snowy arms, when I behold the iris, I see the rich dark colour of your hair. Receive me as comrade in your hunting: and if you wish, I will shoulder myself the sweet burden of your stakes, myself your ankleboots and bow and arrows of Desire, myself I will do it — I need no Satyrs; did not Apollo himself in the woods lift Cyrene’s nets? What harm, if I also manage the meshes? I do not think it hard to lift my Nicaia on my own shoulders. I do not set up to be better than my father; for he bore up Europa in the floods unwetted, a seafaring bull.

  [91] “Rosy maiden, why do you like the forest so much? Spare your lovely limbs, nor let the rough unstrown pallet upon the rocks chafe your back. If you wish, I will be the attendant of your chamber in the house; I will lay your bed, I will spread on it the many-speckled skins of pards, over which I throw the bristly thick-haired fell of a lion to cover it, stripping it from my own limbs: you shall enjoy sweet sleep covered with the dappled fawnskins of Dionysos. Above you I will throw a tent of the same sort, made of the skins of Mygdonian deer, stript from the Satyrs.

  [101] “If you should want dogs, I will straight offer you the whole pack of my friend Pan together; I will bring you other hounds from Sparta, which my friend Carnean Apollo keeps for the love of his gallant lads, and I will summon the hunting-dogs of Aristaios; string and stakes I will fetch you, and those most suitable gifts, the ankleboots of the Grazer and Hunter, who long ago knew both grazing on fine meadows and the happy work of the coursing hunt.

  [109] “And if you fear the blaze of the thirsty season of harvest, I will plant over your bed shoots of the gardenvine, and the sweet breath of the intoxicating scent shall be wafted over you, lying under the grape-clustered covering. Gadabout maiden, pity the cheeks of your own loveshot countenance beaten by the sun, lest the glare of Helios dim the radiance of your limbs, lest the breeze tumble your anointed curls; sleep among the roses and on iris-petals, rest your head on Dionysos your neighbour, to kindle one revel for immortals four, Phoibos and Zephyros and Cypris and Dionysos.

  [121] “Let me offer my spoil, the blackskin brood of India, to attend upon your bower. But why did I name the swarthy tribe to array your bridal bed? Does white Eos ever mingle with black-stoled night? You the Astacid are surely a younger Artemis; but more, I will fetch you myself sixty dancing handmaids, to complete the unnumbered dance that attends you, as many as the servants of the mountain Archeress, as many as the daughters of Oceanos; then Artemis hunting will not rival you, even if she be the mistress of the hunt. I will present you with the Graces of divine Orchomenos for servants, my daughters, whom I will take from Aphrodite.

  [133] “Nay, charm your uncharmed heart with desire, and let my bed receive you after the labours of hunting the beasts, that you may appear Artemis among the rocks and Aphrodite in the bed-chamber. What harm that you should hunt along with hunting Lyaios? But if you have the itch for struggle, like the bowfamed Amazon, you shall come to the Indian warfare, to be Athena in the battle, and Peitho when fighting is done. Receive also, if it please you, the thyrsus of Lyaios to bring down your game, and become a slayer of fawns; and with your own hands, by your own efforts, adorn my car, by yoking pards or lions under the bridle.”

  [144] So speaking, he pursued the mountain girl his neighbour, crying aloud as he came near: “Wait, maiden, for Bacchos your bedfellow!” But the maiden was angry and lifted up a strong voice, speeding wild words at Lyaios:

  [148] “Be off! make that speech to some girl who likes lovemaking! If you can draw into marriage the gray-eyed goddess, or Artemis, you shall have hard Nicaia a willing bride; for I am a comrade of both. But if you miss wedlock with Athena, — none ever heard of such a thing, no birth-pangs for her — if you could not charm the wits of the inflexible Archeress, seek not Nicaia’s bed. Let me not see you touching my bow, and handling my quiver, or I may bring you also down to follow Hymnos the shepherd. I will wound Dionysos the unwounded!

  If steel will not cut your limbs, if the lance will not pierce them, I will do as the highcrested sons of Iphimedeia; I will bind you with galling iron chains, wholly like your brother, and I will keep you too like Ares hidden in a brazen pot, until you fulfil twelve circuits of Selene, and throw away your passion for me to the winds of the air. Touch not my quiver with womanlickerish hands: I keep the bow, you the thyrsus. On the Astacian crags I send my shot here against boars or lions, and share the toils of Artemis; over the rocks of Libanos go yourself and pursue the fawns, on the hunt with Aphrodite. I refuse your bed, even if you have the blood of Zeus in you. If I had a mind to a god for my lord, I would not have Dionysos for bedfellow, soft-haired, weaponless, spiritless, shaped like a woman; the bridegroom kept for my bower would be my Lord Strongbow or brazen Ares, the one with his bow, the other with sword as a love-gift. But since I will not accept one of the Blessed, since I have no itch to call even your Cronion goodfather, seek another, Bacchos, some new bride not unwilling. Why all this haste? This race is not for you to win; so Latoides once pursued Daphne, so Hephaistos Athena. Why this haste? this race is vain; for among the rocks, buskins are far better than slippers.”

  [183] She finished, and left Bacchos behind. But he ever searched for the mountainranging maid through the nourishing woods; and coursing beside him in that rapid chase went the dog with sagacious mind, the dog which highhorned Pan, breeder of hounds, offered as a gift to Dionysos, once on a time when he was hunting in the highlands which he loved. To him, the comrade of his ways and his labours, Bacchos lovemaddened spoke gently with kind words, as if he thought the creature had sense and voice: “why do you run with Lyaios, wandering hound, when Pan always misses you, and you are worthy of Pan? Why do you alone track the maiden along with tracking Dionysos? Did your trainer teach you to pity love? Still seek our maiden, and let not Bacchos go wandering alone over the mountains, among the rocks. You alone pity me, and like one human, you follow in the hilly spaces on the ridge where the girl wanders. Work hard for your king! I will repay you well for your labours: I will take you into the upper air, and make you a star like Seirios, the star of Maira, near the earlier Dog, that you also may ripen the clusters, shooting your light to be the grapes Eileithyia. What harm that a third
Dog should arise? You also show your light, running a course with the starry Hare as he scampers on. If it is lawful, cast your eyes aside to the ridge of Cybele’s forest, and in pity for me reproach the modesthearted girl, that she still flies from my pursuit, a woman from a god! Reproach both Adonis and Cythereia, and pursue Echo, flitting inconstant over the mountains, that she may not make my nymph yet more a hater of wedlock; do not leave your rough wooer Pan near the girl, or he may catch her and yoke her under an enforced bridal. If you should see the maiden, quickly come, and with knowing silence or meaning barks give the news to Dionysos; you be loves messenger, and let another dog travel in pursuit of boars or lions from the rocks. Friend Pan, I call you most blessed, because even your dogs have become trackers of the loves. And you, Luck, how many shapes you take, how you make playthings of the children of men! Be gracious, all-subduer! First the human race, and now perhaps you possess the canine race also, when this ill-fated wanderer is a servant for Dionysos in love next after Pan. Reproach the maiden, dear trees, and say, ye rocks, ‘Even the dogs have compassion, and there is no pity in the Amazon!’ So there are dogs too with sense, to whom Cronion has given the thoughts of a man, and yet not a human voice.”

  [228] A tree was near him while he spoke; and through her clustering leaves an ancient Ashtree heard the cry of womanmad Dionysos, and she uttered a mocking voice:

  [231] “Other masters of hounds, Dionysos, hunt here for the Archeress; but you are huntsman for Aphrodite! Here’s a nice fellow to be in fear of a soft-skinned maiden girl! Bacchos the bold, bowing and scraping like a lackey to the loves! lifts in prayer to a weakling girl the hands that butchered the Indians! Your father does not know how to go awooing with heartbewitching words of love to bring the girl willing to her bridal; he made no prayer to Semele until he won her love; he did not cajole Danae until he stole her maidenhood. You know how he caught Ixion’s wife, the bridegroom’s whinney and the equine mating. You have heard of love’s game of trickery for Antiope, the laughing Satyr, the sham deceitful mate.”