Works of Nonnus

by Nonnus

  215 Περσεφόνη τρηχεῖαν ἑὴν ἤμειψε μενοινήν,

  καὶ σὲ νέκυν ζώγρησε κασιγνήτῳ Διονύσῳ.

  οὐ θάνες, ὡς τέθνηκεν Ἀτύμνιος: οὐ Στυγὸς ὕδωρ,

  οὐ φλόγα Τισιφόνης, οὐκ ἔδρακες ὄμμα Μεγαίρης:

  ζώεις δ᾽ εἰσέτι, κοῦρε, καὶ εἰ θάνες: οὐδέ σε Λήθης

  220 κρύψεν ὕδωρ, οὐ ξυνὸς ἔχει τάφος: ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὴ

  μορφὴν ὑμετέρην ᾐδέσσατο γαῖα καλύψαι:

  ἀλλὰ φυτόν σε τέλεσσε πατὴρ ἐμὸς υἷα γεραίρων,

  σὸν δέμας εἰς γλυκὺ νέκταρ ἄναξ ἤμειψε Κρονίων.

  οὐ φύσις, ὡς γραπτοῖσι Θεραπναίοισι κορύμβοις,

  225 αἴλινον ἀκλαύτοισι τεοῖς ἐχάραξε πετήλοις:

  χροιὴν δ᾽ ὑμετέρην καὶ ἐν ἔρνεσι, κοῦρε, φυλάσσεις:

  σῶν μελέων ἀκτῖνα τεὴ κήρυξε τελευτή:

  οὔ πώ σε προλέλοιπεν ἐρευθαλέη σέο μορφή.

  ἀλλά τεοῦ θανάτου τιμήορος οὔ ποτε λήξω

  230 θυομένῳ τεὸν οἶνον ἐπισπένδων ὀλετῆρι

  ἀνδροφόνῳ. σὺ δὲ μῶμον Ἁμαδρυάδεσσιν ἀνάπτεις

  σοῖς ἐρατοῖς πετάλοισιν: ἀπ᾽ εὐόδμων δὲ κορύμβων

  ἰκμάδες ὑμετέρων με περιπνείουσιν Ἐρώτων.

  καρπὸν ἐγὼ μήλοιο πότε κρητῆρι κεράσσω;

  235 νεκταρέῳ πότε σῦκον ἐπιστάξαιμι κυπέλλῳ;

  σῦκον ὁμοῦ καὶ μῆλον ἕχει χάριν ἄχρις ὀδόντων.

  οὐ δύναται φυτὸν ἄλλο τεαῖς σταφυλῇσιν ἐρίζειν:

  οὐ ῥόδον, οὐ νάρκισσος ἐύχροος, οὐκ ἀνεμώνη,

  οὐ κρίνον, οὐχ ὑάκινθος ἰσάζεται ἔρνεϊ Βάκχου,

  240 ὅττι πολυτρίπτοιο νέαις λιβάδεσσιν ὀπώρης

  σὸν ποτὸν ἄνθεα πάντα δεδέξεται: ἕν ποτὸν ἔσται

  μιγνύμενον πάντεσσι, καὶ εἰς μίαν ἵξεται ὀδμὴν

  ἄνθεσι παντοίοις κεκερασμένον: εἰαρινὴν γὰρ

  κοσμήσει τεὸν ἄνθος ὅλην λειμωνίδα ποίην.

  [207] “O Ampelos! this is the nectar and ambrosia of my Zeus which you have made! Apollo wears two favourite plants, but he never ate laurel fruit or drank of the iris! Corn brings forth no sweet potation, by your leave, Deo! I will provide not only drink but food for mortal men! Your fate also is enviable, O Ampelos! Verily even Moira’s threads have been turned womanish for you and your beauty; for you Hades himself has become merciful, for you Persephone herself has changed her hard temper, and saved you alive in death for brother Bacchos. You did not die as Atymnios is dead; you saw not the water of Styx, the fire of Tisiphone, the eye of Megaira! You are still alive, my boy, even if you died. The water of Lethe did not cover you, nor the tomb which is commont to all, but earth herself shrank from covering your form! No, my father made you a plant in honour of his son; Lord Cronion changed your body into sweet nectar. Nature has not graven Alas upon your tearless leaves, as on the inscribed clusters of Therapne. You keep your colour, my boy, even on your shoots. Your end proclaims the radiance of your limbs; your blushing body has not left you yet. But I will never cease avenging your death; I will pour your wine in libation to your murderous destroyer, the wine of his victim! Your lovely petals put the Hamadryads to shame; the juice of your fragrant bunches brings round me a breath of your love. Can I ever mix the applefruit in the bowl? Can I drop figjuice in the cup of nectar? Fig and apple have their grace as far as the teeth; but no other plant can rival your grapes – not the rose, not the tinted daffodil, not anemone, not lily, not iris is equal to the plant of Bacchos! For with the newfound streams of your crushed fruitage your drink will contain all flowers: that one drink will be a mixture of all, it will combine in one the scent of all the flowers that blow, your flowers will embellish all the spring-time herbs and grass of the meadow!

  245 εἶξον ἐμοί, κλυτότοξε, πολυθρήνων ὅτι φύλλων

  πενθαλέῳ μίτρωσας ἀπενθέα βόστρυχα δεσμῷ:

  αἴλινα σοῖς πετάλοισι χαράσσεται: εἰ δ᾽ ἐνὶ κήπῳ

  στέμμα φέρει κλυτότοξος, ἐγὼ γλυκὺν οἶνον ἀφύσσω,

  καὶ στέφος ἱμερόεν περιβάλλομαι, ἡδυπότην δὲ

  250 ἔνδον ἐμῆς κραδίης ὅλον Ἄμπελον αὐτὸν ἀείρω.

  εἶξον ἐρισταφύλῳ, κορυθαιόλος: αἱματόεις γὰρ

  σπένδει λύθρον Ἄρηι, καὶ ἀμπελόεις Διονύσῳ

  βότρυος οἰνωθέντος ἐρευθιόωσαν ἐέρσην.

  [245] “Give me best, Lord of Archery, because you wreathed your unmourning hair with your mourning chaplet of dolorous petals! Alas alas is graven on those leaves of yours; and if the Lord of Archery wears his wreath in the garden, I ladle my sweet wine, I put on a lovely wreath, I absorb Ampelos to be at home in my heart by that delicious draught. Brighthelm, give place to Finegrapes! The bloody pours out gore to Ares, the Viny pours to Dionysos the ruddy dew of the winesoaked grape!

  Δηώ, ἐσυλήθης μετὰ Παλλάδος: οὐ γὰρ ἐλαῖαι

  255 εὐφροσύνην τίκτουσι, καὶ οὐ στάχυς ἀνέρα θέλγει,

  ὄγχνη καρπὸν ἔχει μελιηδέα, μύρτος ἀέξει

  ἄνθεα κηώεντα, καὶ οὐ φρενοθελγέι καρπῷ

  ἀνδρομέας ἀνέμοισιν ἀκοντίζουσι μερίμνας:

  ὑμείων γενόμην πολὺ φέρτερος: ἡμετέρου γὰρ

  260 οἴνου μὴ παρεόντος ἀτερπέα δεῖπνα τραπέζης,

  οἴνου μὴ παρεόντος ἀθελγέες εἰσὶ χορεῖαι.

  εἰ δύνασαι, γλαυκῶπι, τεῆς πίε καρπὸν ἐλαίης:

  σὸν φυτὸν ἀγλαόδωρος ἐμὴ νίκησεν ὀπώρη,

  ὅττι τεᾷ λιπόωντι δέμας χρίουσιν ἐλαίῳ

  265 ἄνδρες ἀεθλητῆρες ἀτερπέες, αἰνοπαθὴς δὲ

  εὐνέτιν ἠὲ θύγατρα βαλὼν ξυνήονι πότμῳ,

  ἤ τεκέων φθιμένων ἤ μητέρος ἤ γενετῆρος

  ἀνὴρ πένθος ἔχων, ὅτε γεύσεται ἡδέος οἴνου,

  στυγνὸν ἀεξομένης ἀποσείσεται ὄγκον ἀνίης.

  [254] “Deo, you are defeated with Pallas! For olives do not bring forth merry cheer of heart, corn does not bewitch a man! The pear has a honeysweet fruit, the myrtle grows fragrant flowers, but they have no heart-bewitching fruit to shoot man’s cares to the winds! I am better than you all; for without my wine there is no pleasure in the tablefeast, without my wine the dance has no bewitchment. Brighteyes, drink the fruit of your olive if you can! My fruitage with its glorious gifts has beaten your tree. With your oily olive athletes rub their bodies, without delight; but the sadly afflicted who has given a wife or a daughter to the common fate, the man who mourns children dead,
a mother or a father, when he shall taste of delicious wine will shake of the hateful burden of ever-increasing pain.

  270 Ἄμπελε, καὶ μετὰ πότμον ἐυφραίνεις φρένα Βάκχου:

  πᾶσιν ἐμοῖς μελέεσσιν ἐγῶ σέο πῶμα κεράσσω.

  ἀμφὶ δὲ δένδρεα πάντα κάτω νεύοντι καρήνῳ

  εἴκελα λισσομένῳ κυρτούμενον αὐχένα κάμπτει,

  ὑψιτενῆ δὲ πέτηλα γέρων ἐκλίνατο φοῖνιξ:

  275 ἀμφὶ δὲ μηλείῃ τανύεις πόδας, ἀμφὶ δὲ συκῇ

  χεῖρας ἐφαπλώσας ἐπερείδεαι, ὑμετέρην δέ,

  δμωίδες ὣς δέσποιναν, ἐλαφρίζουσιν ὀπώρην,

  εὖτε τιταινομένων πετάλων ἑλικώδεϊ παλμῷ

  ἀμφιπόλων ὑπὲρ ὦμον ἀνέρχεαι: ἀγχιφύτων δὲ

  280 ἁβρὰ πολυσπερέων ἑτερόχροα φύλλα κορύμβων,

  οἷα σέθεν κνώσσοντος, ἐπαιθύσσουσι προσώπῳ

  αὔραις φειδομένῃσι καταψύχοντες ἀῆται,

  λεπταλέην ἅτε λάτρις ἐθήμονα ῥιπίδα σείει,

  ψυχρὸν ἑῷ βασιλῆι φέρων ποιητὸν ἀήτην.

  285 εἰ δὲ μεσημβρίζουσαν ἄγεις Φαέθοντος ἀπειλήν,

  σῆς σταφυλῆς προκέλευθος ἐτησιὰς ἔρχεται αὔρη

  δίψιον εὐνάζουσα πυρώδεος ἀστέρα Μαίρης,

  ὁππότε θερμαίνει σε θερειγενέος δρόμος Ὥρης

  θάλπων Σειριόεντι πεπαινομένην δρόσον ἀτμῷ.’

  [270] “O Ampelos, you rejoice the heart of Bacchos even after death! I will soak your drink through all my limbs. All the trees of the forest bow their heads around, as one in prayer bends low the neck. The ancient palmtree inclines his soaring leaves, you stretch your feet round the apple-tree, you clasp your hands about the figtree and hold fast; they support your fruitage as slavewomen their mistress, while you climb over the shoulder of your maids with your tendrils pushing and winding and quivering, while the winds blow in your face the delicate many-coloured leaves of so many neighbouring trees with their widespread clusters, as if you slept and they cooled you with gentle breath. So the servingwoman waves a light fan as in duty bound, and makes a cool wind for her king. If you bring with you Phaëthon’s midday threats, yet the Etesian wind comes before your grapes, lulling the thirsty star of burning Maira, when the course of the summer season warms your ripening juice with the steam of Seirios.”

  290 ἔννεπε κυδιόων, προτέρας δ᾽ ἔρριψε μερίμνας

  φάρμακον ἡβητῆρος ἔχων εὔοδμον ὀπώρην.

  [290] So he spoke in his pride, and threw off his earlier cares, now he had found the fragrant fruitage as allheal for the youth.

  καὶ τὰ μὲν ἀμπελόεντος ἀείδεται ἀμφὶ κορύμβου,

  πῶς πέλεν ἡβητῆρος ἐπώνυμος. ὑμνοπόλων δὲ

  ἄλλη πρεσβυτέρη πέλεται φάτις, ὥς ποτε γαίῃ

  295 οὐρανόθεν φερέκαρπος Ὀλύμπιος ἔρρεεν ἰχὼρ

  καὶ τέκε Βακχιάδος σταφυλῆς ποτόν, ἐν σκοπέλοις δὲ

  αὐτοφυὴς ἀκόμιστος ἀέξετο καρπὸς ὀπώρης:

  οὔ πω δ᾽ ἡμερὶς ἦεν ἐπώνυμος, ἀλλ᾽ ἐνὶ λόχμαις

  ἀγριὰς ἡβώουσα πολυγνάμπτοισι σελίνοις

  300 οἰνοτόκων βλάστησε φυτῶν εὐάμπελος ὕλη,

  ὑγρὸν ἀναβλύζουσα βεβυσμένον ὄγκον ἐέρσης:

  καὶ πολὺς ὄρχατος ἦεν, ὅπῃ, στοιχηδὸν ἀνέρπων,

  σείετο φοινίσσων ἐπὶ βότρυϊ βότρυς ἀλήτης:

  ὧν ὁ μὲν ἡμιτέλεστος ἑὰς ὠδῖνας ἀέξων,

  305 αἰόλα πορφύρων, ἑτερόχροϊ φαίνετο καρπῷ

  ὃς δὲ φαληριόων ἐπεπαίνετο σύγχροος ἀφρῷ,

  καἰ πολὺς ὤθεεν ἄλλος ὁμόζυγα γείτονα γείτων

  ξανθοφυής, ἕτερος δὲ φυὴν ἰνδάλλετο πίσσῃ

  περκάζων ὅλον ἄνθος, ἀπ᾽ οἰνοτόκων δὲ πετήλων

  310 σύμφυτον ἀγλαόκαρπον ὅλην ἐμέθυσσεν ἐλαίην:

  ἄλλου δ᾽ ἀρτιχάρακτος ἐπέτρεχεν ὄμφακι καρπῷ

  βότρυος ἀργυφέοιο μέλας αὐτόσσυτος ἀήρ,

  ὄγκῳ βοτρυόεντι φέρων σφριγόωσαν ὀπώρην

  καὶ πίτυν ἀντικέλευθον ἕλιξ ἔστεψεν ὀπώρης

  315 συμφερτοῖς σκιόωσα περισκεπὲς ἔρνος ἰάμνοις,

  καὶ φρένα Πανὸς ἔτερπε: τινασσομένους δὲ Βορῆι

  ἀκρεμόνας πελάσασα παρ᾽ ἀμπελόεντι κορύμβῳ

  αἱμοβαφὴς ἐλέλιζε κόμην εὐώδεα πεύκη.

  ἀμφὶ δέ μιν σκολιῇσι δράκων δινωτὸς ἀκάνθαις

  320 λαρὸν ἐυρραθάμιγγος ἀμέλγετο νέκταρ ὀπώρης,

  καὶ βλοσυραῖς γενύεσσι ποτὸν Βακχεῖον ἀμέλξας,

  βότρυος οἰνωθέντος ἐπιστάζων πόμα λαιμῷ,

  πορφυρέῃ ῥαθάμιγγι δράκων φοίνιξεν ὑπήνην.

  [292] That is the song they sing about he grapecluster, how it got its name from the young man. But the poets have another and older legend, how once upon a time fruitful Olympian ichor fell down from heaven and produced the potion of Bacchic wine, when the fruit of its vintage grew among the rocks selfgrown, untended. It was not yet named grapevine; but among the bushes, wild and luxuriant with many-twining parsleyclusters, a plant grew which had in it good winestuff to make wine, being full to bursting with its burden of dewy juice. There was a great orchard of it springing up in rows, where bunch by bunch the grapes swung swaying and reddening in disorder. They ripened together, one letting its halfgrown nursery increase with different shades of purple upon the fruit, one spotted with white, in colour like foam; some of golden hue crowded thick neighbour on neighbour, others with dark bloom all over like pitch – and the wineteeming foliage intoxicated all the olives with their glorious fruit which grew beside them. Others were silvery white, but a dark mist newly made and selfsped seemed to be penetrating the unripe berries, bringing plump fruitage to the laden clusters. The twining growth of the fruit crowned the opposite pine, shading its own sheltered growth by its mass of twigs, and delighted the heart of Pan; the pine swayed by Boreas brought her branches near the bunches of grapes, and shook her fragrant leafage soaked in the blood. A serpent twisted his curving backbone about the tree, and sucked a strong draught of nectar trickling from the fruit; when he had milked the Bacchic potation with his ugly jaws, the draught of the vine turned and trickled out of his throat, reddening the creature’s beard with purple drops.

  καὶ θεὸς οὐρεσίφοιτος ὄφιν θάμβησε δοκεύων

  325 οἰνωπῇ ῥαθάμιγγι πεφυρμένον ἀνθερεῶνα:

  καὶ στικταῖς φολίδεσσι μετάτροπον ὁλ
κὸν ἑλίξας

  πετραίην βαθύκολπον ἐδύσατο γείτονα χειήν,

  εὔιον ἀθρήσας, ὄφις αἰόλος. εἰσορόων δὲ

  Βάκχος ἐρευθαλέης ἐγκύμονα βότρυν ἐέρσης

  330 ὀμφαίης ἐνόησε παλαίτερα θέσφατα Ῥείης.

  καὶ σκοπέλους ἐλάχηνε, πεδοσκαφέος δὲ σιδήρου

  θηγαλέῃ γλωχῖνι μυχὸν κοιλήνατο πέτρης:

  λειήνας δὲ μέτωπα βαθυνομένων κενεώνων

  τάφρον ἐυσταφύλοιο τύπον ποιήσατο ληνοῦ,

  335 βότρυας ἀμώων νεοθηλέας ὀξέι θύρσῳ,

  τεύχων ὀψιγόνοιο τύπον γαμψώνυχος ἅρπης.

  [324] The hillranging god marvelled, as he saw the snake and his chin dabbled with trickling wine; the speckled snake saw Euios, and went coiling away with his spotty scales and plunged into a deep hole in the rock hard by. When Bacchos saw the grapes with a bellyful of red juice, he bethought him of an oracle which prophetic Rheia had spoken long ago. He dug into the rock, he hollowed out a pit in the stone with the sharp prongs of his earth-burrowing pick, he smoothed the sides of the deepening hole and made an excavation like a winepress; then he made his sharp thyrsus into the cunning shape of the later sickle with curved edge, and reaped the newgrown grapes.

  καὶ Σατύρων χορὸς ἦεν ὁμόστολος: ὧν ὁ μὲν αὐτῶν

  λοξὸς ἔην τρυγόων, ὁ δὲ βότρυας ἄγγεϊ κοίλῳ

  δέχνυτο τεμνομένους, ὁ δὲ σύμπλοκα φύλλα δαΐζων

  340 χλωρὰ φιλακρήτων ἀπεσείσατο λύματα καρπῶν:

  ἄλλος ἄτερ θύρσοιο καὶ εὐθήκτοιο σιδήρου

  δεξιτερὴν ἀσίδηρον ἐπ᾽ ἀκρεμόνεσσι τιταίνων

  βότρυος εἱλικόεντος ἀπέκλασεν ἄκρα κορύμβου,