Works of Nonnus

by Nonnus

  γηγενέων ὀλετῆρα μετὰ Κρονίδην σὲ καλέσσω,

  δήιον ἀμήσαντα χαμαιγενέων στάχυν Ἰνδῶν.

  [257] “Such was manifoldshaped Campe as she rose writhing, and flew roaming about earth and air and briny deep, and flapping a couple of dusky wings, rousing tempests and arming gales, that blackwinged nymph of Tartaros: from her eyelids a flickering flame belched out far-travelling sparks. Yet heavenly Zeus your father killed that great monster, and conquered the snaky Enyo of Cronos. Show yourself like your father, that I may call you also destroyer of the earthborn next to Cronides, when you have reaped the enemy harvest of earthborn Indians.

  σοὶ μόθος οὗτος ἔοικεν ὁμοίιος: ἀρχέγονον γὰρ

  σὸς γενέτης Κρονίοιο προασπιστῆρα κυδοιμοῦ

  270 ἠλιβάτοις μελέεσσι κεκασμένον υἱὸν ἀρούρης

  Ἰνδὸν ἀπεπρήνιξεν, ὅθεν γένος ἔλλαχον Ἰνδοι:

  Ἰνδῷ σὸς γενέτης, σὺ δὲ μάρναο Δηριαδῆι.

  γίνεό μοι καὶ Ἄρηι πανείκελος, ὅττι καὶ αὐτὸς

  τηλίκον ἐπρήνιξε θεημάχον υἱὸν Ἐχίδνης,

  275 φρικτὸν ἀποπτύοντα δυσειδέος ἰὸν Ἐχίδνης,

  ὃς λάχε διπλόον εἶδος ὁμόζυγον, ἔνδοθι λόχμης

  μητρῴης δονέων ἑλικώδεα κύκλον ἀκάνθης:

  τὸν Κρόνος ἄπλετον εἶχε καταιχμάζοντα κεραυνοῦ,

  Αρεα συρίζοντα ποδῶν ὀφιώδεϊ ταρσῷ,

  280 ὁππότε κουφίζων παλάμας ὑπὲρ ἄντυγα μαζοῦ

  Ζηνὶ τεῷ πολέμιζεν, ἐν ἠερίῃ δὲ κελεύθῳ

  στοιχάδας ὑψιλόφῳ νεφέλας ἔστησε καρήνῳ,

  καὶ σκολιαῖς ὄρνιθας ἐπιπλαγχθέντας ἐθείραις

  πολλάκι συμμάρψας πολυχανδέι δαίνυτο λαιμῷ:

  285 τοῦτον ἀριστεύοντα τεὸς κτάνε σύγγονος Ἄρης.

  Αρεος οὐ καλέω σε χερείονα: καὶ γὰρ ἐρίζοις

  πᾶσι Διὸς τεκέεσσιν, ἐπεὶ φονίῳ σέο θύρσῳ

  τόσσον ἀριστεύεις, ὅσσον δορὶ μάρναται Ἄρης,

  [268] “Your battle seems like his; for your father in the conflict with Cronos brought low that champion of warfare with towering limbs, that excellent son of the soil, Indos, whence the Indians are sprung: your father fought Indos, you fight Deriades. Show me yourself like Ares, for he also brought low such another, Echidna’s son, the gods’ enemy, spitting the horrible poison of hideous Echidna. He had two shapes together, and in the forest he shook the twisting coils of his mother’s spine. Cronos used this huge creature to confront the thunderbolt, hissing war with the snaky soles of his feet; when he raised his hands above the circle of the breast and fought against your Zeus, and lifting his high head, covered it with masses of cloud in the paths of the sky. Then if the birds came wandering into his tangled hair, he often swept them together into his capacious throat for a dinner. This masterpiece your brother Ares killed! I do not call you less than Ares; for you could challenge all the sons of Zeus; since with your bloodstained thyrsus you are a masterpiece as much as Ares warring with his spear, and your exploits are equal to Phoibos.

  καὶ τελέεις, ἅτε Φοῖβος, ἀέθλια, θηροφόνον δὲ

  290 υἱὸν ἐγὼ Διὸς ἄλλον ἐμῷ ξείνισσα μελάθρῳ:

  χθιζὰ γὰρ εἰς ἐμὸν οἶκον ἐύπτερος ἤλυθε Περσεὺς

  γείτονα Κωρυκίοιο διαυγέα Κύδνον ἐάσας,

  ὡς σύ, φίλος, καὶ ἔφασκεν ἐπώνυμον ὠκέι ταρσῷ

  ἀνδράσι πὰρ Κιλίκεσσι νεόκτιτον ἄστυ χαράξαι:

  295 ἀλλ᾽ ὁ μὲν ἠέρταζεν ἀθηήτοιο. Μεδούσης

  Γοργόνος ἄκρα κάρηνα σὺ δ᾽ οἴνοπα καρπὸν ἀείρεις,

  ἄγγελον εὐφροσύνης, βροτέης ἐπίληθον ἀνίης:

  Περσεὺς κῆτος ἔπεφνεν Ἐρυθραίῳ παρὰ πόντῳ,

  καὶ σὺ κατεπρήνιξας Ἐρυθραίων γένος Ἰνδῶν.

  300 κτεῖνε δὲ Δηριάδην, ὡς ἔκτας Ἰνδὸν Ὀρόντην

  κήτεος εἰναλίοιο κακώτερον: ἀχνυμένην μὲν

  Περσεὺς Ἀνδρομέδην, σὺ δὲ ῥύεο μείζονι νίκῃ

  πικρὰ βιαζομένην ἀδίκων ὑπὸ νεύμασιν Ἰνδῶν

  παρθένον ἀστερόεσσαν, ὅπως ἕνα κῶμον ἀνάψω

  305 Γοργοφόνῳ Περσῆι καὶ Ἰνδοφόνῳ Διονύσῳ.

  [289] “Another destroyer of monsters, another son of Zeus I have entertained in my mansion. The other day Perseus came flying on wings to my house. He had lately left translucent Cydnos, the neighbour of Corycion, like you, my friend, and said he had marked out a newfounded city in Cilicia named after his own quick foot. He carried the head which had topped Gorgon Medusa whom no eye may see; and you carry the winefruit, that messenger of hearty good cheer, the oblivion of mortal sorrow. Perseus killed the sea-monster beside the Erythraian Sea, and you have brought low the race of Erythraian Indians. Slay Deriades as you slew Orontes the Indian, one worse than the sea-monster. Perseus saved Andromeda in her affliction, do you save by a greater victory the Virgin of the Stars, O bitterly oppressed at the nod of wicked Indians, that I may offer one triumphal feast for Gorgonslayer Perseus and Indianslayer Dionysos.”

  ‘ὣς εἰπὼν παλίνορσος ἑῷ νόστησε μελάθρῳ

  ἁβρὸς ἄναξ. Βρομίου ξεινηδόκος: εἰσαΐων δὲ

  φθεγγομένου βασιλῆος ἐτέρπετο κέντορι μύθῳ

  θυρσομανὴς Διόνυσος, ἐβακχεύθη δὲ κυδοιμῷ

  310 οὔασι θελγομένοισι μόθον πατρῷον ἀκούων:

  καὶ Κρονίδην νείκεσσε, καὶ ἤθελε μείζονα νίκην

  ἐσσομένην τριτάτην, διδύμην μετὰ φύλοπιν Ἰνδῶν,

  ζῆλον ἔχων Κρονίδαο. Φερέσπονδον δὲ καλέσσας,

  οὐρανίου κήρυκος ἀπόσπορον, εἴκελον αὔραις,

  315 Ἰφθίμης σοφὸν υἷα, φίλῳ προσπτύξατο μύθῳ:

  [306] Having spoken thus, Bromios’s host the luxurious king went back to his palace; and Dionysos thyrsus-mad was delighted to hear the spurring words of the royal voice. His ears bewitched with hearing of his father’s battle, he was wild for a fight, he vied with Zeus, and wished for a third and greater future victory after the double defeat of the Indians, to rival Cronides. He summoned Pherespondos, one swift like the wind, the offspring of the heavenly herald, the clever son of Iphthime, and greeted him with friendly words:

  ‘ὦ τέκος Ἑρμάωνος, ἐμοὶ πεφιλημένε κῆρυξ,

  τοῦτο μολὼν ἄγγειλον ἀγήνορι Δηριαδῆι:

  ‘κοίρανε, νόσφι μάχης ἢ δέχνυσο δῶρα Λυαίου,

  ἢ Βρομίῳ πολέμιζε καὶ ἔσσεαι ἶσος Ὀρόντῃ.’’

  [316] “Son of Hermaon, herald that I love, go take this message to proud Deriades: ‘Prince, accept th
e gifts of Lyaios without war, or fight against Bromios and you shall be like Orontes!’”

  320 εἶπε: καὶ ὠκυπέδιλος ἀπὸ χθονὸς εἰς χθόνα βαίνων

  ἠῴην ἐπὶ πέζαν ἀταρπιτὸν ἤνυσε κῆρυξ,

  σκῆπτρον ἔχων γενετῆρος: ὁ δὲ χρυσέων ἐπὶ δίφρων

  βότρυν ἀερτάζων φρενοτερπέα καρπὸν ὀπώρης

  ποσσὶ πολυγνάμπτοισιν ἀπ᾽ ἄστεος ἄστεα βαίνων

  325 Ἀσσυρίην χθόνα πᾶσαν ἑῆς ἔπλησεν ὀπώρης,

  ἀγρονόμοις ὀρέγων σταφυληκόμον ἄνθος ἀλωῆς.

  [320] So he spoke, and the herald on swift shoes holding his father’s rod travelled from land to land, until he made his way to the Eastern country. On a golden car, carrying the fruit of the vintage, the heartgladdening grape, he passed from city to city with devious feet, and filled all the Assyrian land with his fruit, as he offered to the countrymen the grapegrowing flower of the vineyard.

  ὄφρα μὲν ἀντολικοῖο παρὰ πτερὸν αἴθοπος Εὔρου

  φοιταλέῳ Σύρον οὖδας ἐμέτρεεν οἴνοπι δίφρῳ,

  τόφρα δὲ καὶ Σταφύλῳ μόρος ἔχραεν: ἐν δὲ μελάθρῳ

  330 δμῶες ἀνερρήξαντο κατὰ στέρνοιο χιτῶνα,

  ἀμφίπολοι δ᾽ ἀλάλαζον: ἐφοινίσσοντο δὲ μαζοὶ

  τυπτόμενοι παλάμῃσι: πολυθρήνων δὲ γυναικῶν

  πενθαλέοις ὀνύχεσσι χαράσσετο κύκλα προσώπου.

  [327] While in his gadabout winechariot he traversed the Syrian soil by the wing of Euros in the glowing east, death laid a hand on Staphylos. In the palace the servants tore the garments on their bodies, the attendants cried out in lamentation; breasts were beaten and reddened, the round cheeks of mourning women were torn with their nails as they sang the dirge.

  ὀψὲ δὲ δὴ παλίνορσος ἐρισταφύλων ἐπὶ δίφρων

  335 νοστήσας Διόνυσος ἐδύσατο Βότρυος αὐλήν.

  μνῆστιν ἔχων Σταφύλοιο φιλοστόργοιο τραπέζης:

  καὶ Πίθον ὡς ἐνόησε κατηφιόωντι προσώπῳ,

  πότμον ἑοῦ Σταφύλοιο σοφῇ μαντεύσατο σιγῇ

  αὐτόματος: καλέσας δὲ Μέθην ἐξείρετο μύθῳ:

  [334] It was late when Dionysos in his vinedecked car returned to Botrys’s palace, remembering the amiable entertainment of Staphylos. Noticing the downcast looks of Pithos, he divined untold the fate of his friend Staphylos, proclaimed by the eloquent silence, and he called Methe and asked:

  340 ‘εἰπέ, γύναι, τί παθοῦσα τεὴν ἠλλάξαο μορφήν;

  αὐχμηρὴν ὁρόω σε, καἰ ἀστράπτουσαν ἐάσας:

  τίς τεὸν ἔσβεσε κάλλος ἀθέσφατον; οὐκέτι πέμπεις

  ἔμφυτον οἰνωπῇσι παρηίσι πορφύρεον πῦρ.

  καὶ σύ, γέρον, μὴ κρύπτε, πόθεν τάδε δάκρυα χεύεις;

  345 τίς τάμεν, εὐρυγένειε, τεὸν πώγωνα κομήτην;

  τίς πολιὴν ᾔσχυνε; τίς ἔσχισε σεῖο χιτῶνα;

  καὶ σύ, φιλακρήτοιο Μέθης βλάστημα τεκούσης,

  τέκνον ἐμοῦ Σταφύλοιο, πόθεν λάχες ἄτριχα κόρσην;

  τίς φθόνος ἠμάλδυνε τεὴν ἑλικώδεα χαίτην;

  350 οὐ πλόκαμοι προχυθέντες ἐπ᾽ ἀργυφέων σέθεν ὤμων

  ἀπλεκέες Τυρίοιο μύρου πέμπουσιν ἀυτμήν,

  οὐκέτι βακχευθέντος ἀφ᾽ ὑμετέροιο καρήνου

  μαρμαρυγὴν ῥοδόεσσαν ὀιστεύουσι παρειαί.

  πῶς φορέεις τάδε πέπλα χυτῇ ῥυπόωντα κονίῃ;

  355 πῇ μοι ἔβη Τυρίης βασιλήια πέπλα θαλάσσης;

  οὐκέτι γινώσκω σε μαραινομένοιο προσώπου.

  πῇ Στάφυλος σκηπτοῦχος ἀνήλυθεν, ὄφρα νοήσω;

  εἰπέ, τεὸν γενετῆρα τίς ἥρπασεν εἰς μίαν ὥρην;

  γινώσκω σέο πῆμα, καὶ εἰ κρύπτειν μενεαίνεις:

  360 φωνῆς ὑμετέρης οὐ δεύομαι: αὐτόματοι γὰρ

  σιγαλέον σέο πένθος ἀπαγγέλλουσιν ὀπωπαί:

  γινώσκω σέο πῆμα, καὶ εἰ κρύπτειν μενεαίνεις:

  δάκρυα σὰς ὀδύνας μαντεύεται, αὐσταλέοι δὲ

  πότμον ἐμοῦ Σταφύλοιο τεοὶ βοόωσι χιτῶνες.

  365 ἐλπίδα δ᾽ ἡμετέρην φθόνος ἥρπασεν: ὠισάμην γὰρ

  Ἰνδῴην μετὰ δῆριν ἅμα Σταφύλῳ βασιλῆι

  χερσὶν ἀερτάζειν θαλαμηπόλον ἑσπέριον πῦρ,

  βότρυος ἀγχιμάχοιο τελειομένων ὑμεναίων.’

  [340] “Tell me, my lady, what trouble has changed your looks? I see you disordered, and I left you radiant. Who has quenched your unspeakable beauty? You show no longer the natural crimson glow on those cheeks once ruddy as wine! And you, ancient sir, hide not why you shed tears. Who has cut the flowing mass of your broad beard? Who has deranged that white hair? Who rent your garments? And you, son of Staphylos my friend, offspring of Methe your mother so fond of wine, why are your temples bare of the hair? What envious hand tore the curly locks? Your tresses no longer fall free over your shoulders, glossy like silver, breathing Tyrian frankincense, you no longer hold revel, your cheeks no longer emit a rosy sheen from your face.

  Why do you wear these robes soiled with streaks of dust? Why do I not see your royal robes of Tyrian purple? I no longer know you with this desolated countenance. Where has Prince Staphylos gone, pray let me know? Speak! who has robbed you of your father even for an hour? I understand your trouble, even if you try to hide it. I need no words from you, for your looks alone silently proclaim your mourning. I understand your trouble, even if you try to hide it. The tears reveal your pains, your disordered dress cries aloud the fate of Staphylos my friend. Envy has robbed me of my hope; for I did think that after the Indian War I should lift the evening torches in my hands, in company of King Staphylos, to wait on the consummated wedding of Botrys the comrade of my battles!”

  BOOK 19

  ἐννεακαιδεκάτῳ Σταφύλου περὶ τύμβον ἐγείρει

  Βάκχος ἐπὶ κρητῆρι θυώδεϊ τερπνὸν ἀγῶνα.

  ὣς φαμένου βαρὺ κέντρον ἔχων νεοπενθέι θυμῷ

  κοῦρος ἀφωνήτῳ σφρηγίσσατο χείλεα σιγῇ,

  δάκρυσιν αὐτοχύτοις νικώμενος: ὀψὲ δὲ μήτηρ

  οἰκτρὸν ἔπος κατέλεξε Μέθη χαίρουσα Λυαίῳ:

  BOOK XIX

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

  HE spoke; and the lad sealed his lips with unvoiced silence, his mind heavy with the pangs of new mourning, and gave way to a helpless flow of tears. At last Methe his mother spoke a piteous word of greeting to Lyaios:

  5 ‘ὑμετέρης ἄγρυπνον �
��πιπευτῆρα χορείης,

  σὸν Στάφυλον, Διόνυσε, κατεύνασε χάλκεος ὕπνος,

  σὸν Στάφυλον, Διόνυσε, Χαρωνίδες ἥρπασαν αὖραι.

  δισσὸν ἐμοὶ βαρὺ πένθος ἐπέχραεν: ἀμπελόεις μὲν

  Βάκχος ἐμὲ προλέλοιπε, πόσις δ᾽ ἐμὸς ἔμπεσε νούσῳ:

  10 καὶ ξυνὴν μεθέπεσκον ἐπ᾽ ἀμφοτέροισιν ἀνίην,

  καὶ Σταφύλῳ θνήσκοντι καὶ οὐ παρεόντι Λυαίῳ.

  ἀλλὰ τεῆς, φίλε Βάκχε, πολυρραθάμιγγος ὀπώρης

  δός μοι σεῖο κύπελλον ἐνίπλεον, ὄφρα πιοῦσα

  εὐνήσω βαρὺ πένθος ἀπενθήτῳ σέθεν οἴνῳ.

  15 ἐλπὶς ἐμοί, Διόνυσε φιλεύιε, μοῦνον ὀπώρην,

  μοῦνον ἴδω κρητῆρα, καὶ οὐκέτι δάκρυα λείβω.’

  [5] “Staphylos your friend, Dionysos, the sleepless watcher of your dances, has sunk in the brazen sleep: Staphylos your friend, Dionysos, Charon’s winds have carried away. A double burden of sorrow fell on me: Bacchos of the vine deserted me, my husband fell into sickness, and I cherished one common pain for both, Staphylos dying and Lyaios far away. But give me, dear Bacchos, give me your cup full of your bubbling vintage; that I may drink, and lull my heavy sorrow with your sorrowconsoling wine! O Dionysos, my only hope, with your jubilant cry! Let me only see the vintage, let me see the bowl, and I shed tears no more!”

  ὣς φαμένην ἐλέαιρε, κερασσάμενος δὲ κυπέλλῳ

  ἰκμάδα λυσιμέριμνον ἀλεξικάκου πόρεν οἴνου

  παιδὶ νέῳ καὶ μητρὶ κατηφέι: καἰ πίον ἄμφω

  20 τερψινόῳ ῥαθάμιγγι μελίρρυτον ὄγκον ὀπώρης: