With mother’s milk, and, ‘gainst cold shades, to arm
With cradle-cloths my shoulders, and baths warm,
That no man may conceive the war you threat
Can spring in cause from my so peaceful heat.
And, even amongst th’ Immortals it would bear
Event of absolute miracle, to hear
A new-born infant’s forces should transcend
The limits of his doors; much less contend
With untam’d oxen. This speech nothing seems
To savour the decorum of the beams
Cast round about the air Apollo breaks,
Where his divine mind her intention speaks.
I brake but yesterday the blessed womb,
My feet are tender, and the common tomb
Of men (the Earth) lies sharp beneath their tread.
But, if you please, even by my Father’s head
I’ll take the great oath, that nor I protest
Myself to author on your interest
Any such usurpation, nor have I
Seen any other that feloniously
Hath forced your oxen. Strange thing! What are those
Oxen of yours? Or what are oxen? Knows
My rude mind, think you? My ears only touch
At their renown, and hear that there are such.”
This speech he pass’d; and, ever as he spake,
Beams from the hair about his eyelids brake,
His eyebrows up and down cast, and his eye
Every way look’d askance and carelessly,
And he into a lofty whistling fell,
As if he idle thought Apollo’s spell.
Apollo, gently smiling, made reply:
“O thou impostor, whose thoughts ever lie
In labour with deceit! For certain, I
Retain opinion, that thou (even thus soon)
Hast ransack’d many a house, and not in one
Night’s-work alone, nor in one country neither,
Hast been besieging house and man together,
Rigging and rifling all ways, and no noise
Made with thy soft feet, where it all destroys.
Soft, therefore, well, and tender, thou may’st call
The feet that thy stealths go and fly withal,
For many a field-bred herdsman (unheard still)
Hast thou made drown the caverns of the hill,
Where his retreats lie, with his helpless tears,
When any flesh-stealth thy desire endears,
And thou encount’rest either flocks of sheep,
Or herds of oxen! Up then! Do not sleep
Thy last nap in thy cradle, but come down,
Companion of black night, and, for this crown
Of thy young rapines, bear from all the state
And style of Prince Thief, into endless date.”
This said, he took the infant in his arms,
And with him the remembrance of his harms,
This presage utt’ring, lifting him aloft:
“Be evermore the miserably-soft
Slave of the belly, pursuivant of all,
And author of all mischiefs capital.”
He scorn’d his prophecy so he sneezed in’s face
Most forcibly; which hearing, his embrace
He loathed and hurl’d him ‘gainst the ground; yet still
Took seat before him, though, with all the ill
He bore by him, he would have left full fain
That hewer of his heart so into twain.
Yet salv’d all thus: “Come, you so-swaddled thing!
Issue of Maia, and the Thunder’s King!
Be confident, I shall hereafter find
My broad-brow’d oxen, my prophetic mind
So far from blaming this thy course, that I
Foresee thee in it to posterity
The guide of all men, always, to their ends.”
This spoken, Hermes from the earth ascends,
Starting aloft, and as in study went,
Wrapping himself in his integument,
And thus ask’d Phœbus: “Whither force you me,
Far-shot, and far most powerful Deity?
I know, for all your feigning, you’re still wroth
About your oxen, and suspect my troth.
O Jupiter! I wish the general race
Of all earth’s oxen rooted from her face.
I steal your oxen! I again profess
That neither I have stol’n them, nor can guess
Who else should steal them. What strange beasts are these
Your so-loved oxen? I must say, to please
Your humour thus far, that even my few hours
Have heard their fame. But be the sentence yours
Of the debate betwixt us, or to Jove
(For more indifferency) the cause remove.”
Thus when the solitude-affecting God,
And the Latonian seed, had laid abroad
All things betwixt them; though not yet agreed,
Yet, might I speak, Apollo did proceed
Nothing unjustly, to charge Mercury
With stealing of the cows he does deny.
But his profession was, with filed speech,
And craft’s fair compliments, to overreach
All, and even Phœbus. Who because he knew
His trade of subtlety, he still at view
Hunted his foe through all the sandy way
Up to Olympus. Nor would let him stray
From out his sight, but kept behind him still.
And now they reach’d the odorif’rous hill
Of high Olympus, to their Father Jove,
To arbitrate the cause in which they strove.
Where, before both, talents of justice were
Propos’d for him whom Jove should sentence clear,
In cause of their contention. And now
About Olympus, ever crown’d with snow,
The rumour of their controversy flew.
All the Incorruptible, to their view,
On Heaven’s steep mountain made return’d repair.
Hermes, and He that light hurls through the air,
Before the Thund’rer’s knees stood; who begun
To question thus far his illustrious Son:
“Phœbus! To what end bring’st thou captive here
Him in whom my mind puts delights so dear?
This new-born infant, that the place supplies
Of Herald yet to all the Deities?
This serious business, you may witness, draws
The Deities’ whole Court to discuss the cause.”
Phœbus replied: “And not unworthy is
The cause of all the Court of Deities,
For, you shall hear, it comprehends the weight
Of devastation, and the very height
Of spoil and rapine, even of Deities’ rights.
Yet you, as if myself loved such delights,
Use words that wound my heart. I bring you here
An infant, that, even now, admits no peer
In rapes and robb’ries. Finding out his place,
After my measure of an infinite space,
In the Cyllenian mountain, such a one
In all the art of opprobration,
As not in all the Deities I have seen,
Nor in th’ oblivion-mark’d whole race of men.
In night he drave my oxen from their leas,
Along the lofty roar-resounding seas,
F
rom out the road-way quite; the steps of them
So quite transpos’d, as would amaze the beam
Of any mind’s eye, being so infinite much
Involv’d in doubt, as show’d a deified touch
Went to the work’s performance; all the way,
Through which my cross-hoved cows he did convey,
Had dust so darkly-hard to search, and he
So past all measure wrapt in subtilty.
For, nor with feet, nor hands, he form’d his steps,
In passing through the dry way’s sandy heaps,
But used another counsel to keep hid
His monstrous tracts, that show’d as one had slid
On oak or other boughs, that swept out still
The footsteps of his oxen, and did fill
Their prints up ever, to the daffodill
(Or dainty-feeding meadow) as they trod,
Driven by this cautelous and infant God.
A mortal man, yet, saw him driving on
His prey to Pylos. Which when he had done,
And got his pass sign’d, with a sacred fire,
In peace, and freely (though to his desire,
Not to the Gods, he offer’d part of these
My ravish’d oxen) he retires, and lies,
Like to the gloomy night, in his dim den,
All hid in darkness; and in clouts again
Wrapp’d him so closely, that the sharp-seen eye
Of your own eagle could not see him lie.
For with his hands the air he rarified
(This way, and that moved) till bright gleams did glide
About his being, that, if any eye
Should dare the darkness, light appos’d so nigh
Might blind it quite with her antipathy.
Which wile he wove, in curious care t’ illude
Th’ extreme of any eye that could intrude.
On which relying, he outrageously
(When I accus’d him) trebled his reply:
‘I did not see, I did not hear, nor I
Will tell at all, that any other stole
Your broad-brow’d beeves. Which an impostor’s soul
Would soon have done, and any author fain
Of purpose only a reward to gain.’
And thus he colour’d truth in every lie.”
This said, Apollo sat; and Mercury
The Gods’ Commander pleased with this reply:
“Father! I’ll tell thee truth (for I am true,
And far from art to lie): He did pursue
Even to my cave his oxen this self day,
The sun new-raising his illustrious ray;
But brought with him none of the Bliss-endued,
Nor any ocular witness, to conclude
His bare assertion; but his own command
Laid on with strong and necessary hand,
To show his oxen; using threats to cast
My poor and infant powers into the vast
Of ghastly Tartarus; because he bears
Of strength-sustaining youth the flaming years,
And I but yesterday produced to light.
By which it fell into his own free sight,
That I in no similitude appear’d
Of power to be the forcer of a herd.
And credit me, O Father, since the grace
Of that name, in your style, you please to place,
I drave not home his oxen, no, nor prest
Past mine own threshold; for ’tis manifest,
I reverence with my soul the Sun, and all
The knowing dwellers in this heavenly Hall,
Love you, observe the least; and ’tis most clear
In your own knowledge, that my merits bear
No least guilt of his blame. To all which I
Dare add heaven’s great oath, boldly swearing by
All these so well-built entries of the Blest.
And therefore when I saw myself so prest
With his reproaches, I confess I burn’d
In my pure gall, and harsh reply return’d.
Add your aid to your younger then, and free
The scruple fixt in Phœbus’ jealousy.”
This said he wink’d upon his Sire; and still
His swathbands held beneath his arm; no will
Discern’d in him to hide, but have them shown.
Jove laugh’d aloud at his ingenious Son,
Quitting himself with art, so likely wrought,
As show’d in his heart not a rapinous thought;
Commanding both to bear atoned minds
And seek out th’ oxen; in which search he binds
Hermes to play the guide, and show the Sun
(All grudge exil’d) the shrowd to which he won
His fair-eyed oxen; then his forehead bow’d
For sign it must be so; and Hermes show’d
His free obedience; so soon he inclined
To his persuasion and command his mind.
Now, then, Jove’s jarring Sons no longer stood,
But sandy Pylos and th’ Alphæan flood
Reach’d instantly, and made as quick a fall
On those rich-feeding fields and lofty stall
Where Phœbus’ oxen Hermes safely kept,
Driven in by night. When suddenly he stept
Up to the stony cave, and into light
Drave forth the oxen. Phœbus at first sight
Knew them the same, and saw apart dispread
Upon a high-rais’d rock the hides new flead
Of th’ oxen sacrific’d. Then Phœbus said:
“O thou in crafty counsels undisplaid!
How couldst thou cut the throats, and cast to earth,
Two such huge oxen, being so young a birth,
And a mere infant? I admire thy force,
And will, behind thy back. But this swift course
Of growing into strength thou hadst not need
Continue any long date, O thou Seed
Of honour’d Maia!” Hermes (to show how
He did those deeds) did forthwith cut and bow
Strong osiers in soft folds, and strappled straight
One of his hugest oxen, all his weight
Lay’ng prostrate on the earth at Phœbus’ feet,
All his four cloven hoves eas’ly made to greet
Each other upwards, all together brought.
In all which bands yet all the beast’s powers wrought,
To rise, and stand; when all the herd about
The mighty Hermes rush’d in, to help out
Their fellow from his fetters. Phœbus’ view
Of all this up to admiration drew
Even his high forces; and stern looks he threw
At Hermes for his herd’s wrong, and the place
To which he had retir’d them, being in grace
And fruitful riches of it so entire;
All which set all his force on envious fire.
All whose heat flew out of his eyes in flames,
Which fain he would have hid, to hide the shames,
Of his ill-govern’d passions. But with ease
Hermes could calm them, and his humours please.
Still at his pleasure, were he ne’er so great
In force and fortitude, and high in heat,
In all which he his lute took, and assay’d
A song upon him, and so strangely play’d,
That from his hand a ravishing horror flew.
Which Phœbus into lau
ghter turn’d, and grew
Pleasant past measure; tunes so artful clear
Strook even his heart-strings, and his mind made hear.
His lute so powerful was in forcing love,
As his hand rul’d it, that from him it drove
All fear of Phœbus; yet he gave him still
The upper hand; and, to advance his skill
To utmost miracle, he play’d sometimes
Single awhile; in which, when all the climes
Of rapture he had reach’d, to make the Sun
Admire enough, O then his voice would run
Such points upon his play, and did so move,
They took Apollo prisoner to his love.
And now the deathless Gods and deathful Earth
He sung, beginning at their either’s birth
To full extent of all their empery.
And, first, the honour to Mnemosyne,
The Muses’ mother, of all Goddess states
He gave; even forced to’t by the equal fates.
And then (as it did in priority fall
Of age and birth) he celebrated all.
And with such elegance and order sung
(His lute still touch’d, to stick more off his tongue)
That Phœbus’ heart with infinite love he eat.
Who, therefore, thus did his deserts entreat:
“Master of sacrifice! Chief soul of feast!
Patient of all pains! Artizan so blest,
That all things thou canst do in anyone!
Worth fifty oxen is th’ invention
Of this one lute. We both shall now, I hope,
In firm peace work to all our wishes’ scope.
Inform me (thou that every way canst wind,
And turn to act, all wishes of thy mind)
Together with thy birth came all thy skill?
Or did some God, or God-like man, instill
This heavenly song to thee? Methink I hear
A new voice, such as never yet came near
The breast of any, either man or God,
Till in thee it had prime and period.
What art, what Muse that med’cine can produce
For cares most cureless, what inveterate use
Or practice of a virtue so profuse
(Which three do all the contribution keep
That Joy or Love confers, or pleasing Sleep.)
Taught thee the sovereign facture of them all?
I of the Muses am the capital
Consort, or follower; and to these belong
The grace of dance, all worthy ways of song,
And ever-flourishing verse, the delicate set
And sound of instruments. But never yet
Did anything so much affect my mind
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 170
