Chatt’ring, the scandal of the woods they fly,
And there continue still their clam’rous cry;
The same their eloquence as maids or birds,
Now only noise, and nothing then but words.
Book VI
Transformation of Arachne Into a Spider
Arachne presumes to challenge Minerva to a trial of skill in needlework—Being defeated, she hangs herself in despair, and is changed into a spider by the goddess.
Pallas, attending to the muse’s song,
Approved the just resentment of their wrong,
And thus reflects: “While tamely I commend
Those who their injured deities defend,
My own divinity affronted stands,
And calls aloud for justice at my hands;”
Then takes the hint, ashamed to lag behind,
And on Arachne bends her vengeful mind;
One at the loom so excellently skill’d,
That to the goddess she refused to yield.
Low was her birth, and small her native town:
She from her art alone obtain’d renown.
Idmon, her father, made it his employ
To give the spongy fleece a purple die:
Of vulgar strain her, mother, lately dead,
With her own rank had been content to wed;
Yet she their daughter, though her time was spent
In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
Through the great towns of Lydia gain’d a name,
And fill’d the neighb’ring countries with her fame.
Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
The nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or hill;
Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care:
Thither, from famed Partolus’ golden stream,
Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came:
Nor would the work, when finish’d, please so much,
As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch:
Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
Or with quick motion turn’d the spindle round,
Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
Pallas, her mistress, shone in every line.
This the proud maid, with scornful air, denies,
And ev’n the goddess at her work defies;
Disowns her heavenly mistress every hour,
Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her power.
“Let us,” she cries, “but to a trial come,
And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.”
The goddess then a beldam’s form put on;
With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
Propp’d hy a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
And, tottering, thus begins her old wives’ talk:
“Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
The admonitions of the old and wise;
For age, though scorn’d, a ripe experience bears,
That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
Still may remotest fame your labours crown,
And mortals your superior genius own;
But to the goddess yield, and, humbly meek,
A pardon for your bold presumption seek:
The goddess will forgive.” At this the maid,
With passion fired, her gliding shuttle stay’d,
And, darting vengeance, with an angry look,
To Pallas in disguise thus fiercely spoke:
“Thou doting thing, whose idle, babbling tongue
But too well shows the plague of living long,
Hence, and reprove, with this your sage advice,
Your giddy daughter, or your awkward niece:
Know I despise your counsel, and an still
A woman, ever wedded to my will;
And, if your skilful goddess better knows,
Let her accept the trial I propose.”
“She does,” impatient Pallas straight replies,
And, clothed with heavenly light, sprung from her odd disguise.
The nymphs and virgins of the plain adore
The awful goddess, and confess her power:
The maid alone stood unappall’d, yet show’d
A transient blush, that for a moment glow’d,
Then disappear’d, as purple streaks adorn
The opening beauties of the rosy morn;
Till Phoebus, rising prevalently bright,
Allays the tincture with his silver light.
Yet she persists, and, obstinately great,
In hopes of conquest, hurries on her fate.
The goddess now the challenge waves no more,
Nor, kindly good, advises as before.
Straight to their posts appointed both repair,
And fix their threaded looms with equal care:
Around the solid beam the web is tied,
While hollow canes the parting warp divide,
Through which, with nimble flight, the shuttles play,
And for the woof prepare a ready way:
The woof and warp unite, press’d by the toothy sley.
Thus both, their mantles button’d to their breast,
Their skilful fingers play with willing haste,
And work with pleasure, while they cheer the eye
With glowing purple of the Tyrian die:
Or, justly intermixing shades with light,
Their colourings insensibly unite.
As when a shower, transpierced with sunny rays,
Its mighty arch along the heaven displays,
From whence a thousand different colours rise,
Whose fine transition cheats the clearest eyes:
So like the intermingled shading seems,
And only differs in the last extremes,
Then threads of gold both artfully dispose,
And, as each part in just proportion rose,
Some antique fable in their work disclose.
Pallas in figures wrought the heavenly powers,
And Mars’s hill among the Athenian towers:
On lofty thrones twice six celestials sate,
Jove in the midst, and held their warm debate;
The subject weighty, and well known to fame.
“From whom the city should receive its name.”
Each god by proper features was express’d;
Jove, with majestic mien, excell’d the rest:
His three-fork’d mace the dewy sea-god shook,
And, looking sternly, smote the ragged rock,
When from the stone leap’d forth a sprightly steed,
And Neptune claims the city for the deed.
Herself she blazons, with a glittering spear,
And crested helm, that veil’d her braided hair,
With shields, and scaly breastplate, implements of war.
Struck with her pointed lance, the teeming earth
Seem’d to produce a new surprising birth,
When, from the glebe, the pledge of conquest sprung—
A tree pale green, with fairest olives hung.
And then, to let her giddy rival learn
What just rewards such boldness was to earn,
Four trials at each corner had their part,
Design’d in miniature, and touch’d with art.
Haemus in one, and Rhodope of Thrace,
Transform’d to mountains, fill’d the foremost place,
Who claim’d the titles of the gods above,
And vainly used the epithets of Jove.
Another show’d where the Pigmaean dame,
Profaning Juno’s venerable name,
Turn’d to an airy crane, descends from far,
And with her pygmy subjects wages war.
In a third part, the rage of heaven’s great queen,
Display’d on proud Antigone, was seen,
Who, with presumptuous boldness, dared to vie,
For beauty, with the emperess of the sky.
Ah! what avails her ancient princely race;
Her sire a king, and Troy her native place?
Now, to a noisy stork transform’d, she flies,
And with her whiten’d pinions cleaves the skies:
And in the last remaining part was drawn
Poor Cinyras, that seem’d to weep in stone;
Clasping the temple steps, ne sadly mourn’d
His lovely daughters, now to marble turn’d.
With her own tree the finish’d piece is crown’d
And wreaths of peaceful olive all the
