The tim’rous throng their sacred rites forbore,
And from their heads the verdant laurel tore;
Their haughty queen they with regret obey’d,
And still in gentle murmurs softly pray’d.
High on the top of Cynthus’ shady mount,
With grief the goddess saw the base affront,
And, the abuse revolving in her breast,
The mother her twin offspring thus address’d:
“Lo I, my children, who with comfort knew
Your godlike birth, and thence my glory drew,
And thence have claim’d precedency of place
From all but Juno of the heavenly race,
Must now despair, and languish in disgrace.
My godhead question’d, and all rites divine,
Unless you succour, banish’d from my shrine:
Nay, more, the imp of Tantalus has flung
Reflections with her vile paternal tongue:
Has dared prefer her mortal breed to mine,
And call’d me childless, which, just Fate, may she repine!”
When to urge more the goddess was prepared,
Phoebus in haste replies: “Too much we’ve heard,
And every moment’s lost while vengeance is deferr’d.”
Diana spoke the same. Then both enshroud
Their heavenly bodies in a sable cloud,
And to the Theban towers descending light,
Through the soft yielding air direct their flight.
Without the wall there lies a champaign ground,
With even surface, far extending round,
Beaten and levell’d, while it daily feels
The trampling horse, and chariot’s grinding wheels.
Part of proud Niobe’s young rival breed,
Practising there to ride the managed steed,
Their bridles boss’d with gold, were mounted high
On stately furniture of Tyrian die.
Of these, Ismenos, who by birth had been
The first fair issue of the fruitful queen,
Just as he drew the rein, to guide his horse
Around the compass of the circling course,
Sigh’d deeply, and the pangs of smart express’d,
While the shaft stuck, engored within his breast;
And, the reins dropping from his dying hand,
He sunk quite down, and tumbled on the sand.
Sipylus next the rattling quiver heard,
And with full speed for his escape prepared.
As when the pilot from the black’ning skies
A gathering storm of wintry rain descries,
His sails unfurl’d, and crowded all with wind,
He strives to leave the threat’ning cloud behind,
So fled the youth; but an unerring dart
O’ertook him, quick discharged, and sped with art;
Fix’d in his neck behind it trembling stood,
And at his throat display’d the point besmear’d with blood:
Prone as his posture was, he tumbled o’er,
And bathed his courser’s mane with steaming gore.
Next at young Phaedimus they took their aim,
And Tantalus, who bore his grandsire’s name;
These, when their other exercise was done,
To try the wrestler’s oily sport begun,
And, straining every nerve, their skill express’d
In closest grapple, joining breast to breast,
When from the bending bow an arrow sent,
Join’d as they were, through both their bodies went;
Both groan’d, and writhing both their limbs with pain,
They fell together, bleeding on the plain;
Then both their languid eyeballs faintly roll,
And thus together breathe away their soul.
With grief Alphenor saw their doleful plight,
And smote his breast, and sicken’d at the sight,
Then to their succour ran, with eager haste,
And, fondly grieved, their stiff’ning limbs embraced;
But in the action falls: a thrilling dart,
By Phoebus guided, pierced him to the heart:
This, as they drew forth, his midriff tore:
Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore,
And let the soul gush out in streams of purple gore.
But Damasichthon, by a double wound,
Beardless and young, lay gasping on the ground:
Fix’d in his sinewy ham, the steely point,
Stuck through his knee, and pierced the nervous joint;
And as he stoop’d to tug the painful dart,
Another stuck him in a vital part;
Shot through his windpipe, by the wing it hung,
The life-blood forced it out, and darting upward sprung.
Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands,
Lifting in prayer his unavailing hands,
And ignorant from whom his griefs arise;
“Spare me, O all ye heavenly powers,” he cries.
Phoebus was touch’d too late; the sounding bow
Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow,
Which yet but gently gored his tender side;
So by a slight and easy wound he died.
Swift to the mother’s ears the rumour came,
And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim.
With anger and surprise inflamed by turns,
In furious rage her haughty stomach burns.
First she disputes the effects of heavenly power;
Then at their daring boldness wonders more;
For poor Amphion, with sore grief distress’d,
Hoping to sooth his cares by endless rest,
Had sheathed a dagger in his wretched breast:
And she who toss’d her high disdainful head
When through the streets, in solemn pomp, she led
The throng that from Latona’s altar fled,
Assuming state beyond the proudest queen,
Was now the miserablest object seen:
Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell,
And kiss’d an undistinguish’d, last farewell;
Then, her pale arms advancing to the skies,
“Cruel Latona! triumph now,” she cries.
“My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench,
And with my woes your thirsty passion quench,
Feast your black malice at a price thus dear,
While the sore pangs of seven such deaths I bear.
Triumph, too cruel rival, and display
Your conquering standard, for you’ve won the day;
Yet I’ll excel; for yet, though seven are slain,
Superior still in number I remain.”
Scarce had she spoke, the bow-string’s twanging sound
Was heard, and dealt fresh terrors all around,
Which all, but Niobe alone, confound.
Stunn’d and obdurate by her load of grief,
Insensible she sits, nor hopes relief.
Before the funeral biers, all weeping sad,
Her daughters stood, in vests of sable clad.
When one surprised, and stung with sudden smart,
In vain attempts to draw the sticking dart;
But to grim death her blooming youth resigns,
And o’er her brother’s corpse her dying head reclines;
This, to assuage her mother’s anguish tries,
And, silenced in the pious action, dies;
Shot by a secret arrow, wing’d with death,
Her falt’ring lips but only gasp’d for breath.
One, on her dying sister, breathes her last;
Vainly in flight another’s hopes are placed;
This, hiding from her fate, a shelter seeks;
That trembling stands, and fills the air with shrieks
And all in vain; for now all six had found
Their way to death, each by a diff’rent wound.
The last, with eager care, the mother veil’d,
Behind her spreading mantle close conceal’d,
And with her body guarded, as a shield.
“Only for this, this youngest, I implore,
Grant me this one request, I ask no more;
O grant me this!” she passionately cries:
But, while she speaks, the destined virgin dies.
Transformation of Niobe
Niobe, struck with horror at the magnitude of her calamities is changed into a stone.
Widow’d, and childless, lamentable state!
A doleful sight,
