Chapter XXVII: Appendix: Iii., to Page 237

_Story of Arachne, abridged by Earl Cowper from Ovid's Metamorphoses._

Arachne's tale of grief is full:
Her father was of low degree;
No thought beyond his crimson'd wool,
His daughter and his wife had he.

The wife had fill'd an early tomb,
The daughter lived--and all the land
Of Lydia boasted of her loom,
Her needle, and her dexterous hand.

To watch her task the nymphs repair
From fair Timolus' vine-clad hill;
They deem the work divinely fair,
The maid when working fairer still.

The softness of the fleecy ball,
By skilful fingers taught to flow
In lengthening lines--they watch'd it all--
And round and round the spindle go.

Wondering, they view the rich design:
Ah, luckless gift! ah, foolish pride!
'Twas Pallas taught the art divine,
But this the haughty maid denied.

"Me taught," she cried, "by Pallas! Me
By Pallas! Let the goddess first
Accept my challenge. Then, should she
Surpass me, let her do her worst."

Vain, impious words! The goddess came
In likeness of an ancient crone,
With grizzled locks and tottering frame,
And spoke with warning in her tone.

"Though matchless in thine art," she cried,
"Though first of mortals, tempt not fate.
Age makes me wise. Thou hast defied
A goddess. It is not too late."

The unhappy maid, with madness blind,
Replied, and scarce restrain'd the blow.
"'Tis plain, old woman, that your mind
Is drivelling to address me so.

"Some daughter or some slave may want
Your counsel. Let her but appear,
This mighty Pallas whom you vaunt!"
The goddess answer'd, "She is here."

She spoke, and lo! that ancient crone
Was young and fair, and tall and proud:
--The nymphs fell prostrate. She alone--
Arachne--neither shrank nor bow'd.

One blush quick came and pass'd away,
Hovering as clouds, when night is done,
Grow rosy at the dawn of day,
Then whiten with the rising sun.

She did not shrink--she did not pause--
But headlong to destruction ran;
And thus the strife ordain'd to cause
Such dark calamity began.

Each for the contest takes her stand--
The goddess here, the mortal there--
And each proceeds with skilful hand
The means of victory to prepare.

The beam each loom supports full well,
And to the loom the warp is tied;
Nor will I now forget to tell
The reed that doth the warp divide.

The woof the shuttle in doth bring,
The nimble fingers guide its way;
And still from either work-frame ring
The blows inflicted by the slay.

Each to her bosom binds her vest:
The arms of each, quick moving, feel
No sense of toil, no need of rest,
For weariness is quench'd by zeal.

And all the gorgeous tints of Tyre
In varying shades are mingled there;
And every hue the sun's bright fire
Can kindle in the showery air,--

When the wide rainbow spans the sky;
The bow whose colours, in the end
So different, yet so like when nigh,
In harmony's own concord blend,--

And precious threads of glittering gold
Enrich the growing web. But say!
What ancient tale by each was told?
What legend of an earlier day?

Pallas her well-known triumph drew;
The gods assembled in their force,
And Neptune with his trident, too,
Exulting in the fiery horse,--

Which from the rock he made to bound:
But she herself, more deeply wise,
A greater blessing from the ground
The olive brought, and gain'd the prize.

The border of this main design
With Rhodope's sad tale was set;
And all who dared the gods divine
To rival--and the fate they met.

Meanwhile Arachne wove the wool:
The web with many a picture shone.
She drew Europa with her bull,
And Leda with her snow-white swan.

Deois with her snake display'd,
And Danäe with her shower of gold;
And many a tale besides the maid,
Had fate permitted, would have told.

But the dread goddess now no more
To check her rising envy strove;
The half-completed task she tore,
And all the pictured crimes of Jove.

The shuttle thrice the air did rend,
Thrice did the heaven-directed blow
Full on Arachne's head descend,
And made her purple blood to flow.

Arachne's soul was proud and high:
She drew a cruel cord around
Her tender neck--and, driven to die,
Was from a beam suspended found.

Her death the unpitying goddess stay'd;
"Henceforth, vain fool! for such a crime
For ever shall thou hang," she said;
"A warning to the end of time."

In scorn she spoke, and over all
Her rival's face and form she smear'd
A deadly drug. The head grew small,
And each fair feature disappear'd.

And off the beauteous tresses fell;
The tender waist that was so slim,
In loathly sort was seen to swell,
Shrivell'd and shrank each comely limb.

The spider's fingers still remain
To spin for ever.--We may vie
With fellow mortals, but 'tis vain
To struggle with the gods on high.

_January, 1885._ COWPER.