by Ovid

    THUS Achelous ends： his audience hear

    With admiration¹， and admiring， fear

    The pow'rs of heav'n； except Ixion's son，

    Who laugh'd at all the gods， believ'd in none：

    He shook his impious head， and thus replies，

    "These legends are no more than pious² lies：

    You attribute too much to heavenly sway，

    To think they give us forms， and take away."

    The rest， of better minds， their sense declar'd

    Against this doctrine³， and with horrour heard.

    Then Lelex rose， an old experienc'd man，

    And thus with sober gravity began：

    "Heav'n's pow'r is infinite： earth， air， and sea，

    The manufacture mass， the making pow'r obey：

    By proof to clear your doubt； in Phrygian ground

    Two neighb'ring trees， with walls encompass'd round，

    Stand on a mod'rate rise， with wonder shown，

    One a hard oak， a softer linden one：

    I saw the place and them， by Pittheus sent

    To Phrygian realms， my grandsire's government.

    Not far from thence is seen a lake， the haunt

    Of coots， and of the fishing cormorant⁴：

    Here Jove with Hermes came； but in disguise

    Of mortal men conceal'd their deities⁵；

    One laid aside his thunder， one his rod；

    And many toilsome steps together trod；

    For harbour at a thousand doors they knock'd，

    Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd.

    At last an hospitable⁶ house they found，

    A homely⁷ shed； the roof， not far from ground，

    Was thatch'd with reeds and straw together bound.

    There Baucis and Philemon liv'd， and there

    Had liv'd long married and a happy pair：

    Now old in love， though little was their store，

    Inur'd to want， their poverty they bore，

    Nor aim'd at wealth， professing⁸ to be poor.

    For master or for servant here to call，

    Was all alike， where only two were all.

    Command was none， where equal love was paid，

    Or rather both commanded， both obey'd.

    From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before，

    Now stooping， enter'd through the little door：

    The man （their hearty⁹ welcome first express'd）

    A common settle drew for either guest，

    Inviting¹⁰ each his weary limbs to rest.

    But e'er they sat， officious Baucis lays

    Two cushions stuff'd with straw， the seat to raise；

    Coarse， but the best she had； then rakes the load

    Of ashes from the hearth¹¹， and spreads abroad

    The living coals， and， lest they should expire，

    With leaves and barks she feeds her infant-fire：

    It smokes； and then with trembling breath she blows，

    Till in a cheerful blaze the flames arose.

    With brush-wood and with chips she strengthens these，

    And adds at last the boughs¹³ of rotten trees.

    The fire thus form'd， she sets the kettle on，

    （Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone）

    Next took the coleworts which her husband got

    From his own ground （a small well-water'd spot；）

    She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves； the best

    She cull'd， and then with handy-care she dress'd.

    High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung；

    Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong，

    And from the sooty rafter drew it down，

    Then cut a slice， but scarce enough for one；

    Yet a large portion of a little store，

    Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more.

    This in the pot he plung'd without delay，

    To tame the flesh， and drain the salt away.

    The time between， before the fire they sat，

    And shorten'd the delay by pleasing chat.

    A beam there was， on which a beechen pail

    Hung by the handle， on a driven nail：

    This fill'd with water， gently warm'd， they set

    Before their guests； in this they bath'd their feet，

    And after with clean towels dry'd their sweat：

    This done， the host produc'd the genial¹⁴ bed，

    Sallow the feet， the borders， and the sted，

    Which with no costly¹⁵ coverlet they spread；

    But coarse old garments， yet such robes as these

    They laid alone， at feasts， on holydays.

    The good old huswife tucking up her gown，

    The table sets； th' invited gods lie down.

    The trivet-table of a foot was lame¹²，

    A blot¹⁶ which prudent¹⁷ Baucis overcame，

    Who thrusts beneath the limping leg， a sherd，

    So was the mended board exactly rear'd：

    Then rubb'd it o'er with newly-gather'd mint，

    A wholesome¹⁸ herb， that breath'd a grateful scent¹⁹.

    Pallas began the feast， where first were seen

    The party-colour'd olive， black and green：

    Autumnal cornels next in order serv'd，

    In lees of wine well pickl'd， and preserv'd：

    A garden-salad was the third supply，

    Of endive， radishes， and succory：

    Then curds²⁰ and cream， the flow'r of country-fare，

    And new-laid eggs， which Baucis' busy care

    Turn'd by a gentle fire， and roasted rear.

    All these in earthen ware²¹ were serv'd to board；

    And next in place， an earthen pitcher²²， stor'd

    With liquor of the best the cottage cou'd afford.

    This was the table's ornament²³ and pride，

    With figures wrought²⁴： like pages at his side

    Stood beechen bowls； and these were shining clean，

    Varnish'd with wax without， and lin'd within.

    By this the boiling kettle had prepar'd，

    And to the table sent the smoking lard；

    On which with eager appetite they dine，

    A sav'ry bit， that serv'd to relish²⁵ wine：

    The wine itself was suiting to the rest，

    Still working in the must， and lately press'd.

    The second course succeeds like that before，

    Plums， apples， nuts， and of their wintry store，

    Dry figs²⁶， and grapes， and wrinkl'd dates were set

    In canisters， t' enlarge the little treat

    All these a milk-white honey-comb surround，

    Which in the midst the country banquet crown'd：

    But the kind hosts their entertainment grace

    With hearty welcome， and an open face：

    In all they did， you might discern with ease，

    A willing mind， and a desire to please.

    Meantime the beechen bowls went round， and still，

    Though often empty'd， were observ'd to fill；

    Fill'd without hands， and of their own accord

    Ran without feet， and danc'd about the board.

    Devotion seiz'd the pair， to see the feast

    With wine， and of no common grape， increas'd；

    And up they held their hands， and fell to pray'r，

    Excusing， as they cou'd， their country fare.

    One goose they had， （'twas all they cou'd allow）

    A wakeful sent'ry， and on duty now，

    Whom to the gods for sacrifice they vow²⁷：

    Her， with malicious²⁸ zeal²⁹， the couple view'd；

    She ran for life， and limping they pursu'd：

    Full well the fowl³⁰ perceiv'd their bad intent，

    And wou'd not make her masters compliment；

    But persecuted³¹， to the pow'rs she flies，

    And close between the legs of Love she lies.

    He with a gracious ear the suppliant³² heard，

    And sav'd her life； then what he was declar'd，

    And own'd the god. 'The neighbourhood，' said he，

    'Shall justly perish for impiety³³：

    You stand alone exempted³⁴； but obey

    With speed， and follow where we lead the way：

    Leave these accurs'd； and to the mountain's height

    Ascend³⁵； nor once look backward in your flight.'

    They haste， and what their tardy³⁶ feet deny'd，

    The trusty staff （their better leg） supply'd.

    An arrow's flight they wanted to the top，

    And there secure， but spent with travel， stop；

    Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes；

    Lost in a lake the floated level lies：

    A watry desert covers all the plains，

    Their cot alone， as in an isle³⁷， remains³⁸：

    Wondring with weeping eyes， while they deplore³⁹

    Their neighbours' fate， and country now no more，

    Their little shed， scarce large enough for two，

    Seems， from the ground increas'd， in height and bulk to grow.

    A stately temple shoots within the skies：

    The crotches of their cot in columns rise：

    The pavement polish'd marble they behold⁴⁰，

    The gates with sculpture grac'd， the spires⁴¹ and tiles of gold.

    Then thus the sire of gods， with look serene⁴²，

    'Speak thy desire， thou only just of men；

    And thou， O woman， only worthy⁴³ found

    To be with such a man in marriage bound.'

    A while they whisper； then， to Jove address'd，

    Philemon thus prefers their joint⁴⁴ request：

    'We crave⁴⁵ to serve before your sacred shrine⁴⁶，

    And offer at your altars rites⁴⁷ divine：

    And since not any action of our life

    Has been polluted with domestic strife⁴⁸，

    We beg one hour of death； that neither she

    With widow's tears may live to bury me，

    Nor weeping I， with wither'd arms may bear

    My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher⁴⁹.'

    The godheads sign their suit. They run their race

    In the same tenor⁵⁰ all th' appointed space；

    Then， when their hour was come， while they relate

    These past adventures at the temple-gate，

    Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen

    Sprouting⁵¹ with sudden leaves of spritely green：

    Old Baucis look'd where old Philemon stood，

    And saw his lengthen'd arms a sprouting wood：

    New roots their fasten'd feet begin to bind⁵²，

    Their bodies stiffen⁵³ in a rising rind：

    Then e'er the bark above their shoulders grew，

    They give and take at once their last adieu；

    At once， farewell， O faithful spouse⁵⁴， they said；

    At once th' incroaching rinds their closing lips invade.

    Ev'n yet， an ancient Tyanaean shows

    A spreading oak， that near a linden grows：

    The neighbourhood confirm the prodigie，

    Grave men， not vain of tongue， or like to lie.

    I saw myself the garlands on their boughs，

    And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows⁵⁵；

    And off'ring fresher up， with pious pray'r，

    The good， said I， are God's peculiar⁵⁶ care，

    And such as honour heav'n， shall heav'nly honour share."

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