Ovid: Heroines 11: the letter of Canace to Macareus,

Translated into heroic verse by David Bruce Gain.

If you see blood blots have sometimes denied
The sense, 'tis since the roll's writer has died.
A pen's my right, a sword my left hand's hold,
And on my lap the message lies unrolled,
A scene such as harsh Aeolus our sire,
Dearest brother, would very much desire.
Should our father see such a scene arise
Then my cruel death would feast its author's eyes!
Yes, even these my wounds would never pierce
One whom even his own East Winds deem fierce.
'tis right wild winds are subject to his throne -
His people's temper is so like his own -
The Sithonian North, East, wild of mouth,
The West and, with these three, the South.
These can he rule, but his tempestuous mind
Is, like his airy kingdom, unconfined.
What use, grandsires, to say the skies behove
One who in her kindred can reckon Jove?
Is there, for that, less death in this fell glaive,
A weapon we weak women must not crave?
That hour which joined us came before its time;
Joined after death, our life had lacked all crime.
Why love as but a wanton brother would?
Why loved I you more than a sister should?
What madness, my Macareus, then was mine,
Oft warned of, yet warmed by a power divine!
I saw my face grow pale, my body waste;
No food, but force-fed, could I ever taste.
Though in no pain, what groans greeted my ear!
My sleep was short and each night was a year.
Yes, what was love? As yet I did not know,
But felt in my own self this unknown grow.
Of this unknown's true nature I was told
First by my nurse, even though she was old.
I blushed and lowered the eyes shame made distraught;
The looks I gave said all, though I'd said naught.
And now my swollen, ravished womb had showed
Its owner its no longer secret load.
What medicine-plants did not my nurse produce
T' induce abortion by their powerful juice!
How many potions you know not we tried
To make the womb's growing load slide outside!
But he repulsed with ease his hidden foe
With greater strength than we could ever know.
I saw Phoebus' sister's tenth month speed,
Spurring on in her course each light-filled steed,
A raw recruit to labour, to complain
Of sudden shootings and of grinding pain,
With throes e'er thicker and my cries' increase
My nurse's hand on my mouth caused to cease.
To that unhappy fortune was I come -
Pain urged my clamours, but fear kept me dumb.
With inward struggling I restrained my cries
And drank the tears that trickled from my eyes.
Death was in sight; Lucina gave no aid,
And e'en in death had my guilt been betrayed.
But you came, with your clothes torn and torn-tressed,
And pressed me sobbing to your warming breast.
And there you cried: "Give, dearest sister, give
Life to yourself and to your unborn; live!
The hope you have shall surely give you life;
You'll have your brother's child; live as his wife!"
Lightening the burden of my guilty womb,
You thrust me from the threshold of the tomb.
But yet inside the hall there sat my sire;
The babe must hide from Aeolus' ire.
His careful nurse soon saw he was concealed
In fruit, light fillet and grey olive shield.
And sacred rites and sacred words were feigned
And so a right way through the crowd obtained.
Just at the door the luckless baby cried;
His grandsire heard and saw the trick we'd tried.
Swift to the supposed sacrifice he flies;
The palace echoes to his maddened cries.
As water quivers in a gentle breeze
Or light ashen twigs tremble in their trees,
So, when my father's loud voice struck my ear
The bed beneath me shuddered from my fear.
He rushed upon me and divulged my stain;
Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain.
I only answered him with silent tears;
They flowed; my tongue was frozen up with fears.
He bids his little grandchild should be shown
To dogs and birds, to face their maws alone.
The babe cried out as if he understood
And begged his pardon with what voice he could.
My grief at this must be all too well known
(Too well you'll guess my anguish from your own),
That I should see my own flesh rapt away
And deep in wild woods made the high wolves' prey.
My father went; I used each hard sharp nail
To rake my cheeks; my bruised breasts felt me flail.
And then, instead, my father sent a thrall
Who sadly spoke what he knew must appal:
"Aeolus bids me give this sword to you;
When you see it, you'll soon know what to do".
Too well I know the sense his words impart -
His present must be treasured in my heart.
Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives?
Is this the treasured dower a father leaves?
You god of marriage, shun your own disgrace
And take your torch from this detested place!
Instead of this, let Furies light their brands
And fire my pyre with their infernal hands.
With happier fortune may my sisters wed,
Warned by the dire example of the dead!
For just born babe what crime could he pretend?
How could your infant innocence offend?
A guilt there was but O, I was the cause!
You suffered for a sin that was not yours.
Your mother's grief and crime! but just enjoyed,
Shown to my sight and born to be destroyed!
Unhappy offspring of my teeming womb,
Dragged headlong from your cradle to your tomb!
Yours is a body my tears may not lave,
Nor may shorn mourning locks bedeck your grave.
I shall not lie and kiss you from above;
Greedy wild beasts shall tear apart my love.
Not long after my babe shall I be left,
Nor long called either mother or bereft.
But you, my love and now my love's despair,
Perform his funeral with a father's care.
It is for a mother's last gift I sue;
May the one urn, however small, hold two.
Let not the touch of her you love breed fear;
Right on her wounded breast drop but one tear
And then do your loved sister's last desire
As faithfully as I've obeyed my sire.