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Sing, Pierian Muses - for you are able -
Of Artemis, the shining goddess, pourer of arrows,
Mistress of beasts, with her tunic drawn up
Above her knees, who runs through the rocky glades
And mountain dells, a train of nymphs at her heels:
Sometimes at noon she runs, when the Sun
Showers its brilliant rays from overhead;
Sometimes at night she runs, exulting
In the Moon’s silver gleam, and her arrows gleam silver as well.
Sister from the same womb to Apollo she is-
Daughter of glorious Leto and Zeus who delights in thunder.
Goddess of three faces, called by some Artemis,
By some Selene, and by others still Hecate -
You will be the subject of my song, if the Muses grant it.
But how best to sing of you, beast-slaying maiden?
I could sing perhaps of your birth in hidden Ortygia,
When you sprang forth from Leto into the light
And all the assembled women, nymphs and goddesses,
Raised a cry of joy. Or I could sing
Of the day the dread Giants took up arms against Olympus -
On that day your bow and quiver were never still,
Fast and thickly your arrows sang from the string
And not a one that did not find its mark
In the chest of some Earth-born monster, laying him low
In his hubris. Then, too, I could sing,
As many have before, of Actaeon, ill-starred hunter,
Who stumbled on you bathing - his eyes
Saw things forbidden, and in justice
You punished him. Turned to a stag, hooves
For hands and feet, antlers from his brow,
He fell prey to his own greedy hounds.
But no, Artemis pourer of arrows,
I have a greater song in mind. Evoke now, Muses,
The proud Achaeans, thousands upon thousands,
Chieftains and spear-bearing men, assembled
On Aulis’ shore, eager to sail for Troy
Where godlike Paris had secreted Helen
Unmatched in beauty. But they did not sail,
Not at first, for Agamemnon full of folly
Had slain a swift hind consecrated to you, o Artemis.
Your wrath was great. You pressed your hand
Upon the winds - it was easy for you, a goddess -
And penned them in their cave, feeble, helpless.
The East Wind could not blow; the black ships
Could not make their way over the watery deep
To Troy’s high walls. Such anger, goddess,
Among the bronze-helmeted Achaeans!
How they raged at Agamemnon, cursed
The lord of Mycenae for his blindness
In offending you, Artemis, haunter of the lonely hills.
Blood called for blood; and so Atreus’ son
Led his own offspring, white-browed Iphigenia,
To the altar. High he raised the knife…
And then what, Muses? Tell me unerringly.
Did he slay her? So some say,
But others - theirs is the truer account -
Sing of a wonder: that mighty Artemis placed
A deer beneath the blade, and bore Iphigenia,
All unseen, far from the shores of Hellas,
To the Euxine hateful to sailors, there to dwell
Among the stone-hearted Taurians.
Then the winds blew forth, whipping the gray sea to froth,
And they sailed, the uncountable Achaeans,
To bronze-gated Ilium - many sailed but few
Returned, through the will of Zeus, Cronus’ invincible son.
But they did not forget you, swift-footed lady,
For on Aulis’ sandy shore Agamemnon set up
Your form in wood, and still today the rustic Boeotians
Journey there, by foot and wagon, over long roads,
All to fall at your feet and chant the name of Artemis
Who delights in the hunt and spurns the works of Eros.
Hear me, goddess - grant me prosperous works
And health; defend me with your gleaming arrows.
And in return I shall pray to you as I wander
The wilds, the hollows where no man lives.
But never shall I forget you,
Even as I pass on now to another song.
tangentwithtanner
titsay
jbbartram-illu
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
