Metamorphosis 1; Part V

Welcome to the fifth entry of our first Tale of Two Translations, in which we read translations and formulate our own for Ovid's seminal Latin work cataloguing Roman myth: Metamorphosis. Like always, today we will continue our deep dive into the disparate ways that Latin scholars have translated Ovid's enduring masterpiece. Through these translations, I am to introduce you to a wide variety of translation styles and ideologies; translators differ both in diction and in interpretation. Additionally, we seek to ensure that every reader has a clear pathway to experiencing this remarkable piece of Latin literature. These translations are the best of the best, providing every reader incredible insight into the mind of one of the ancient world's foremost literary geniuses. And most importantly, we hope to inspire you to craft your own translations, using those provided as a baseline to help you understand the original Latin and find your unique voice. I strongly encourage you to read the original Latin first, attempt an original translation (consulting our Latin Resources section for help with vocabulary or terminology), and then compare your version with the professional translations provided below. Finally, share your work, insights, and/or any questions you have in the comments section. Without further ado, let's dive back into Metamorphosis.

Original Latin

Protinus Aeoliis Aquilonem claudit in antris

et quaecumque fugant inductas flamina nubes

emittitque Notum. madidis Notus evolat alis,

terribilem picea tectus caligine vultum;

barba gravis nimbis, canis fluit unda capillis;

fronte sedent nebulae, rorant pennaeque sinusque.

utque manu lata pendentia nubila pressit,

fit fragor: hinc densi funduntur ab aethere nimbi;

nuntia Iunonis varios induta colores

concipit Iris aquas alimentaque nubibus adfert.

sternuntur segetes et deplorata coloni

vota iacent, longique perit labor inritus anni.

Nec caelo contenta suo est Iovis ira, sed illum

caeruleus frater iuvat auxiliaribus undis.

convocat hic amnes: qui postquam tecta tyranni

intravere sui, 'non est hortamine longo

nunc' ait 'utendum; vires effundite vestras:

sic opus est! aperite domos ac mole remota

fluminibus vestris totas inmittite habenas!'

iusserat; hi redeunt ac fontibus ora relaxant

et defrenato volvuntur in aequora cursu.

Ipse tridente suo terram percussit, at illa

intremuit motuque vias patefecit aquarum.

exspatiata ruunt per apertos flumina campos

cumque satis arbusta simul pecudesque virosque

tectaque cumque suis rapiunt penetralia sacris.

si qua domus mansit potuitque resistere tanto

indeiecta malo, culmen tamen altior huius

unda tegit, pressaeque latent sub gurgite turres.

iamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant:

omnia pontus erant, derant quoque litora ponto.

Occupat hic collem, cumba sedet alter adunca

et ducit remos illic, ubi nuper arabat:

ille supra segetes aut mersae culmina villae

navigat, hic summa piscem deprendit in ulmo.

figitur in viridi, si fors tulit, ancora prato,

aut subiecta terunt curvae vineta carinae;

et, modo qua graciles gramen carpsere capellae,

nunc ibi deformes ponunt sua corpora phocae.

mirantur sub aqua lucos urbesque domosque

Nereides, silvasque tenent delphines et altis

incursant ramis agitataque robora pulsant.

nat lupus inter oves, fulvos vehit unda leones,

unda vehit tigres; nec vires fulminis apro,

crura nec ablato prosunt velocia cervo,

quaesitisque diu terris, ubi sistere possit,

in mare lassatis volucris vaga decidit alis.

obruerat tumulos inmensa licentia ponti,

pulsabantque novi montana cacumina fluctus.

maxima pars unda rapitur; quibus unda pepercit,

illos longa domant inopi ieiunia victu.

Translation 1: Anthony S. Kline, 2000

*A.S. Kline is a poet, author, and translator who graduated from the Unviersity of Manchester and dedicated his life to translations of Latin, Anchient Greek, Classical Chinese, and other European languages. He is best known for his contributions to the cite "Poetry in Translation," where he serves as the chief translator.

Straight away he shut up the north winds in Aeolus’s caves, with the gales that disperse the gathering clouds, and let loose the south wind, he who flies with dripping wings, his terrible aspect shrouded in pitch-black darkness. His beard is heavy with rain, water streams from his grey hair, mists wreathe his forehead, and his feathers and the folds of his robes distil the dew. When he crushes the hanging clouds in his outstretched hand there is a crash, and the dense vapours pour down rain from heaven. Iris, Juno’s messenger, dressed in the colours of the rainbow, gathers water and feeds it back to the clouds. The cornfields are flattened and saddening the farmers, the crops, the object of their prayers, are ruined, and the long year’s labour wasted.

Jupiter’s anger is not satisfied with only his own aerial waters: his brother the sea-god helps him, with the ocean waves. He calls the rivers to council, and when they have entered their ruler’s house, says ‘Now is not the time for long speeches! Exert all your strength. That is what is needed. Throw open your doors, drain the dams, and loose the reins of all your streams!’ Those are his commands. The rivers return and uncurb their fountains’ mouths, and race an unbridled course to the sea.

Neptune himself strikes the ground with his trident, so that it trembles, and with that blow opens up channels for the waters. Overflowing, the rivers rush across the open plains, sweeping away at the same time not just orchards, flocks, houses and human beings, but sacred temples and their contents. Any building that has stood firm, surviving the great disaster undamaged, still has its roof drowned by the highest waves, and its towers buried below the flood. And now the land and sea are not distinct, all is the sea, the sea without a shore.

There one man escapes to a hilltop, while another seated in his rowing boat pulls the oars over places where lately he was ploughing. One man sails over his cornfields or over the roof of his drowned farmhouse, while another man fishes in the topmost branches of an elm. Sometimes, by chance, an anchor embeds itself in a green meadow, or the curved boats graze the tops of vineyards. Where lately lean goats browsed shapeless seals play. The Nereids are astonished to see woodlands, houses and whole towns under the water. There are dolphins in the trees: disturbing the upper branches and stirring the oak-trees as they brush against them. Wolves swim among the sheep, and the waves carry tigers and tawny lions. The boar has no use for his powerful tusks, the deer for its quick legs, both are swept away together, and the circling bird, after a long search for a place to land, falls on tired wings into the water. The sea in unchecked freedom has buried the hills, and fresh waves beat against the mountaintops. The waters wash away most living things, and those the sea spares, lacking food, are defeated by slow starvation.

Translation 2: Ian C. Johnston, 2011

*Ian C. Johnston is a professional author and Latin translator who was named professor emeritus of the Classics Department at Vancouver Island University. His translation of the Metamorphosis was lauded by the international Latin community and turned into an audiobook the year after it was published.

So he immediately locks up North Wind in Aeolus’s caves, along with any blasts,

which scatter clouds collecting overhead, and sends out South Wind, flying on sodden wings, his dreadful face veiled in pitch-black darkness, his beard heavy with rain, water flowing from his hoary locks, mists sitting on his forehead, his flowing robes and feathers dripping dew. When Jupiter stretches his hand and strikes the hanging clouds, heavy, crashing rainstorms start pouring down from heaven. Iris, Juno’s messenger, dressed in various colours, gathers the water up and brings it back to keeps clouds well supplied. Crops are flattened, fond hopes of grieving farmers overthrown, their long year’s work now wasted and in vain. And Jupiter’s rage does not confine itself to his own sky. For his brother Neptune, god of the azure sea, provides him help with flooding which augments the pouring rain. He summons the rivers to a meeting and, after they have entered their king’s home, says to them: “This is not now the moment for a long speech from me. What we require is for you to discharge all your power. Open your homes, remove all barriers, and let your currents have free rein to flow.” Neptune gave his orders, and the rivers 410 return, relax the mouths of all their springs, and race down unobstructed to the sea. Neptune himself with his trident strikes the land. Earth trembles and with the tremor lays bare the sources of her water. Streams spread out and charge through open plains, sweeping away— all at once—groves, planted fields, cattle herds, men, and homes, along with sacred buildings and their holy things. If any house remains still standing and is able to resist such a huge catastrophe, nonetheless, waves higher than the house cover the roof, and its towers, under pressure, collapse beneath the surge. And now the land and sea are not distinct—all things have turned into a boundless sea which has no ocean shore. Some men sit on hilltops, others in boats, pulling oars here and there, above the fields which they just ploughed not long before. One man now sails above his crops or over roofs of sunken villas, another catches fish from high up in an elm. Sometimes, by chance, an anchor bites into green meadowland, or a curved keel scrapes against a vineyard submerged beneath the sea. And in those places where slender she-goats have grazed on grasses, misshapen sea calves let their bodies rest. Nereïds are astonished at the groves, cities, and homes lying beneath the waves. Dolphins have taken over in the woods, racing through lofty branches and bumping into swaying oaks. Wolves swim among sheep. Waves carry tawny lions and tigers. The forceful, mighty power of the boar is no help at all, nor are the swift legs of the stag, once they are swept into the sea. The wandering bird, after a long search for some place to land, its wings exhausted, falls down in the sea. The unchecked movement of the oceans has overwhelmed the hills, and waters beat against the mountain tops. The deluge carries off most living things. Those whom it spares, because food is so scarce, are overcome by gradual starvation.

We hope you enjoyed the fifth entry in Tale of Two Translations, featuring some more sections of Metamorphoses Book 1. Please leave any comments, questions, or concerns below, and be sure to recommend future translations, texts, prose, or poems for us to dive into!