Ovid, Metamorphoses 8.618-724
‘The power of heaven is great and has no bounds;
Whatever the gods determine is fulfilled.
I give you proof. Among the Phrygian hills
An oak tree and a lime grow side by side,
Girt by a little wall. I saw the place
With my own eyes when Pittheus ordered me
To Pelops’ land where once his father reigned.
Not far from these two trees there is a marsh,
Once habitable land, but water now,
The busy home of divers, duck and coot.
Here once came Jupiter, in mortal guise,
And with his father herald Mercury,
His wings now laid aside. A thousand homes
They came to seeking rest; a thousand homes
Were barred against them; yet one welcomed them,
Tiny indeed, and thatched with reeds and straw;
But in that cottage Baucis, old and good,
And old Philemon (he as old as she)
Had joined their lives in youth, grown old together,
And eased their poverty by bearing it
Contentedly and thinking it no shame.
It was vain to seek master and servant there;
They two were all the household, to obey
And to command. So when the heavenly ones
Reached their small home and, stooping, entered in
At the low door, the old man placed a bench
And bade them sit and rest their weary limbs,
And Baucis spread on it a simple rug
In busy haste, and from the hearth removed
The ash still warm, and fanned yesterday’s embers
And fed them leaves and bark, and coaxed a flame
With her old breath; then from the rafters took
Split billets and dry twigs and broke them small,
And on them placed a little copper pan;
Then trimmed a cabbage which her spouse had brought
In from the stream-fed garden. He reached down
With a forked stick from the black beam a chine
Of smoke-cured pork, and from the long-kept meat
Cut a small piece and put it in to boil.
Meanwhile their talk beguiles the passing hour
And time glides unperceived. A beechwood bowl
Hung by its curving handle from a peg;
They fill it with warm water and their guests
Bathe in the welcome balm their weary feet.
They place a mattress of soft river-sedge
Upon a couch (its frame and feet were willow)
And spread on it their drapes, only brought out
On holy days, yet old and cheap they were,
Fit for a willow couch. The Gods reclined.
Then the old woman, aproned, shakily,
Arranged the table, but one leg was short;
A crock adjusted it, and when the slope
Was levelled up she wiped it with green mint.
Then olives, black and green, she brings, the fruit
Of true Minerva, autumn cherry plums
Bottled in wine lees, endive, radishes,
And creamy cheese and eggs turned carefully
In the cooling ash; all served in earthenware.
Next a wine-bowl, from the same “silver” chased,
Is set and beechwood cups, coated inside
With yellow wax. No long delay; the hearth
Sends forth the steaming feast and wine again
Is brought of no great age, then moved aside,
Giving a space to bring the second course.
Here are their nuts and figs, here wrinkled dates,
And plums and fragrant apples in broad trugs,
And sweet grapes gathered from the purple vines,
And in the midst a fine pale honeycomb;
And—over all—a zeal, not poor nor slow,
And faces that with smiling goodness glow.
Meanwhile they saw, when the wine-bowl was drained,
Each time it filled itself, and wine welled up
All of its own accord within the bowl.
In fear and wonder Baucis and Philemon,
With hands upturned, joined in a timid prayer
And pardon sought for the crude graceless meal.
There was one goose, the trusty guardian
Of their minute domain and they, the hosts,
Would sacrifice him for the Gods, their guests.
But he, swift-winged, wore out their slow old bones
And long escaped them, till at last he seemed
To flee for sanctuary to the Gods themselves.
The deities forbade. “We two are gods”,
They said; “This wicked neighbourhood shall pay
Just punishment; but to you there shall be given
Exemption from this evil. Leave your home,
Accompany our steps and climb with us
The mountain slopes.” The two old folk obey
And slowly struggle up the long ascent,
Propped on their sticks. A bowshot from the top
They turn their eyes and see the land below
All flooded marshes now except their house;
And while they wonder and in tears bewail
Their lost possessions, that old cottage home,
Small even for two owners, is transformed
Into a temple; columns stand beneath
The rafters, and the thatch, turned yellow, gleams
A roof of gold; and fine doors richly carved
They see, and the bare earth with marble paved.
Then Saturn’s son in gentle tones addressed them:
“Tell us, you good old man, and you, good dame,
His worthy consort, what you most desire.”
Philemon briefly spoke with Baucis, then
Declared their joint decision to the Gods:
“We ask to be your priests and guard your shrine;
And, since in concord we have spent our years,
Grant that the selfsame hour may take us both,
That I my consort’s tomb may never see
Nor may it fall to her to bury me.”
Their prayer was granted. Guardians of the shrine
They were while life was left, until one day,
Undone by years and age, standing before
The sacred steps and talking of old times,
Philemon saw old Baucis sprouting leaves
And green with leaves she saw Philemon too,
And as the foliage o’er their faces formed
They said, while still they might, in mutual words
“Goodbye, dear love” together, and together
The hiding bark covered their lips. Today
The peasants in those parts point out with pride
Two trees from one twin trunk grown side by side.
This tale I heard from staid old men who had
No reason to deceive. I saw myself
Wreaths on the boughs and hung a fresh one there,
And said: “They now are gods, who served the Gods;
To them who worship gave is worship given.”
Translation by A. D. Melville