Epodes 17 (Martin): Jam Jam Efficaci

Here at thy feet behold me now
Thine all-subduing skill avow,
And beg of thee on suppliant knee,
By realms of dark Persephone,
By Dian's awful might, and by
Thy books of charms which from the sky
Can drag the stars, Canidia,
To put thy magic sleights away,
Reverse thy whirling wheel amain,
And loose the spell that binds my brain!
Even Telephus to pity won
The ocean-cradled Thetis' son,
'Gainst whom his Mysian hosts he led,
And his sharp-pointed arrow sped.
The man-destroying Hector, doom'd
By kites and dogs to be consumed,
Was natheless by the dames of Troy
Embalm'd, when, mourning for his boy,
King Priam left his city's wall,
At stern Achilles' feet to fall.
Ulysses' stalwart rowers, too.
Away their hide of bristles threw
At Circe's word, and donn'd again
The shape, the voice, the soul of men.
Enough of punishment, I'm sure,
Thou hast compell'd me to endure,
Enough and more, thou being dear
To pedlar and to marinere!
My youth has fled, my rosy hue
Turn'd to a wan and livid blue;
Blanch'd by thy mixtures is my hair;
No respite have I from despair.
The days and nights, they wax and wane,
But bring me no release from pain;
Nor can I ease, howe'er I gasp,
The spasm which holds me in its grasp,
So am I vanquish'd, so recant.
Unlucky wretch! my creed, and grant
That Sabine spells can vex the wit,
And heads by Marsic charms be split.
What wouldst thou more? O earth! O sea!
Nor even Alcides burned like me,
With Nessus' venom'd gore imbued,
Nor Aetna in its fiercest mood;
For till my flesh, to dust calcined,
Be scatter'd by the scornful wind,
Thou glow'st a very furnace fire.
Distilling Colchian poisons dire!
When will this end? Or what may be
The ransom, that shall set me free?
Speak! Let the fine be what it may,
That fine most rigidly I'll pay.
Demand a hundred steers, with these
Thy wrath I'm ready to appease!
Or wouldst thou rather so desire
The praise of the inventive lyre.
Thou, chaste and good, shalt range afar
The spheres, thyself a golden star!
Castor, with wrath indignant stung,
And Castor's brother, by the tongue,
That slander'd Helena the fair,
Yet listen'd to the slanderer's pray'r,
Forgave the bard the savage slight,
Forgave him, and restor'd his sight,
Then drive, for so thou canst, this pain.
This wildering frenzy from my brain!

O thou, untainted by the guile
Of parentage depraved and vile,
Thou, who dost ne'er in haglike wont,
Among the tombs of paupers hunt
For ashes newly laid in ground,
Love-charms and philtres to compound,
Thy heart is gentle, pure thy hands;
And there thy Partumeius stands,
Reproof to all, who dare presume
With barrenness to charge thy womb;
For never dame more sprightly rose
Or lustier from childbed throes!

Why, pour your prayers to heedless ears?
Not rocks, when Winter's blast careers,
Lash'd by the angry surf, are more
Deaf to the seaman dash'd on shore!
What! Think, unpunish'd to deride,
And rudely rend the veil aside,
That shrouds Cotytto's murky rites,
And love's, unfetter'd love's, delights?
And, as though you high-priest might be
Of Esquilinian sorcery,
Branding my name with ill renown.
Make me the talk of all the town?
Where then my gain, that with my gold
I bribed Pelignian beldames old,
Or master'd by their aid the gift
To mingle poisons sure and swift?
You'd have a speedy doom? But no.
It shall be lingering, sharp, and slow.
Your life, ungrateful wretch! shall be
Spun out in pain and misery,
And still new tortures, woes, and pangs
Shall gripe you with relentless fangs!
Yearns Pelops' perjured sire for rest,
Mock'd by the show of meats unblest,
For rest, for rest Prometheus cries,
As to the vulture chain'd he lies,
And Sisyphus his rock essays
Up to the mountain's top to raise;
Still clings the curse, for Jove's decree
Forbids them ever to be free,
So you would from the turret leap,
So in your breast the dagger steep,
So, in disgust with life, would fain
Go hang yourself, — but all in vain!
Then comes my hour of triumph, then
I'll goad you till you writhe again;
Then shall you curse the evil hour,
You made a mockery of my power!
Think ye, that I who can at will
Move waxen images — my skill
You, curious fool! know all too well —
That I who can by mutter'd spell
The moon from out the welkin shake.
The dead ev'n from their ashes wake,
And mix the chalice to inspire
With fierce unquenchable desire,
Shall my so-potent art bemoan
As impotent 'gainst thee alone?