The works of John Dryden :: :: University of Virginia Library

An ancient forest in Thessalia grows,
Which Tempe's pleasant valley does inclose;
Through this the rapid Peneus takes his course,
From Pindus rolling with impetuous force;
Mists from the river's mighty fall arise,
And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies;
Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood,
And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood.
Deep in a rocky cave he makes abode;
A mansion proper for a mourning god.
Here he gives audience; issuing out decrees
To rivers, his dependent deities.
On this occasion hither they resort,
To pay their homage, and to make their court;
All doubtful, whether to congratulate
His daughter's honour, or lament her fate.

Spercheus, crowned with poplar, first appears;
Then old Apidanus came, crowned with years;
Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame,
And Æas, last, with lagging waters came.
Then of his kindred brooks a numerous throng
Condole his loss, and bring their urns along:
Not one was wanting of the watery train,
That filled his flood, or mingled with the main,
But Inachus, who, in his cave alone,
Wept not another's losses, but his own;
For his dear Io, whether strayed, or dead,
To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed.
He sought her through the world, but sought in vain;
And nowhere finding, rather feared her slain.

Her, just returning from her father's brook,
Jove had beheld with a desiring look;
And, “Oh, fair daughter of the flood,” he said,
“Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed,
Happy whoever shall those charms possess!
The King of gods (nor is thy lover less,)
Invites thee to yon cooler shades, to shun
The scorching rays of the meridian sun.
Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove
Alone without a guide; thy guide is Jove.
No puny power, but he, whose high command
Is unconfined, who rules the seas and land,
And tempers thunder in his awful hand.
Oh, fly not!”—for she fled from his embrace
O'er Lerna's pastures; he pursued the chase,
Along the shades of the Lyrcæan plain.
At length the god, who never asks in vain,
Involved with vapours, imitating night,
Both air and earth; and then suppressed her flight,
And, mingling force with love, enjoyed the full delight.

Meantime the jealous Juno, from on high,
Surveyed the fruitful fields of Arcady;
And wondered that the mist should overrun
The face of daylight and obscure the sun.
No natural cause she found, from brooks or bogs,
Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs:
Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter,
Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there.
Suspecting now the worst,—“Or I,” she said,
“Am much mistaken, or am much betrayed.”
With fury she precipitates her flight,
Dispels the shadows of dissembled night,
And to the day restores his native light.
The almighty lecher, careful to prevent
The consequence, foreseeing her descent,
Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now,
In Io's place, appears a lovely cow.
So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make,
Even Juno did unwilling pleasure take
To see so fair a rival of her love;
And what she was, and whence, inquired of Jove,
Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree?
The god, half-caught, was forced upon a lie,
And said she sprung from earth. She took the word,
And begged the beauteous heifer of her lord.
What should he do? 'twas equal shame to Jove,
Or to relinquish, or betray his love;
Yet to refuse so slight a gift, would be
But more to increase his consort's jealousy.
Thus fear, and love, by turns his heart assailed;
And stronger love had sure at length prevailed,
But some faint hope remained, his jealous queen
Had not the mistress through the heifer seen.
The cautious goddess, of her gift possest,
Yet harboured anxious thoughts within her breast;

As she, who knew the falsehood of her Jove,
And justly feared some new relapse of love;
Which to prevent, and to secure her care,
To trusty Argus she commits the fair.

The head of Argus (as with stars the skies,)
Was compassed round, and wore an hundred eyes.
But two by turns their lids in slumber steep;
The rest on duty still their station keep;
Nor could the total constellation sleep.
Thus, ever present to his eyes and mind,
His charge was still before him, though behind.
In fields he suffered her to feed by day;
But, when the setting sun to night gave way,
The captive cow he summoned with a call,
And drove her back, and tied her to the stall.
On leaves of trees and bitter herbs she fed,
Heaven was her canopy, bare earth her bed,
So hardly lodged; and, to digest her food,
She drank from troubled streams, defiled with mud.
Her woful story fain she would have told,
With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold.
Her head to her ungentle keeper bowed,
She strove to speak; she spoke not, but she lowed;
Affrighted with the noise, she looked around,
And seemed to inquire the author of the sound.

Once on the banks where often she had played,
(Her father's banks,) she came, and there surveyed
Her altered visage, and her branching head;
And starting from herself, she would have fled.
Her fellow-nymphs, familiar to her eyes,
Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise.
Even Inachus himself was ignorant;
And in his daughter did his daughter want.
She followed where her fellows went, as she
Were still a partner of the company:

They stroke her neck; the gentle heifer stands,
And her neck offers to their stroking hands.
Her father gave her grass; the grass she took,
And licked his palms, and cast a piteous look,
And in the language of her eyes she spoke.
She would have told her name, and asked relief,
But, wanting words, in tears she tells her grief;
Which with her foot she makes him understand,
And prints the name of Io in the sand.
“Ah, wretched me!” her mournful father cried;
She, with a sigh, to “wretched me!” replied.
About her milk-white neck his arms he threw,
And wept, and then these tender words ensue.
“And art thou she, whom I have sought around
The world, and have at length so sadly found?
So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words
Thou answerest not, no voice thy tongue affords;
But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast,
And speech, denied, by lowing is expressed.
Unknowing, I prepared thy bridal bed;
With empty hopes of happy issue fed.
But now the husband of a herd must be
Thy mate, and bellowing sons thy progeny.
Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief!
But now my godhead but extends my grief;
Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,
And makes me curse my immortality.”
More had he said, but fearful of her stay,
The starry guardian drove his charge away
To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height
He sat himself, and kept her still in sight.