Dryope

Woman into Tree

 

This is among the saddest of Ovid’s metamorphoses. Dryope picks a flower for her infant son, but the tree she picks it from turns out to be a transformed nymph. Even though the insult was an accident, Dryope is punished by being transformed into a tree as well. At least she gets to say goodbye to her family before tree bark encases her forever.

 

My sister witless of this change, in fright

Would back retreat, and leave the nymphs ador'd,

But roots her feet retain: these from the ground

She strains to rend; but save her upper limbs

Nought can she move; a tender bark grows o'er

The lower parts, and her mid limbs invades.

This seeing, and her locks to rend away

Attempting; her rais'd hand with leaves was fill'd.

Leaves cover'd all her head. Amphyssus found,

(His grandsire had the child Amphyssus nam'd)

His mother's breasts grow hard; nor when he suck'd

Lacteal fluid gain'd he. I there stood,

Of her sad fate spectator: loud I cry'd—

But, O my sister! aid I could not bring;

Yet what I could I urg'd; the growing trunk,

And growing boughs, my close embraces staid:

In the same bark I glad had been enclos'd.

Lo! come her spouse Andræmon, and her sire

So wretched; and for Dryopé they seek:

A Lotus, as for Dryopé they ask,

I shew them; to the yet warm wood salutes

Ardent they give; and prostrate spread, the roots

They clasp of their own tree. Now, sister dear!

Nought save thy face but what a tree becomes.

Thy tears, the leaves thy body form'd, bedew.

And now, whilst able, while her mouth yet gives

To words a passage, such like plaints as these

She breathes;—If faith th' unhappy e'er can claim,

I swear by all the deities, this deed

I never merited: without a crime

My punishment I suffer. Innocent

My life has been. If I deceive, may drought

Parch those new leaves; and, by the hatchet fell'd,

May fire consume me. Yet this infant bear

From those maternal branches; to a nurse

Transfer him; but contrive that oft he comes

And 'neath my boughs let him his milk imbibe;

And 'neath my boughs sport playful. When with words

Able to hail me, let him me salute,

And sorrowing say;—Within that trunk lies hid

My mother—But the lakes, O! let him dread,

Nor dare from any tree to snatch a flower;

But think each shrub he sees a god contains.

Adieu! dear husband; sister dear, adieu!

Father, farewel! if pious cares you feel,

From the sharp axe defend my boughs, and from

The browsing flocks. And now, as fate denies

To lean my arms to yours,—your arms advance;

Approach my lips, whilst you my lips may touch:

And to them lift my infant boy. More words

I may not;—now the tender bark my neck,

So white, invades; my utmost summit hid.

Move from my lids your fingers, for the bark,

So rapid growing, will my dying eyes

Without assistance close.—Her lips to speak

Cease, and existence ceases: the fresh boughs

Long in the alter'd body warm were felt.