Ovid, the Metamorphoses: The Story of Phaethon

He is begging the sun god, his father to allow him to drive the chariot of the sun.

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The boy replied 'O thou, Creation's universal light, Phoebus, my father, if to use that name Thou givest me leave, and Clymene spoke truth And hides no guilt, give proof that all may know I am thy son indeed, and end for ever The doubt that grieves me.'

 

Then his father laid Aside the dazzling beams that crowned his head And bade him come and held him to his heart: 'Well you deserve to be my son', he said, 'Truly your mother named your lineage; And to dispel all doubt, ask what you will That I may satisfy your heart's desire; And that dark marsh by which the gods make oath, Though to my eyes unknown, shall seal my troth.'

 

He scarce had ended when the boy declared His wish—his father's chariot for one day With licence to control the soaring steeds. Grief and remorse flooded his father's soul, And bitterly he shook his glorious head: 'Rash have your words proved mine! Would that I might Retract my promise, Phaethon! This alone I would indeed deny you.

 

Yet at least I may dissuade you. Dangerous is your choice; You seek a privilege that ill befits Your growing years and strength so boyish still. Mortal your lot—not mortal your desire; This, to which even the gods may not aspire, In ignorance you claim. Though their own powers May please the gods, not one can take his stand Above my chariot's flaming axle-tree Save I. Even he whose hand hurls thunderbolts, Olympus' mighty lord, may never drive My team—and who is mightier than Jove?

 

Steep is the way at first, which my steeds scarce Can climb in morning freshness; in mid sky The altitude is greatest and the sight Of land and sea below has often struck In my own heart an agony of fear. The final part drops sheer; then above all Control must be assured, and even she Whose waters lie below to welcome me, Tethys, waits fearful lest I headlong fall. Besides, in constant flux the sky streams by, Sweeping in dizzy whirl the stars on high. I drive against this force, which overcomes All things but me, and on opposing course Against its rushing circuit make my way. Suppose my chariot yours: what then? Could you Confront the spinning poles and not be swept Away by the swift axis of the world?

 

Perhaps you fancy cities of gods are there And groves and temples rich with offerings. No! Wild beasts lie in wait and shapes of fear! And though you keep your course and steer aright, Yet you shall meet the Bull, must brave his horns, And face the Archer and the ravening Lion, The long curved circuit of the Scorpion's claws, The Crab whose claws in counter-menace wave. My horses too, when fire within their breasts Rages, from mouth and nostrils breathing flames, Are hard to hold; even I can scarce restrain Their ardent hearts, their necks that fight the rein. But, O my son, amend, while time remains, Your choice, so may my gift not be your doom. Sure proof you seek of fatherhood; indeed My dread sure proof affords: a father's fear Proves me your father. Look into my eyes!

 

Would you could look into my heart and see And understand your father's agony! See, last, how rich the world around you lies, The bounty of the lands, the seas, the skies; Choose what you will of these-it shall be yours. But this alone, not this! Bane truly named Not glory, Phaethon—bane this gift not boon! Why fold me in your arms, fond foolish boy? By Styx I swore and I shall not refuse.

 

And when poor hapless Phaethon from the height Of highest heaven looked down and saw below Far, far below the continents outspread, His face grew pale, his knees in sudden fear Shook, and his eyes were blind with light so bright. Would he had never touched his father's steeds, Nor learnt his birth, nor won his heart's desire! Oh, to be known as Merops' son! Too late! He's swept away as when a barque is driven Before the northern gales and in despair The master leaves the helm, resigns his charge To heaven. What shall he do?

 

The sky behind Stretches away so far; yet more in front. He measures each in turn; ahead he sees The west that fate ordains he shall not reach, Then looks back to the east. Dazed and in doubt He cannot hold the reins or let them fall Or even recall the horses' names. And then He sees in panic strewn across the sky Monstrous gigantic shapes of beasts of prey. There is a place in which the Scorpion's claws Curve in a double arc, with tail and legs On either side crossing two signs of heaven; Sweating black venom, there before his eyes, Circling its tail to strike, the creature lies. His senses reel; he drops the reins aghast. And when the reins fall loose upon their backs, The horses swerve away and, unrestrained, Gallop through tracts of air unknown and race Headlong, out of control, running amok Amid the stars fixed in the vault of heaven, Hurtling the chariot where no road had run.

 

And now they climb to highest heaven, now plunge Sheer in breakneck descent down to the earth. The moon in wonder sees her brother's team Running below her own; the scalding clouds Steam; the parched fields crack deep, all moisture dried, And every summit flames; the calcined meads Lie white; the leaf dies burning with the bough And the dry corn its own destruction feeds. These are but trifles. Mighty cities burn With all their ramparts; realms and nations turn To ashes; mountains with their forests blaze.

 

Then Phaethon saw the world on every side Ablaze—heat more than he could bear. He breathed Vapours that burned like furnace-blasts, and felt The chariot glow white-hot beneath his feet. Cinders and sparks past bearing shoot and swirl And scorching smoke surrounds him; in the murk, The midnight murk, he knows not where he is Or goes; the horses whirl him where they will. The Aethiops then turned black, so men believe, As heat summoned their blood too near the skin. Then was Sahara's dusty desert formed, All water scorched away.

 

Then the sad nymphs Bewailed their pools and springs; Boeotia mourned Her Dirce lost, Argos Amymone, Corinth Pirene; nor were rivers safe Though fortune's favour made them broad and deep And their banks far apart; in middle stream From old Peneus rose the drifting steam, From Erymanthus too and swift Ismenus, And Mysian Caicus and the Don...

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