Prevod

“Begin with Jupiter, mother Muse—for all things yield to Jupiter’s sway— and set my song in motion! Often before have I sung of Jupiter’s might: in a loftier strain I sang of the Giants and the conquering thunderbolts scattered over the fields of Phlegra. Now I need a lighter lyre: let us sing of boys beloved by the gods, and girls who, maddened by forbidden passions, earned punishment through their desire.

Once the king of the gods burned with love for Phrygian Ganymede, and something was found that Jupiter would rather be than what he was. Yet he thought no bird worthy of his transformation except the one that could bear his thunderbolts. Without delay, beating the air with borrowed wings, he carried off the son of Ilus, who even now mixes the wine and serves Jupiter nectar, much against Juno’s will.

You too, son of Amyclas, Phoebus would have set in heaven, had cruel fate allowed him time to place you there. Yet you are eternal, so far as fate permits: whenever spring drives winter away and the Ram succeeds the watery Fish, you rise again and blossom in the green turf. You my father loved above all others, and Delphi, set at the world’s centre, went without its guardian while the god haunted the Eurotas and unwalled Sparta. Neither lyre nor arrows held his favour: forgetful of himself, he did not scorn to carry nets, to hold the hounds, or to go beside you over rugged mountain ridges, feeding his flame with constant companionship.

Now the Sun was almost midway between the coming night and the night just past, at an equal distance from them both. They stripped their bodies, gleamed with rich olive oil, and began a contest with the broad discus. Phoebus threw first, balancing it before he sent it soaring high into the air, its weight scattering the clouds in its path. Long afterward the heavy disc fell back to solid earth, showing the skill that had joined with strength to launch it.

At once, heedless and driven by eagerness for the game, the Taenarian youth hurried to pick it up. But the hard earth sent it rebounding with a blow into your face, Hyacinthus. The god turned as pale as the boy himself and caught his collapsing limbs; now he warmed you in his arms, now stanched your grievous wound, now applied herbs to hold back your fleeting life.

His arts were useless: the wound was beyond healing. As when someone in a garden breaks violets, a stiff-stemmed poppy, or lilies bristling with tawny tongues, and suddenly they droop their languishing heads, unable to support themselves, their tips turned toward the earth: so his dying head drooped, and his neck, drained of strength, became a burden to itself and sank upon his shoulder.

“You are slipping away, son of Oebalus, robbed of your first youth,” Phoebus said, “and in your wound I see my guilt. You are my grief and my crime: my right hand must bear the blame for your death! I have brought you to your grave. Yet what was my fault? Unless playing can be called a fault, unless loving too can be called a fault. If only I could surrender my life, as I deserve, and die with you! But since fate’s law forbids me, you shall always be with me, and your name live forever on my lips.

You shall resound in my songs, in the lyre my hand strikes; and as a new flower, you shall bear my lament inscribed upon you. A time will also come when the bravest of heroes shall join you in this flower, his name read on the same petals.” While Apollo’s truthful lips spoke these words, behold, the blood that had spilled upon the earth and stained the grass ceased to be blood, and a flower brighter than Tyrian purple sprang up, shaped like a lily, except that its colour was purple, while theirs is silver.

This was not enough for Phoebus, who had bestowed the honour: he himself inscribed his lament upon the petals, and AI AI was written on the flower, letters of mourning. Nor is Sparta ashamed to have given Hyacinthus birth: his honour endures to this day, and each year, celebrated as in ancient times, the Hyacinthia returns, led by a splendid procession.