BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE
Muse, sing to me of Aphrodite, fair,
Whom gods and mortals love beyond compare.
They name her lover of the secret part,
Born from Uranus' loins, the sky-god's heart.
With her came Eros and Himeros bright,
Desire and Love in golden garments dight.
When first she rose and walked the gods among,
She earned the praise on every mortal tongue.
Friend of the phallus, so the people say,
Who whispers love to maids at break of day.
She brings the smile, the vision, and the bliss,
The graces born from each enchanted kiss.
This golden goddess showers down delight
And beauty’s gifts upon the mortal night,
Yet she brings yearning too, and weary pain,
That burns the heart and floods the soul like rain.
But she who dwells still in her mother’s care
Knows not the arts that Aphrodite bear.
Then Zeus, high-throned, to her these words addressed:
“Let marriage’s holy rites be your bequest.”
But Diomedes, fierce in war, replied:
“You lead mad women on in love and pride!”
And Zeus derided her with mocking voice,
While Pallas, wise Athena, made her choice:
“It is this goddess moves the Grecian dames
To love the foes and tarnish noble names.
They follow Trojan men with blind delight,
And yield their beds, forgetting Grecian might.”
Amid the war at Troy did Cypris light
The fire of love and drew fair Helen's sight
To Paris, prince of Troy. She softly came
And spoke: “Your Paris calls you, sweetest flame.
He waits in chambers draped with silken thread,
Now come to him, he waits for you in bed.”
Though loath, fair Helen yielded to the voice,
And walked toward love, not borne of her own choice.
Into the lofty room she slowly trod,
And found him there, the son of Priam’s god.
Then laughter-loving Aphrodite placed
A chair before the prince with gentle haste.
She took her seat; and Paris turned to say:
“Come now, my love, let passion guide our way.
No flame like this has ever burned in me,
Not since I took you first from Lacedæmon’s sea.
Not since I bore you over ocean foam,
And laid you down on Kranae’s island home.
But now my soul ignites with stronger fire,
A sweet and pulsing, aching new desire.”
So spoke the prince, and led her to the bed,
Where love was sown and silken passion spread.
They lay within the carved and golden frame,
Where Kypris kindled her immortal flame.
But Hera, queen of heaven, white-armed and fair,
Approached the goddess with a wise affair.
“Lend me,” she said, “thy girdle of desire—
For Thetys and old Ocean now require
Some aid, estranged too long from love’s embrace,
Too long estranged from bed and married grace.
Persuade their hearts, return them to their vows,
Let peace and joy rekindle in their house.”
She spoke, and Aphrodite, bare of breast,
Undid the belt with every charm possessed.
This girdle bore the cunning of all maids,
All lures by which the heart of man it sways—
Delight, seduction, whispers soft and deep,
That steal the reason even as you sleep.
Then Aphrodite to the queen thus said:
“Take it, and wear it ‘neath thy bosom’s thread.
In this are all the arts of love concealed—
Whate’er thou seek’st shall surely be revealed.”
O golden Aphrodite, Kypris, queen of fire,
Who stirs the gods with sweet and fierce desire,
And rules o’er mortal hearts with soft delight,
By pleasures chained, beneath your golden might!
Both gods and men adore your crowned embrace,
Fair Cytherea, source of charm and grace.
Of all the blest, and all of mortal kind,
None from your spell has ever stayed the mind—
Save chaste Diana, ever pure and proud,
And Vesta with her virgins, veiled in cloud,
And wise Athena, warlike and austere,
Who walks untouched by love or passion’s tear.
At Kypris’ nod, the gentle god of flame,
Sweet Eros, to my breast in rapture came.
He warmed my heart and filled my soul with light,
He taught me bliss and bound me with delight.
He binds with cords both firm and lightly tied,
What once was fleeting, now with love is wide.
Had he not sought the maiden’s fragrant room,
Had not her heart, like petals, dared to bloom,
Then Kypris would have bathed her in her charm,
And made her willing with a whisper's arm.
Now Eros casts his melting glance again,
His lashes flick with captivating pain.
He hurls enchantments, snares me in his thread,
Where Kypris spins her net in golden thread.
I fear the reign of Eros’ thornéd rose—
Its rule begins with bliss and ends with throes!
Men bring their gifts to Kypris, crowned with gold,
And she returns them blessings manifold.
Yet in her gifts—sweet longing, fierce delight—
Lie burdens mortals bear with tearful might.
The love of Kypris, purple-robed and fair,
Leaves aching hearts to perish in despair.
Cyprus-born Aphrodite, weaver of schemes,
To you gave Zeus the power to craft men’s dreams.
You break the minds of wise men with a glance,
None stand against your radiant advance.
O maiden's bloom, in summer’s tender prime,
You tempt the hearts of men before their time.
For summer fruits cannot their blushes hide,
And Kypris sends their sweetness far and wide.
The passing men, consumed with lustful fire,
Send flaming arrows of unquenched desire
Toward lovely limbs and unresisting grace—
The virgin’s charm, the glowing, girlish face!
Aphrodite, goddess of the heated breath,
Once stirred the hearts of Lemnos unto death.
She matched the widows with the seafaring band,
To please Hephaestus, by her own command.
For Lemnos lacked the seed of manly flame,
And golden Kypris came to end its shame.
The isle was filled with song and dancing feet,
The scent of incense rising, rich and sweet.
To Her, and to Hephaestus, god of flame,
The people gave their thanks and praised their name.
Aphrodite, the laughing queen of light,
Brings forth the world each ever-yielding night.
She shapes the spheres in harmony’s embrace,
She grants all things their union and their place.
The marriage-bed is hers, and charm divine,
She pleases eyes, and makes the senses pine.
She mothers Love's own children, richly fed,
And feasts in joy where sweetest words are said.
A secret queen, and yet she shows her face,
She is the wellspring of the world’s embrace.
She is unseen, yet everywhere adored,
The birth-god’s hand, by mortals most implored.
She gives all life, and holds the gods’ high rod,
Binding the hearts of beasts and men and god.
With chains unseen she draws the soul to fire,
And all are ruled by love and mad desire.
Socrates spoke: "Let us inquire and name
What thoughts men had when gods first earned their fame.
For those who gave the gods their titles first
Were not the common folk who tilled the earth,
But men of thought, philosophers, and wise,
With speech that soared like fire into the skies."
Then Hermogenes replied: "But friend, I pray,
What of Dionysus, god of feast and play?
And Aphrodite, golden queen of fire,
Who rules the heart and governs love’s desire?"
Socrates said: "You ask of weighty things,
Of truths that wisdom through reflection brings.
These names, though wrapped in myth and fancy's gleam,
Conceal deep meanings, not a fleeting dream.
Take Aphrodite—what her name implies—
From aphros, foam, or seed from sea and skies."
"Many pursue, through pleasure’s sweet control,
The slave-bound joys that touch the body’s soul.
They name these pleasures ‘Aphrodisios’ fair—
Desires of flesh, of passion laid bare."
"Let us begin with her, whose name men sing,
Yet Hedoné, Lust, is her truer spring.
My skill in names of gods surpasses far
The reverence men show toward star or star.
I now shall call her by the name she loves—
Yet love has forms, like clouds the sky above."
"If we begin with Kypris, we must trace
What nature lies behind her shifting face.
For names are sound, yet through them truth may shine—
All forms of love in her are one divine."
"And tell me, brother Sophocles, once more,
Does Aphrodisios stir your strength of yore?
Know you a sharper thrill or stranger flame
Than love’s delight, that none dare truly name?"
"Behold, of madness there are kinds but four—
The prophet’s rage, the sage’s thoughtful lore,
The poet’s fire, inflamed by Muse’s breath,
And love’s own madness, driven on to death.
This last, erotic madness, is most blessed,
By Aphrodite and by Eros dressed.
It is the noblest madness ever known,
For love, once touched by gods, becomes their own."
"One name she bears, Melaina, dark of face—
For men and beasts make love in shadowed space.
Rare is the mating in the light of day,
But night conceals the form in which they play."
"Another name is Machanitis, wise—
The goddess of devices and disguise.
For speech and art and clever schemes are spun
To win the pleasures Aphrodite won."
"Harmonia, her daughter, gave her name
As Urania, pure of earthly flame,
To mark the love that rises high and free,
Beyond the bonds of mere carnality.
Pandemos too she named, for vulgar bliss,
Where flesh meets flesh in dark, impassioned kiss.
And Apostrophia, the name she bore
To turn mankind from sins they can't ignore—"
"For Harmonia saw with weeping eyes
How even Greeks committed lust and lies.
As tales recount—Adonis' mother dared
Incestuous deeds her father's house had shared.
And Phaedra, daughter of great Minos’ line,
Did woo her stepson with a glance divine.
And Tereus, Thrace’s king, with savage art
Defiled the wife that was his brother’s heart."
Kranai, the isle off Laconia's solemn shore,
Where Paris brought fair Helen, loved and more.
There on the strand, beside the murmuring tide,
He took the fairest Greek to be his bride.
And hence upon the mainland opposite,
A shrine to Migonitis stands, moon-lit —
The temple of the goddess of delight,
Who rules the bed and governs love by night.
Apollonius, that heathen sage of fame,
Asked Timasion, pupil of his name:
"Do you give offerings to Love's queen divine?"
And he replied, "By Zeus, her rites are mine!
Each day I sacrifice to Aphrodite,
For she is golden, gracious, and almighty.
Not only men she sways, but gods above,
And all things fall beneath the power of love."
The night, the guitar, and bright Venus delight me!
Rescue me, Goddess, by thy sacred might,
O Venus, ever present in thy light.
This is my prayer: let none be loved by thee
Who dares reject thy flame or mock thy plea.
More than Juno — O Hercules! — thy bane
Was Venus, queen of joy and sacred pain.
She crushed thee low, then raised thee up again,
While Juno scorched thy soul in lustful flame.
Around the bed of Aphrodite's grace,
Where golden pillows mark love's dwelling-place,
A swarm of Erotes hover in the air,
With blazing torches and with shining hair.
She sends them forth to set the hearts afire,
To kindle gods and mortals with desire.
She bids them rage by land and on the sea,
To shake the thrones and vex the will of Zeus's decree.
This is the penitence of love’s desire,
That raised a god from mortal, burning fire.
And passion, to be freer and more wild,
Was cloaked in worship, deified and styled.
Erycina, from Mount Eryx descended,
Has by her son the world in love befriended.
Through air he flies with weapons light and cruel,
A boyish god who bends the heart to rule.
Those tangled souls by fantasy deceived
In Venus' name a childish bow believed.
But Cupid topples stubborn hearts with glee,
And hatred turns to love — a mystery.
Behold the Amazons, fierce maids of war,
Who felt the yoke of Love and fought no more.
Theseus, deceived by lies, believed his son
Had dared what chaste Hippolytus had shunned.
He cried: "This madness haunts the female race,
Those Amazonian queens who love disgrace,
Who scorn the laws of Venus and defile
Their former purity with acts most vile.
A race that knows no rule, no gentle land,
Unlawful love they take with bloody hand!
Even beasts avoid such incest born of lust,
And nature guards love’s sacred, sacred trust."
You, Isis of the Nile, are Venus too,
When first you shaped the world and made it new.
From you came Love, from you came mortal birth,
The male and female populating Earth.
You’re honored in Paphos where waters sing,
Yet other times as Proserpine you bring
Your terror through the triple-formed disguise,
To block the demons from the upper skies.
You walk through groves, through holy rites and flame,
And every altar trembles at your name.
Thus Harmonia, daughter of the Queen of Charms,
With Aphrodite’s belt and loving arms,
Brought forth desire, where passion gently grows—
From sacred womb, the line of gods arose.
But Nemesis, the voice of judgment stern,
Displayed the corpse, too brutal to unlearn—
The nymph had slain the boy, and with deceit,
She charged that Eros wrought the foul defeat.
Then Pan and Phoebus cried with shrieking breath:
“A curse upon the flute! A god meets death!
Where now is Nemesis, her rightful rage?
Where Kypris? Vengeance! Let the god engage!”
The Aphrodisiac—divine delight—
Is crafted by the goddess clothed in light.
To men of lust it's given, those who dare
To taste of love and seek its carnal snare.
No oath once sworn in passion holds its weight—
Such lies are kissed and claimed by fickle fate.
Who then is Anorgias? He’s unknown
To rites where Aphrodite sets her throne.
He walks unblessed by mysteries of the fire—
A stranger yet to consummated desire.
He knows not sacred union’s final seal,
Nor has he dared the pleasures that we feel.
The wheat once boiled—aphrodisiac grain—
To Aphrodite’s temple is not vain.
For all that stirs the seed of life is fed
By rites where love and longing both are wed.
Who is Kythereia? She who bears
Divine love hidden deep in sacred lairs.
Through her enchanted girdle flows command—
She rules all hearts with one all-powerful hand.
And Kypris? She, the pregnant goddess, hides
Love’s secrets in her womb where fate abides.
Kythere, too, the same in veiled attire—
Each name a mask for Aphrodite’s fire.
With Hera, Queen of Heav’n, and Zeus the high,
With Eileithyia near and Hymen nigh,
Stands Aphrodite where the rites commence,
The goddess of love’s sacred permanence.
She brings fertility and blesses wives—
The fruit of union springs to fuller lives.
She guides the wedding feast and decked with grace,
She readies bed and room, prepares the place.
She brings the bride, adorned in floral thread,
And leads her gently to the nuptial bed.
Upon her chariot, drawn by Graces fair,
She joins the dance with Erotes in air—
Their wings she gilds, their hyacinthine hair
She braids with joy and scents the evening air.
The torchlight flickers in celestial skies,
As naked gods lead forth love’s sweet surprise.
But should a bridegroom fall by spouse's hand,
And Erinyes fail to take a stand,
They shame the vows that Hera did ordain,
And Zeus’s laws lie broken in disdain.
Then Aphrodite is dethroned by might—
Her temples empty, silenced is her rite.
Yet still from her the fated bride is sent,
For whom the stars declare their firmament.
True marriage, sealed beyond the reach of lies,
Is guarded still where Justice never dies.
Let every bride the blade of wrath reclaim
And dye it crimson in her lover’s name.
So may the goddess of the holy bed
Strike down my foes, and crown my vengeance red.
May chaste Artemis with compassion gaze
On holy maidens in their sacred phase,
And may no marriage ever be by force—
Let Cypris stay that cruel, loveless course.
Yet in my hymn of joy to gods above,
There is no scorn for Aphrodite's love.
She rules with Hera, consort of the high,
And marriage rites are sacred in her eye.
With reverence, we honor Love’s domain—
Fair Aphrodite, mistress of love’s reign.
With her attend Desire and sweet Persuasion,
And Harmony, Love’s daughter, in her station,
Brings unity through bonds that softly tie,
While Erotes breathe their whispers, drifting by.
Aphrodite alone is goddess bright,
Of sacred marriage, union's gentle light.
Maiden Athena and bold Ares lead
In war, where valor is the noblest deed;
But Artemis attends the birthing pain
Of women, while Love's goddess does maintain
All duties that to marriage are assigned—
With grace, she guides both heart and legal bind.
Among the Hermionians, her due
Includes the rites where maidens pure and true,
And widows lone, are joined by custom old—
A sacred bond by Aphrodite told.
In Sparta too, the mother gives a prayer
To Love’s great queen, when wedded is her heir.
There stands a statue, bound at foot with chain,
By Tyndareus, king of wide domain.
The fetters, wrought by myth and meaning dense,
Symbolic are of faithful permanence.
In Temnos, Elis, still another shrine,
Where Pelops prayed with hope that she’d incline—
The goddess of the wedding to appease—
And won Hippodameia’s heart with ease.
In Naupaktos, a cave holds altar fair,
Where widows plead to Love with earnest prayer—
To bless again their lives with married grace,
And light new love upon each tear-stained face.
With Venus, Juno, and Hymen divine,
The sacred rite was blessed in triple sign.
Their union hallowed, love made sanctified,
When Iphis won Iante as his bride.
As bride and groom were joined in sacred vow,
The gods themselves looked on with gentle brow.
Let me now sing a song of bridal cheer,
An epithalamion, strong and clear:
May all the gods who rule both sky and sea
Attend with favor this festivity!
Let thunderous Jove and Juno’s heavenly might
Be honored with a bull of gleaming white;
And Aphrodite, unyoked and divine,
Receive a heifer chaste at sacred shrine.
Let Mars, with blood-stained hand, be kept at bay—
Let Aphrodite turn his wrath away.
May peace flow down from her abundant horn,
And bless the earth where future love is born.
To her, the mild and gentle, we impart
A tender offering from each grateful heart.
Now Hymen holds the torches of the right,
And turns to joy the long and shadowed night.
Come, drink the wine that stirs the pulse and heat,
And dance with reeling limbs and garlanded feet!
O Evening Star, fair herald of delight,
Who brings to brides the long-desired night,
Too slow thy pace for those in longing caught—
Thy beams are by expectant lovers sought.
Aphrodite is queen of bridal rest,
Who crowns the nuptial bower with joy and jest.
She, with her cupids naked, swift, and fair,
Adorned the bed with most exquisite care.
She hung gold apples in the bridal room—
Love’s gift, love’s fruit, with ever-sweet perfume.
To Eros then the goddess softly said:
“Honor the dove, my bird of bridal bed—
The herald of a marriage blessed and true,
A life of hearts united ever new.”
Kallirhoe in love, to Kythera dear,
In riches matched, yet held her passions near.
Aphrodite and Chrysaor, stone of heart,
Together played the goddess’ secret part.
Fair Circe bore Telegonos the bright,
By golden Aphrodite’s holy might.
Gaia, great Earth, gave birth to Typhon wild,
Of Tartarus’ dark seed she bore the child,
With help divine from Aphrodite’s hand,
The golden queen of sea and fertile land.
Polycaste’s heart for young Telemach burned,
By Aphrodite’s will, her love was turned.
All night the man beside the maiden lay,
Enjoying gifts the goddess gave that day.
O Aphrodite, mother of desire,
Of naked Erotes and hearts on fire!
You are the source from whom all life expands,
In stars above, and deep in mortal lands.
You pilot man through love’s tempestuous wave,
And stir the heart from cradle to the grave.
Genetylis, the demon of the womb,
By Aphrodite’s side escapes the tomb.
His name from genesis itself is drawn,
From mothers’ wombs where new-made life is born.
O golden Aphrodite, Cyprus' queen,
Whose passions stir both gods and things unseen—
The mortals, birds that rise on airy wings,
And beasts that roam, all love your sacred stings.
The sea teems too with life that seeks your flame,
Wreathed with rich crowns, all bless Kythera’s name.
To Ida’s famed and fertile peak she came,
Where beasts of Earth still bear the primal flame.
Behind her prowled the wolves, the sheep’s fell bane,
And lions fierce with eyes like burning pain.
The leopards swift, the roaring bears were there,
The leopards longed for hinds beyond compare.
Aphrodite smiled to see them all in play,
Desire she hid within her breast that day.
In pairs they roamed the shadowed, wooded slopes,
Each couple driven by love’s sacred hopes.
Great Uranus, from heaven’s lofty dome,
Longed Gaia, Earth, to pierce and bring love home.
And Earth in turn was filled with fond desire
To wed the sky and kindle sacred fire.
The rain fell down in love from Heaven’s height,
And Earth conceived beneath his silv’ry light.
Thus humankind received its daily bread—
The meat and grain Demeter's bounty spread.
From that divine and wet, nuptial rite,
The woods arose in majesty and might.
And I, the goddess of this blessed strife,
Am cause of all—of birth, of growth, of life.
O Aphrodite, harmony is thine,
All things are drawn beneath thy force divine.
Thy power unites the heavens’ gleaming sphere,
All life obeys, and trembles when you’re near.
Each bird that sings beneath the vaulted blue,
Each beast that roams, each fruit the meadows strew—
All things that move in sea, or walk the land,
Confess thy reign and bow to thy command!
Eros, thou keeper of the keys on high,
Of earth and sea and all the air and sky,
Of birds that soar and fish in oceans wide,
And beasts that roam where fertile lands abide—
Through Aphrodite, goddess all-embraced,
By whom life’s bloom or death’s decree is placed,
The realms of Nature yield to her command,
She rules all life with her creative hand.
The hare, they say, is blessed with her gold grace,
Fertility profound in time and space.
The female suckles young with milk still warm,
While in her womb stirs yet another swarm.
No time is found her burdened womb to rest,
For ever new, her womb remains possessed.
O Aphrodite! Mother of Love’s flame!
Seed-giver of the stars without a name!
Root of all life, and being’s primal fire,
Midwife of hope, and fate’s sublime desire!
Even the Fates, who twist the threads of men,
Are bound to bow beneath thy sovereign pen.
Ye courtesans and temple-girls of fame,
In Corinth rich, who praised sweet Peitho's name,
Who to the goddess burnt your tears in fire,
And offered incense rising from desire—
The temple shone in Corinth’s sacred land,
Where thousand priestesses obeyed command
Of Venus, goddess of the flesh and soul,
To whom both men and women gave their whole.
So many men the holy city drew,
For sacred harlots served the goddess true.
And foreign guests arrived from far and near
To taste the joy and worship offered here.
The shameless Propoetides of Kypros dared
To scorn the goddess, leave her praise unshared.
In wrath, the goddess cursed their haughty pride—
Thus first they sold themselves, and virtue died.
So Anchises once to the goddess cried:
"By Zeus who bears the aegis, heaven’s guide,
Have mercy—let me not be lame with shame,
Or walk a broken man without a name.
For who has lain with thee, O queen above,
No more remains a man in mortal love."
But lo! The Scythians, vile and rashly bold,
Plundered the temple, spurning rites of old.
The sons of Scythia, so the legend said,
Were cursed to lose their manhood in their stead.
The wrathful goddess changed their sex with blight—
Now hermaphrodites walk in open sight.
And all who cross into that distant land
Shall see the mark of Venus’ chastening hand.
Callimachus, the learned, once revealed
That Venus hid Adonis in a field—
In beds of lettuce, pale and damp with shade,
The dying god in leaf and root was laid.
For poets say that lettuce saps the seed,
And dulls the lust from which all life proceeds.
So Eubulus declared: “O wife, beware!
Serve not that leaf upon the plate I bear!
For Venus laid Adonis there to sleep—
And lettuce is the bed where passions weep.”
And golden Aphrodite poured her grace
On Pandora’s head, and longing took its place—
A cruel, burning lust and deep dismay,
That tires the body, wears the soul away.
O Briseis, fair as golden Venus' light!
O Cassandra, like the goddess robed in white!
Mother Helen bore Hermione, whose face
Matched golden Love’s in beauty and in grace!
And Penelope, from chambers deep within,
Came forth, as fair as goddesses had been—
A maiden goddess or Love’s queenly form,
With beauty’s blush and heart’s enchantment warm.
Alcmene’s eyes, so dark, with magic shone,
Like Aphrodite’s own, in beauty known.
Antiphanes once said: “Good taste is there—
With wine from Thasos, meats, and balms most rare.
For where there's richness, Kypris makes her stay,
But flees from stingy souls and turns away.”
Panyasis, bard of epic song and fire,
Raised first libation to the Graces' choir,
And Dionysus too—Love’s own ally—
They join in joy and lift their cups on high.
The next he gave to Hybris and to Ate,
Who follow wine with madness swift and haughty.
The drops first touched the Graces' gentle skin,
Then Horae, laughing, and the god within—
Loud Bacchus, who incites the heart to drink,
To rise with joy and fall with thoughtless blink.
These gods inspire me—cheerful, drunk with song—
In red wine’s arms, our mortal limbs grow strong.
If man returns from feasts with soul at peace,
No harm shall find him, joy shall never cease.
Apollo, bright, stands with the sacred choir,
The Muses sing, and young loves stir desire.
Among them all, fair Aphrodite reigns—
She presides o’er their verse and soft refrains.
Hermes began the Pythian games of old,
Yet Aphrodite too, in contest bold,
Won once a lyre, by skill and fortune kissed—
She gave it then to Paris, love’s hedonist.
O Ares, undefeated in your might,
Who dances wild in war’s destructive night!
You birthed fierce games, and bitter feuds inflamed,
Where pain and vengeance in men’s hearts are named.
But Kypris dear, and Bacchus, we prefer—
Their works bring love and wine, not blood and spur.
They trade the toil of fields for kisses deep,
For peace that lets the wearied farmer sleep.
By gentle arts, Aphrodite makes war cease—
Her gifts are love, goodwill, and blooming peace.
We are your own, O goddess of the dove!
Your hands restrain war’s wrath with works of love.
You stay the blade, bring peace where wrath once reigned—
A cornucopia from your hand is gained.
The Theban women, claiming ancient line,
Called upon Diana, bright, divine.
As hostile armies neared the city gate,
They cried, “O gods, arise! Resist our fate!
Raise up your cry above our rampart wall,
And cast this storming evil into thrall!
O do not falter—guard proud Thebes once more,
O Aphrodite, show your face in war!
Defend the house of Cadmus, make it known
That from your seed we sprang—your blood we own.
To you we cry, our goddess from the sea,
With shell-shaped ears adorned in jewelry.
O mighty gods, O every god and dame,
Who guard our towers in the city’s name,
Forsake us not as foreign tongues invade—
Let not our homeland fall to foreign blade!
O Aphrodite, hear as is your right—
We raise our arms in prayer and sacred rite.
Receive the maiden’s voice, O Kypris dear,
With lifted hands we cry—divine one, hear!
Now five bright stars remain for us to name,
The wanderers, as many call the same.
But Greeks have called them “planeta” from old,
Among them Venus, gleaming bright and bold.
She is the fourth; by “Lucifer” she's known,
The morning’s torch, before the day has shone.
Some call her Juno’s light when day is done,
As Hesperus she sets with sinking sun.
She seems the fairest star in heaven’s dome,
Surpassing others in celestial home.
Some say she is Aurora’s radiant son,
Whose beauty many other lights outrun.
As Venus is she seen at break of day,
And when the dusk arrives, she leads the way—
Now Lucifer, now Hesperus she's called,
Her brilliance by the heavens unappalled.
Euhemerus believed she gave the lore
Of stars to Hermes, guiding him before.
The third is Mars, the planet bold and red,
The star of Ares, warrior of dread.
Yet some say Hercules this orb does bear,
Though Sappho, scorched by Aphrodite’s glare,
Called it the Fiery One, in passion’s flame,
Inflamed by love and burning with her name.
Of seven planets, Venus is the fourth,
To whom we lift our hymns from south to north.
Hail, Astarte! Aphrodite's Grecian name,
Who shares the planet’s beauty and its fame.
They say Phosphoros is the light you ride,
Astarte’s star, in morning glorified.
They galloped through the Asian lands apace,
Unto the realm of Aphrodite’s grace—
A land of wheat, where golden fields abound:
Fair Syria, Astarte’s sacred ground.
All hail Urania! Goddess of the skies!
The Assyrians first gave thee sacrifice.
Then Cyprus praised thee with a pious flame,
And Phoenicians on Askalon did name
Thee queen, and taught the isle of Kythera
To bless thy rites, and call thee Kytherea.
When Scythian hordes, in thirst and wild array,
Stormed Askalon upon their warlike way,
Most passed in peace, but some with greedy hand
Defiled the shrine within that Syrian land.
Aphrodite Urania’s temple stood
The oldest known, in marble, stone, and wood.
For Cyprus’ house was built in later years,
As Cypriots themselves, with pride, appears.
And Kythera’s shrine—though praised in every tone—
Was built by men from Syria’s Phoenician zone.
But those who stole and ravaged in their greed,
And their descendants, suffered for the deed:
A curse of woman’s weakness, deep disgrace—
So sings the poet of the Scythian race.
Yet noble Antigonus, proud general,
Of Alexander’s host imperial,
Did celebrate the rites of Aphrodite,
The Astarte adored by folk in mighty
Syria, where Euphrates’ waters gleam,
And myths arise as waking from a dream.
A mighty egg fell in Euphrates’ flow,
A fish rolled it ashore in currents slow.
A dove then brooded, till the heat did rise,
And from the shell emerged with shining eyes
Fair Astarte, clothed in dawn’s soft hue—
A vision born of myth, yet ever true.
A form of Aphrodite Greece received,
And Rome as well, in whom they still believed.
From Cyprus came she, and from Syria’s shore,
Where Astarte’s light they would for ever adore.
And she took Adonis for her chosen one,
Beneath the rising and the setting sun.
This Astarte, whom Greeks Aphrodite name,
From Venus took her planetary fame.
For she, the Morning Star, doth rise in grace,
The sign of Astarte, queen of starry space.
And Persians later learned, through stranger lands,
To offer gifts with consecrated hands—
To Uranian Aphrodite, goddess high,
A rite they drew from Arabs, by and by.
Assyrians Mylitta called this queen divine,
While Allath was her name in Arab shrine;
And Mithra, in the Persian tongue, they say,
Still bears her name to this exalted day.
But Babylon hath known a vile, dark rite,
That stains her temples and defies the light:
For every woman there must once descend
To Aphrodite's shrine, herself to lend—
To lie as harlot in the sacred place,
To sell her body to a stranger's grace.
She may not homeward turn, nor leave the bed,
Till coin is cast upon her lap and said:
“I call thee now, in Mylitta’s sacred name,”
Then takes her there, without regret or shame.
The Arabs trust no god but those above—
Dionysus and the sky-born queen of love.
They call the first Orotalt, bringer of mirth,
The second Allath, goddess of sky and earth.
On Prosopitis' isle are cities found,
And boats arrive to sweep the oxen’s ground.
At Atarbekis stands the sacred hall,
Where Hathor, Egypt’s Venus, rules o’er all.
The Scythians serve no gods save she on high,
Uranian Aphrodite of the sky.
Yet by their name, Argimpasa she’s known,
The queen of love whose grace the North has shown.
And her own priests, half-man, half-maid they seem,
Declare she taught them every sacred dream:
To prophesy in verses, god-inspired,
By her celestial breath and will acquired.
The Roman Venus, too, by name adored,
Was honored as the goddess love restored.
From venire, “to come,” they drew her fame,
Yet venustas, “pure beauty,” formed her name.
Thus, Muse, you whispered me this hallowed song,
Now I shall feast, and rest the whole night long—
To her, the goddess, offer meat and wine,
And toast Urania in a draught divine!
Paris to Helen in the war once cried:
“No thrill like this has ever touched my pride!
Not when I saw you first and made you mine,
And drew you to me over sea and brine,
When first I took you on that fateful day
To Kranai’s isle, where love had full its way!
No—now the fire consumes me more than then,
Though I have known you deep in love again.”
But Helen turned and answered Kypris thus:
“Strange goddess, why compel this shame on us?
Why make me burn for Paris once again?
Will you drag me through yet another plain—
To Phrygia, or to some distant shore,
Where mortals live whom you would have me adore?
Is there another man whom you would bless,
Another snare to cast in loveliness?”
Diomedes then to Kypris turned and spoke:
“Is it not enough that hearts you break and choke?
Did you not lead fair Helen far away,
When she with Paris fled that fateful day?”
Pallas to Zeus, in jesting, raised her voice:
“Does Kypris now again make war her choice?
Shall she seduce another Grecian wife,
As Helen was once lured from noble life—
To chase illusions clothed in beauty’s guise,
And drape her shame in Achaean disguise?”
My longing now is only this: to flee,
To sail for home across the bitter sea.
Too late I weep for blindness of the heart,
That Kypris wrought with her deceitful art.
She led me far from homeland’s gentle shore,
To leave my child, my bridal bed, and more—
My lawful spouse, whose soul was pure and bright,
Whose form was shaped in unspoiled, godlike light.
Then Zeus with Themis set the war in plan,
The strife of gods made ruinous to man.
Eris arrived, the goddess born of spite,
While gods rejoiced in Peleus' wedding night.
A quarrel rose—three goddesses contend,
On beauty’s claim they seek the bitter end:
Great Hera, wise Athena, Aphrodite,
Each claiming she was fairest of the three.
By Kronos’ son, the task to judge was laid
On shepherd Paris, who with sheep delayed
On Ida’s slopes. The god Hermes led
The three high queens to where his flocks were spread.
Aphrodite, with promise bold and sly,
Offered him Helen as a bribe to buy
The golden prize of beauty’s high acclaim—
And Paris gave to her the victor’s name.
Then Paris built his ships by Cypris' word,
While Helenus the future’s signs observed.
With Aeneas, Kypris bade him take the sea,
And thus they sailed with fated destiny.
They came to Lacedæmon’s tranquil land,
Were welcomed by Tyndareus’ noble band,
And Menelaus, Sparta’s mighty king,
Who held for Paris hospitality’s ring.
At banquet Paris offered gifts of gold
To Helen, fairest mortal ever told.
When Menelaus left for sacred Crete,
He charged his queen to make the guests replete.
But Kypris in that moment wove desire,
And Helen burned with Aphrodite’s fire.
So joined in lust, they plundered house and hall,
And fled together in the twilight's thrall.
But Hera raised a storm upon the seas,
That hurled them far with ever-wailing breeze.
To Sidon first they came, which Paris sacked,
Then on to Troy, where joy no pleasures lacked.
There Paris wed the bride he stole by night,
And all rejoiced in Helen's radiant light.
But Greece rose up, enraged by such disgrace,
And sailed to Troy with vengeance in their face.
Ambassadors they sent, with peaceful plea:
"Return fair Helen, set the treasure free!"
But Troy refused, and thus began the war,
That ravaged lands and cities evermore.
Then brave Achilles longed with mortal eyes
To see if Helen matched her fabled guise.
So Thetis and fair Kypris made a plan,
To bring them both together, maid and man.
On Kranai’s isle near Sparta’s sacred shore,
The poets say he claimed her body’s lore.
There first he knew her flesh with sweet delight,
Beneath the veil of Aphrodite’s night.
Across the sea, a temple he did raise
To Migonitis—blessèd in her praise.
By Kypris’ will, brave Alexander came,
And from his host he stole the Spartan dame.
He brought her forth from Menelaus' land,
And led her home with gentle, conquering hand.
Then Helen mourned: “By Phrygian oars I’m torn,
From all I knew, left powerless and forlorn.
I was the prize of Paris, love’s reward—
Yet still a victim, ravaged, not adored.
For Aphrodite, triumphing in flame,
Has made me both his pleasure and his shame.”
Aphrodite gave Andromache fine dress,
A golden crown to grace her loveliness,
A diadem, a veil of silken thread,
A pearl-bound necklace for her stately head,
And the enchanting girdle of desire,
The day that Hector, helmet all afire,
Led her from Aetion’s hall with wedding cheer,
Bearing rich gifts to win her heart sincere.
Then virgin Pallas said: And now the god
Of war, fierce Ares, with his brazen rod—
That wicked one, that double-tonguèd knave,
Who once to Hera and to me he gave
His solemn word he’d strike proud Ilium down,
And fight for Greece, for glory and renown—
Has now forgot the oaths he swore that day,
And fights with Troy’s high lords in bright array.
To Zeus then Hera speaks: O father high,
Art thou not wroth to see with watching eye
The war-god Ares, mad with lust for strife,
Cut down the Greeks, the best of noble life?
He kills with rage, not for a noble cause,
But spurning all thy justice and thy laws.
Meanwhile Aphrodite and Apollo play,
And free him from his bonds to slay and slay—
Though madness stirs him, though his heart is flame,
They joy in wrath and never blush for shame.
Then Hector saw prince Paris and he said:
“Will you not rise and fight, or bow your head?
Will you not face the man whose wife you stole,
And test your mettle, stake your warrior soul?
You’ll learn, proud thief, what soldier’s might can be,
When you have robbed him of his bride’s sweet glee.
No harp of Cypris, no delightful hair,
Shall save you when you bite the dust laid bare.
Not all your charm, your form of youthful grace,
Will help you then in that accursèd place!”
Then Greeks and Trojans swore the oath divine:
“If Paris strikes and Menelaus does pine,
Let him keep Helen with her golden hoard,
While we, the Greeks, retreat with shield and sword.
But if the blond-haired king shall lay him low,
Then Troy shall yield fair Helen, end her woe,
And all her treasures with due tribute send,
Atoning to the Greeks this grievous end.”
Menelaus and Paris fought with dreadful might,
Engaged in single combat, war’s grim rite.
First Paris hurled his spear with deadly aim,
It glanced off Menelaus’ shield in vain.
Then came the bronze-tipped lance of Sparta’s king,
It pierced the shield, the breastplate, everything—
Yet failed to wound. He drew his sword to kill,
But struck the helm, the blade broke on the steel.
Then Menelaus leapt with wrathful force,
Seized Paris' helm and dragged him in his course—
Toward the grieving Greeks, while leather bound
Choked Paris’ neck, the strap pulled round and round.
And now he would have won eternal fame,
Had Aphrodite not with swiftness came—
She snapped the oxhide strap with godlike power,
And tore the helm from him that fatal hour.
It fell into Atrides' hand, who cast
It whirling through the lines of Greeks so vast.
His comrades took it, while he turned to slay
The coward prince who slipped from battle’s fray.
But she, the goddess, wrapped him in thick mist,
And brought him to his fragrant bed, sun-kissed.
To Helen then she flew with flatt’ring word,
Upon Troy’s tower, where war’s cries she heard.
She touched her robe, disguised in aged grace,
A weaver bent, from Sparta's noble place.
She said: “Come, Helen! Paris calls you near!
He waits within his chamber—do not fear!
He lies upon his couch with scents and gold,
So fair, you'd think he never had been bold.
Not from a duel comes he—no, but dance!
He rests in glory, bathed in love’s romance.”
So spoke the goddess, soft her words and sweet,
Yet stirred resistance in fair Helen’s heat.
She knew the goddess by her radiant eyes,
And breasts that glowed with light of heavenly skies.
She spoke in anger, calling her by name:
“O strange immortal! Must you play this game?
Will you now drag me off to distant lands,
Where mortal lovers wait your soft commands?
Is this because my husband struck your knight,
And now you wish to steal me from his might?
Go! Sit beside him! Share his mortal fate!
No more Olympus, let love be your state.
Stay with him, serve him as his loving slave,
And weep for him, and follow to the grave!
But I shall not obey, nor join his bed—
The Trojan dames would mock what shame I wed!
My heart is full of sorrow, wrath, and shame,
No longer do I burn with passion's flame!”
Then Aphrodite’s eyes grew cold and fierce:
“O wretched girl! My patience you would pierce?
Take care, for I can turn to bitter hate,
And cast you into grief and cursed fate.
Between both camps you’ll suffer, loved by none,
Until your ruin’s full, your joy undone.”
So spoke the goddess. Helen bowed her head,
Afraid, and followed, silent as the dead.
Veiled in her shining robe, unseen by all,
She passed, as shadows move without a call.
To Paris’ house, the splendid crafted hall,
Where maids still worked despite the city's fall.
And she, the fairest of all mortal race,
Went to the lofty room with weary grace.
Aphrodite, lover of the laugh divine,
Prepared a seat and placed her there in line—
Before her lover, Paris, gold and fair.
But Helen turned her eyes with cold despair:
“So you return? Why not lie dead instead?
Why not fall to my first and lawful wed?
You claimed with pride to match him spear to spear—
Yet he prevails, and you still cower here.
Go, challenge him again if you are brave—
Or flee, and let your beauty be your grave!”
But Paris answered with a gentle tone:
“Blame not my heart—this day I stood alone.
Athena helped him; next time I shall rise.
We too have gods who favor Trojan skies.
But now, come lie with me, let love renew—
A fire burns within me, deep and true!
Not when I took you from your Spartan shore
Did passion strike me like it does now—more!
On Kranae’s isle, I thought you fair and fine—
But never burned as now with love divine!”
He spoke and led her to the bridal bed,
And Helen followed, where desire led.
Meanwhile, the lion-hearted Greek still sought
To find if Paris lived or if he fought.
But high above, the gods on golden seat
Looked down on Troy, its fall, its slow defeat.
Then Zeus, with jesting words, provoked his queen—
For Hera and Athena both were seen
To favor Menelaus, brave and bold,
And longed to see proud Ilion controlled.
He teased them as they watched the battle rage,
While Aphrodite, laughter’s sweetest sage,
Stayed close to Paris, shielding him from fate,
Her love divine defied both death and hate.
I do recall your words, O child of might,
When first you barred me from immortal fight.
You bade me spare the gods, let none be slain—
Save Cytherea, born of Zeus’s reign.
Then, armed with bronze, I sought the goddess fair,
To pierce her flesh and rend her in the air.
Thus now I yield, though Ares joins the field,
To him, the war-god, even I must yield.
But Ares climbed Olympus, pierced with pain,
And cried to Zeus, in fury and disdain:
"O Father, hear! That Tydeus' reckless son,
Diomedes, dares deeds no mortal’s done.
’Twas Athene who stirred his heart to wrong,
To fight the gods, though we are high and strong!
He struck fair Cypris first, with brazen spear,
Then turned on me as if I had no peer!"
When Paris met with Menelaus' blade,
And by his golden rival was dismayed,
Then Aphrodite, with a loving hand,
Drew him from danger to a safer land.
Though they had faced in valiant war’s parade,
‘Twas Venus’ might that stilled the victor’s blade.
But Pallas, with her eyes of azure flame,
Drew near to Diomedes, called his name:
“Take heart, and fight, O Tydeus’ mighty son,
For I have made thy breast with courage run.
I’ve cleared the mist that clouded mortal eyes,
So now the gods thou clearly canst apprise.
Yet heed this charge, O warrior bold and wise:
Avoid the rest, lest ruin swift arise—
Save only Cytherea, Zeus’s seed;
Against her hand alone pursue thy deed.”
Then Aeneas, with his towering shield in hand,
Leapt down to fight, to make his final stand—
He came to guard the corpse, his comrade slain,
But Diomed bore down with proud disdain.
He seized a stone, so vast in weight and size
As two strong men could scarce before it rise.
Yet in his rage he hurled it through the air,
And struck the hero on the socket there—
Where hip and thigh by jointed sinews meet,
He crushed the bone and dashed him from his feet.
The tendons snapped, the rugged flesh was torn,
A tide of pain the Trojan lord had borne.
Down to one knee he fell, and gripped the field,
While blackest night his fading sight did yield.
There had he died, though peerless in his pride,
Had not his mother, goddess-born, espied.
For Aphrodite, daughter of the skies,
Beheld her son with ever-loving eyes.
From him she flung her robe with tender care,
And wrapped his limbs in folds of silken air.
Her arms, like moonlight, round his form she threw,
And shielded him from every spear that flew.
She feared a Greek might pierce his mortal side,
And snatch away the life the Fates provide.
Yet Diomedes, fierce with god-like flame,
Pursued the goddess void of warlike fame.
For well he knew, though fair her heavenly face,
In battle she could hold no warrior’s place.
Not like Athene, firm in war’s parade,
Nor Enyo, where spears and blood invade—
But soft and vain, with mortal-loving wile,
No match for bronze, nor born to face the vile.
He chased her through the crowd without delay,
And thrust his spear to tear her hand away.
Through robe divine the cruel weapon pressed,
Woven by Graces, on her palm it rest.
Bright ichor flowed from out the wounded part,
The lifeblood of the gods, not made for heart.
For they drink not the wine of mortal breath,
And share no food that walks the path to death.
She shrieked in pain, and let her dear one fall,
But Phoebus caught him in a misty pall.
For fear a hasty Greek might end his thread,
And spill his soul among the noble dead.
Then Diomed with scornful voice did cry:
"Depart, O daughter of the gods on high!
Why come to war, who works in softer arts?
Shall love and battle pierce the same sweet hearts?
Is it not enough to lead weak maids astray,
That now you bleed for men in war’s array?
Yet if you long for war, return once more—
And hear the clash of bronze, and blood, and roar!"
So said the Greek. The goddess fled in pain,
Her beauty marred by war’s unholy stain.
Then Iris, swift as wind with golden wing,
Did lift her hand and guide her from the ring.
Her ivory skin with crimson gore was wet,
Her limbs still trembling, and her pride beset.
Beyond the field, to Ares’ seat she flew,
Where in the mist he sat with battle’s crew.
She knelt and begged, in tears and sore dismay,
For him to lend his steeds and speed her way.
Much-loved brother, save me now, I pray!
Lend me your steeds to speed me on my way,
That I may reach Olympus’ lofty height,
Where deathless gods abide in halls of light.
Alas! The spear of Tydeus' son did tear
My flesh—his hand would even Zeus not spare!
So spoke she, and her brother gave the rein,
His well-bred steeds to ease her mortal pain.
Still full of grief, within her aching heart,
She climbed the car, prepared again to start.
Beside her Iris took the reins and lashed
The racing horses as the heavens flashed.
At last they reached the sacred, shining dome,
Olympus, seat of every deathless home.
Then Iris, swift of foot, with breathless grace,
Slipped from the yoke and halted them in place.
She fed the steeds immortal fodder sweet,
While Aphrodite fell before the feet
Of Dione, her mother, bent with pain,
And grasped her hands to ease the burning strain.
With gentle voice, her mother thus did say:
"Who hurt you so, my child, and made you stray?
What god or man could strike such cruel a blow,
As if you sowed the seeds of mortal woe?"
Then Aphrodite, goddess of delight,
Replied with sorrow at her wounded plight:
"’Twas Diomed, proud Tydeus’ noble son,
Who saw me bear my own beloved one—
Aeneas, whom my heart above all cheers,
My dearest love among all mortals here.
No longer war of Greeks and Trojans burns,
But now the fight 'gainst gods and heaven turns!"
Then Dione, fairest of the heavenly host,
In mother’s voice, began to calm her most:
"Bear up, my child, and let thy grief be stilled,
Though mortal pain thy heavenly flesh has filled.
For many gods have borne mankind’s cruel hand,
And suffered wounds we scarce could understand.
It was Athena, grey-eyed virgin bright,
Who stirred the youth to rise against your might.
That foolish son of Tydeus cannot see
How short the life of men who fight with me.
No sons shall greet him when he seeks his door,
Returning from the bitter strife of war.
Let him beware, though strong in heart and name,
Lest others fall with him and share his shame.
For else shall fair Aegialëa weep,
Adrastus’ daughter, in her chamber deep—
His faithful wife, his soul’s most tender mate,
Joined in strong bond and tied by bridal fate."
She spoke, and with her hands the ichor dried,
The heavenly blood that from the wound did slide.
She soothed the pain and healed the swelling scar,
And eased her daughter from the woes of war.
Yet Hera and Athena, filled with spite,
Beheld her grief and mocked her wounded plight.
Then spoke Athena with sarcastic air:
"O Zeus, high father, may I freely share?
This Kypris must have sought the Trojan halls,
To steal fair robes from Argive palace walls,
And while she grasped the golden spear in play,
She pricked her hand and cast her joy away!"
She ended, and the father of the skies
Smiled gently, with indulgence in his eyes:
"No, child of mine, not thine the warlike deed—
Attend to love, the marriage bed, thy creed.
Leave Ares and Athena to the field,
Where shields may clash and mortal courage yield."
Then Phoebus, who had saved Aeneas’ fate,
When Aphrodite fell in woeful state,
Addressed bold Ares, god of war and flame:
"O Ares! Reckless one, of bloody fame!
Will you not halt this warrior in his path,
Who dares provoke Olympus’ righteous wrath?
This Diomed would battle every god,
And strike us down upon the sacred sod!
He pierced the hand of Kypris, pure and fair,
As though a mortal might her pain compare.
Now like a god he challenges the skies—
Let justice fall before his madness flies!"
Thus Diomedes, bold in fate and flame,
Struck down fair Kypris in the gods’ own name.
And ox-eyed Hera, Queen of Heaven above,
Knew not how Zeus’s heart she yet might move,
That he would aid the Greeks, distressed, insane,
Who suffered on the field with mounting pain.
She thought, perhaps, if she could now descend
To Ida's mount, she might the course yet bend:
If she, adorned in loveliness and grace,
Might lure him, seated close in that still place—
Her snowy robe drawn o’er her tender skin—
Then maybe love could work its spell within.
And pouring slumber on his watchful eyes,
She’d seal his mind where deepest cunning lies.
Now, sweetly garbed in beauty’s full array,
She left her room and called to fair Cythé—
That she in secret from the gods might part,
And softly thus addressed her with her art:
“O Kypris, will you help me in this thing,
Or will you let me ask and feel your sting?
Are you still angry, goddess of desire,
That I aid Greeks while Trojans you inspire?”
Then Aphrodite, daughter of great Zeus,
Replied: “O Hera, do not be obtuse.
Speak what you will—whatever is your aim—
If I can help, I will, without a claim.”
With crafty thought Queen Hera gave reply:
“Grant me the charm that makes all reason die,
The grace and yearning, power of delight,
That bends both gods and men to love's soft might.
I go to Ocean’s edge, where Tethys waits—
Who raised me once in her maternal gates.
I seek to end the quarrel with her lord,
Who long from love and union she’s ignored.
I'll bid them mend their hearts, and join once more
In pleasure’s bed, where harmony may soar.
And when they’re one, in blissful bonds made whole,
Their love for me will flourish in the soul.”
Then Aphrodite, goddess fond of mirth,
Replied: “I will not scorn your wish on earth,
You lie with Zeus, the sovereign of the skies,
And rule among us where Olympus lies.”
She spoke, and from her breast she gently drew
A belt of magic, wrought with wonders true:
Where passion lies, and all its soft deceit,
Desire and whispers that make reason fleet.
She placed it in Queen Hera’s waiting hand,
And said, “Now take this girdle, as you planned.
Hide it within your bosom’s snowy fold—
Its power brings delights as yet untold.
Whatever love you wish, it shall be done,
No longing heart shall from its magic run.”
She spoke. The ox-eyed Queen then smiled, content,
And hid the belt within her white descent.
To her own home returned the child of light,
While Hera flashed away in godlike flight.
Then Zeus to all the gods this order gave:
“Now go—descend! Let none his power save.
Aid whom you will—Achaians or their foe,
Give help where joy and favor bid you go!”
So spake Kronion, lord of war and flame,
And battle blazed where’er the deities came.
To aid the Trojans Ares took the field,
His shining helm the sign of strength revealed.
Apollo came with uncut flowing hair,
And Artemis, the huntress chaste and fair;
Leto descended, and the river’s might—
Xanthus, who flows in golden waves of light.
And Aphrodite, goddess born of wave,
Came down as well, her smiles both sweet and grave.
Upon the gods the weary burden fell,
Of wrathful hate and winds that none could quell.
They clashed in chaos, storming through the skies,
And Earth resounded with resounding cries.
The vast Olympus echoed with the sound,
As trumpets blared and shook the heavens round.
And Zeus, who sat enthroned in starry height,
Felt joy within his chest at such a sight.
He watched the gods collide in fierce array,
Their strife a sport upon his throne that day.
Then Ares rose, with towering spear he strode,
And challenged Pallas where the battle glowed.
He sought to strike her with his mighty dart,
But Pallas hurled a stone with godly art.
It hit his neck; he fell with thund’ring groan,
And seven acres stretched he, crushed and prone.
His hair was caked with dust, his armor rang,
While Pallas turned and laughed with bitter clang.
Then Aphrodite, daughter of the skies,
Took Ares’ hand, with sorrow in her eyes.
She led him off, still moaning, weak with pain,
His shattered strength reluctant to remain.
But Hera, fair of arm, beheld their flight,
And spoke to Pallas in a voice of light:
“What shame, O Atrytone, child of might,
Zeus’ daughter, bearer of the Aegis bright!
Shall this dog-fly now drag the warlike brute
From battle’s rage? Pursue her! Strike her mute!”
Then Pallas leapt with glee and wrathful flame,
And struck the Cyprian's breast with force and aim.
Her knees grew weak, her heart began to fade,
And on the earth the goddess low was laid.
Athene stood and triumphed with a cry:
“So may all Trojans’ friends be laid to die,
Who dare to clash with armored Argive might,
And perish thus in honorless affright!
Now comes fair Aphrodite, armed for war,
To shield her Ares, drenched in blood and gore!
Had we not stormed great Ilium with our hand,
Long since we’d rested, freed from Trojan land.”
So spoke she, and fair Hera smiled in pride,
To see the battle where the gods divide.
No longer did the hounds of Argive men
Desecrate Hector’s form in dust again.
For Aphrodite, heaven’s radiant child,
Drove off the dogs with charms both sweet and wild.
By day and night she stood in love’s defense,
Preserving him from fate's decay immense.
She bathed his limbs in oil of deathless rose,
Lest cruel Achilles shred him as he chose.
Though dragged through dust before the city wall,
Still no corruption dared upon him fall.
And Phoebus, with his sun-dispelling might,
Defended Hector from the burning light.
A wonder, Penthesilea, warrior maid,
In beauty’s bloom, though in her death arrayed.
Though slain by swift Achilles' ruthless hand,
She shone, a vision time could not withstand.
Yet Aphrodite, goddess crowned with flame,
Honored her soul and sang aloud her name.
For she, the bride of Ares, strong and proud,
Died crowned in glory, wrapped in battle’s shroud.
Then grief struck deep the heart of Peleus’ son—
The warlord, who had all his conquests won.
For love’s regret, with flame, began to steal
Into his chest, pierced by a ghostly steel.
The arrow of remorse its course had run—
Shot by the bow of Love, now too undone.
The warriors stood, in silence did they yearn,
For wives like her, who never would return.
Her form so fair, her grace, her tender breath—
Lay ravaged now by war’s relentless death.
Achilles' heart, though hard in warlike ways,
Was torn with grief beneath the sun’s gold rays.
He longed to bring her back, his bride to be,
To wheel his chariot to Thessaly,
And place her there in honor, grace, and peace,
Where all his bloody battles then would cease.
But fate had writ it different from the start—
He’d slain the one who claimed his secret heart.
For she was flawless, daughter of the skies,
Penthesilea, tall with god-like eyes.
But not on Aeneas did he raise
The spear of Peleus’ son in wrathful blaze.
Young Neoptolemus, fierce in his fire,
Turned not to him, though vengeance did inspire.
He spared the son of Aphrodite fair,
And loosed his fury on foes elsewhere.
For pious awe within his heart had stirred—
A reverence for the goddess, undeferred.
Then Thetis, silver-footed from the seas,
Withdrew the wrath that shook her grandson’s knees.
And though the blood of battle seared the land,
She stayed the fury of his vengeful hand.
She turned the rage of Peleus' warlike line
From Aphrodite’s kin, by will divine.
Then by the will of Pallas, stern and wise,
The Argive might at last began to rise.
She entered deep into the warlike core,
To break the Trojan line and stir their lore—
Led by Aeneas, valiant, famed in fight,
But doomed to falter by Athena's might.
For she, hot-burning to assist the Greek,
Would see proud Troy laid low and fortune bleak.
Now Aphrodite, stricken in her heart,
By Paris’ fall and fate’s relentless art,
Swept from the field the son Anchises bore,
And veiled his form in mist, in shadowed lore.
Yet fate forbade the hero to contend
Beyond the walls, nor meet his destined end.
The mother feared the wrath of Pallas still—
That goddess bent upon Aeneas' kill.
Though Ares spared him on the field before,
Athena’s wrath was deadlier in war.
More Trojans stayed behind and dared not face
The Argive rage, their hearts had lost all grace.
Like ravenous beasts with dark and wild design,
The Greeks leapt forth, possessed by wrath divine.
Then Poias’ son, the bold Philoctetes, knew
Where lion-hearted Aeneas stormed anew.
He loosed a shaft with deadly aim and art—
It struck the prince upon his gleaming heart.
Yet Aphrodite and his shield with grace
Deflected fate, and spared his noble face.
The missile fell and kissed the dusty plain,
His armor gleamed, but he escaped the pain.
Then from the field Aeneas took his flight,
As Troy gave way to Greece’s wrathful might.
He bore his father, aged, upon his frame,
And at his side his little boy he came.
Anchises, bowed by years, was weak and wan,
But carried high upon the shoulders' span.
The child, with tender steps upon the ground,
Was led with care, while all around the sound
Of death did roar; the father trembling went,
Through war’s mad blaze, through cries and ash and scent.
And still the boy clung tight with streaming eyes,
His soft cheeks torn, lamenting fate's disguise.
The man strode swift o’er corpses cold and spread,
His feet on warriors lost, the silent dead.
And Aphrodite led them, full of grace—
Her son, the child, the elder’s wrinkled face—
From ruin's edge she drew them from despair,
And calmed the flames that howled through choking air.
The god of fire, whose breath the city tore,
Was split asunder as they passed before.
The spears that Greeks did hurl with furious call
Fell harmless down and could not touch at all.
Then cried out Calchas, seer of Argive fate:
“Strike down his noble head—do not be late!
Let arrows fly and bitter javelins fall,
Let spears be cast against him, one and all!
Yet heed this truth the gods of heaven made clear:
He shall escape, and not be slaughtered here.
He’ll cross from Xanthus' flow to Tiber’s strand,
To found a city in a distant land.
A holy realm that time shall not erase,
Where men shall rule the earth by his own race.
From east to west their kingdom shall expand,
From sun’s first rise to where the waters stand.
Among the gods shall this brave hero dwell—
The son of her whom golden graces swell.
He spurned all gold, all treasures earthly born,
And chose instead to flee through war and scorn.
He bore his father, saved his son from death—
Such is the man the goddess honors yet.
This night has shown the world her sacred seed,
Who for his blood and kin refused to plead.”
The Greeks beheld him and, in awe, they stayed—
And deemed him godlike, in the smoke and shade.
Onward he fled from Troy’s collapsing dome,
Led by the gods to seek a second home.
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Chatverlauf
Du:
in english heroic couplets: Über Kreusa, die Tochter des Königs Priam von Troja,
Wird die Geschichte erzählt, dass die Große Mutter der Götter
Und die heilige Aphrodite das Mädchen gerettet
Aus der Sklaverei unter den Griechen, da sie natürlich
Des Äneas liebe Frau war, des Lieblings der Göttin.
Aber das Schicksal ließ es nicht zu, dass die Hoffnungen Trojas
Mit den Stadtmauern würden nur zu Trümmerruinen,
Sondern der Held Äneas, er, der Liebling der Venus,
Trug auf seinen Schultern fort ihre heiligen Bilder
Und voll Ehrfurcht auch den altehrwürdigen Vater.
Menelaos in der inneren Mitte der Kammern
Trojas fand endlich seine Frau, die kauerte ängstlich
Dort vor dem furchtlosen Zorn ihres Herrn und Gemahles,
Und er starrte sie an und hungerte heiß in der Seele,
Sie in seinem eifersüchtigen Ingrimm zu töten.
Aber die gewinnende Aphrodite ihn dämpfte,
Schlug ihn das Schwert aus der Hand, dass ihm der Ansturm versagte,
Eine dunkle Wolke fegte die Eifersucht von ihm,
Rührte die süßen tiefen Quellen der Liebe im Herzen
Und in den Augen, fegte über ihn seltsames Staunen,
Machtlos war er, das Schert zu erheben gegen die Schöne,
Sah er doch ihre Pracht der Schönheit, der Grazie Liebreiz.
Also stand er und blieb benommen lange so stehen.
Seine Kraft war gebrochen, als er ansah die Gattin.
Plötzlich hatte er alles vergessen, all ihre Sünden
Gegen die heilige Ehe, Aphrodite ließ alles
In ihm verblassen, sie, die die unsterblichen Herzen
Und die Sterblichen unterwirft. Und doch hob sein Schwert er,
Aber in anderer Absicht, auch wenn er aufsprang im Zorne,
So als wollte er täuschen die Augen des Volks der Achäer.
Dann blieb sein Bruder seine Wut, sein rasender Ingrimm.
Schön, wie Aphrodite in Form und rosigem Schamrot
Kam vorüber an Helena bei den Gefangenen Trojas,
Weiter zu den Argiver-Schiffen. Aber die Leute
Ringsum staunten über die große herrliche Schönheit
Dieser völlig gesetzlosen Frau. Kein Mann es da wagte,
Heimlich oder offen sie zu beschuldigen, sondern
Alle starrten auf die Göttin mit Anbetung, Wehmut.
Wie der Wanderer wandert auf dem stürmischen Meere,
Der nach langer Zeit und leidenschaftlichem Beten
Sieht das Vaterland, und entkommen aus tödlichen Tiefen
Streckt der die Hände aus zum Vaterlande voll Freude,
Also freuten die Danaer sich und kein Mann unter ihnen
Sich erinnerte mehr an all die Schrecken des Krieges.
Solche Gedanken bewegte Aphrodite in ihnen,
Rein aus Gnade für Helena mit den Augen wie Sternen.
Während die Griechen den Fall von Troja feierten trunken,
Menelaos im Zelt sprach mit seiner Helena freundlich,
Denn auf ihre Augen war noch der Schlaf nicht gefallen.
Aphrodite brütete über den liebenden Seelen,
Diese alte Liebe könnte erneuert doch werden
Und der Herzschmerz verjagt. Und Helena warf ihre Arme
Ihrem Mann um den Nacken, die Augen strömten von Tränen,
Als sie süßes Stöhnen stöhnten und Seite an Seite
Legten sie sich und ihre Herzen erregten im Innern
Die Erinnerung an die alten ehlichen Freuden.
Wie ein Weinstock und Efeu ihre Ranken umschlingen,
Dass kein Wind mit Kraft kann auseinander sie reißen,
Also die beiden in leidenschaftlicher Liebesumarmung!
ChatGPT:
Here is your German poetic text rendered into English heroic couplets — iambic pentameter couplets in rhymed pairs (aa, bb, cc...) — preserving as much meaning, tone, and classical atmosphere as possible:
On Creusa, the Daughter of King Priam of Troy
They tell the tale of Creusa, noble-born,
Whom Great Cybele saved from wrath and scorn.
And sacred Aphrodite, goddess mild,
Preserved the fate of Priam’s cherished child—
For she was wife to Aeneas, Venus’ dear,
Whom all the gods protect, and mortals fear.
Yet fate decreed that Troy should not remain,
Its hopes lie shattered, mingled with the slain.
But faithful Aeneas, pious and renowned,
Took up the gods and fled that hallowed ground—
Upon his shoulders sacred burdens bore,
And with him, led his aged father, sore.
Within the inner chambers of the keep,
Menelaus found Helen, crouched in sleep.
She trembled at her husband’s wrathful gaze,
Who longed to end her life in jealous blaze.
He stood above her, fury in his soul,
His mind inflamed beyond his own control.
But Aphrodite soothed his maddened mind,
The sword fell from his hand, his rage declined.
A shadow swept the storm from out his eyes,
And love arose where wrath and hatred dies.
A gentle awe his warrior’s heart subdued,
And beauty’s power made his wrath conclude.
He stood transfixed, in silence long he stayed,
His strength dissolved beneath her tender shade.
Her sins forgotten, all her guilt erased—
For Aphrodite had her cause embraced.
The hearts of gods and men she bends with ease,
And from his soul she drew the storm to peace.
Yet still he raised the blade in feigned intent,
As if to strike, though wrath had long been spent.
To fool the Greeks, perhaps, to guard his pride,
Though inwardly, his ire had long since died.
And soon his brother stilled his rising flame—
No vengeance took, no curse, no justly blame.
Fair Aphrodite passed with rosy light,
Beside proud Helen in the Trojan night.
They wandered to the ships the Greeks had moored,
While all around her silent men adored.
Her beauty shone, though lawless was her way,
None dared to scorn or curse her on that day.
They gazed as sailors gaze on land once lost,
When storm and prayer have tossed them, tempest-tossed—
And now, at last, they see their homeland’s shore,
And stretch their arms to what they loved before.
So too the Greeks beheld her grace and face,
Forgetting war in beauty’s soft embrace.
Such thoughts did Aphrodite plant in men,
So none would scorn fair Helen there again.
Her eyes like stars, with tears divinely wept,
She walked among the conquered and they slept.
While Greeks in drunken triumph danced and sang,
In Menelaus’ tent no anger rang.
He spoke with Helen gently, by her side—
For sleep had not her weary eyes denied.
And Aphrodite brooded in her art,
To fan once more the embers of the heart.
Then Helen’s arms around his neck she threw,
And wept as past desire returned anew.
They sighed in union, side by side they lay,
As memory stirred joy from love’s decay.
Like vine and ivy, clinging in the breeze,
That not the wind itself can part with ease—
So lay the lovers, locked in warm embrace,
As love redeemed their past with tender grace.