By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025

Ex Libro XVII Metamorphoseon

Filia Nerei, Galatea nivea,
litore Siculo lusit, dum Polyphemus
montibus in summis carmen miserabile flebat.
Acis erat iuvenis, quo non formosior alter,
Symaethi proles fluvii nymphaeque Thoosae.
Viderat hunc virgo, subito correpta furore—
non Veneris, sed quo saevit Mavortis Enyo.
“Cur,” ait, “o iuvenis, nostros contemnis amores?
Cur fugis amplexus? Tibi sum Galatea!”
Ille metu pallidus: “Non te, pulcherrima, fugio,
sed rabiem timeo quae te, dea, possidet atra.”
Tum dea, percepto se non ut amantia amari,
sed velut horrificam pestem vitarier, ira
exarsit: “Fuge ergo! Sed quo fugies mea regna?
In scopulum versus, aeternum saxum maneto!”
Dixit, et ilicet factus lapis ille, sed intus
cor vivum mansit, semper suspiria flenti.
Nunc quoque, si quis eat per litora nocte silenti,
audit adhuc gemitus de caute—Acis amat.

Translation

From Book XVII of the Metamorphoses
(A Fictional Fragment)

Galatea, daughter of Nereus, snow-pale,
played along the Sicilian shore,
while Polyphemus, high in the mountains,
wept out his mournful song.
Acis was a youth—none more handsome—
born of the river Symaethus and the nymph Thoosa.
The maiden saw him, seized at once by frenzy—
not of Venus, but of Enyo, Mars’s fury.
“Why,” she cried, “do you spurn my love,
young man? Why flee my embrace?
I am Galatea—for you!”
He turned pale with fear:
“I do not flee you, most beautiful one,
but the black rage that possesses you, goddess.”
Then the goddess, realizing
she was not loved as a lover,
but shunned like some dreadful plague,
flared with anger:
“Then flee! But where will you escape my realm?
Become a rock—remain forever stone!”
She spoke, and instantly he was turned to stone.
Yet within, his heart stayed alive,
always sighing, always weeping.
Even now, if one walks the shore
in the silence of night,
they still hear moans from the cliff—
Acis loves.

Notes on Style

This fragment demonstrates Ovid’s genius for psychological metamorphosis. The traditional tale is inverted: Galatea becomes the violent pursuer, possessed not by love but by war-fury. The transformation explores a darker theme—what happens when divine desire becomes divine rage?

The hexameters flow with typical Ovidian smoothness, heavy with patronymics and geographical markers (Nereus, Symaethus, Sicily). The narrative pivots on that devastating recognition: “se non ut amantia amari, / sed velut horrificam pestem vitarier” (herself not loved as lovers are loved, but shunned like a plague).

The ending is quintessentially Ovidian—transformation that preserves consciousness, creating eternal torment. The final words “Acis amat” (Acis loves) provide the ironic sting: frozen in stone, he loves still, while she who demanded love receives only endless reproach from the waves.