Cleopatra by Miles Margaret M

Author:Miles, Margaret M.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of California Press
Published: 2012-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

CLEOPATRA

Whoever you are who sees arms bitten by harsh snakes and eyes grown dim in eternal night carved in this marble, do not believe that I lay down in death unwilling. For a long time my conquerors forbade me to break off my life, doubtless so I, a captive queen, might be borne in a thronging triumphal procession, and, turned slave, wait upon Roman daughters-in-law. I, that scion descended from so many ancient kings, whom the favored race of Pharian Canopus worshiped, and Egypt fostered with her luxuries, and all the Orient deemed worthy of honors fit for gods. But virtue and noble desire for an honorable death overcame shameful life and the tyrant’s snares, for freedom was achieved by death, and I felt no chains: I went down to the waters of the Underworld a free shade.

The faithless foe raged that this had been granted to me, and his rage blazed up with the mad goads of his cruelty; for he, unconquered in his triumphal chariot, between the blazoned inscriptions and enslaved peoples, led through the Capital the luckless image of a dead woman. And, so ancient, long ages would not destroy the fame of the deed, nor my lot be unknown to late-born descendants, he ordered an image to be carved from breathing marble, to testify wretchedly to my fate and misfortunes.

Thereafter Julius, marveling at the splendid genius of the artist, placed it in a celebrated place among the figures of ancient heroes, and set the stone beneath eternal tears, the solace of a grieving heart: not so I might lament the happiness of longed-for death—since for me the serpent with its lethal bite drove away tears, and death itself held no fear—but so I could bestow eternal tears upon the dear ashes and shade of my beloved husband, as a pledge of love eternal, a sorrowful and melancholy gift for the helpless dead. Yet even these the bitter Romans snatched away.

But you, great Leo, sprung from the gods, under whom the golden age and honors of ancient glory have returned, if the all-powerful Father sent you down from heavenly Olympus as a guardian for wretched mortals, and if your immeasurable virtue is matched by your power and you dispense divine gifts with a beneficent hand, nod to my humble prayers, and do not let me pray in vain. What I seek is little. Restore those tears, excellent father. Restore, I beg, that weeping, a weeping which is almost a gift for me, since now heartless fortune has left me nothing else.

Even Niobe, who dared insult the gods with her wicked tongue, her heart encased in hard marble, is still permitted tears, and an unceasing trickle drips from the marble. My life was different, I lived blamelessly, unless you call it a crime to love. Tears are lovers’ sole consolation. And more, my tears are a delightful pleasure to those in torment, and invite sweet sleep with their murmuring. When the hound of Icarus bakes the thirsting fields, birds come here to drink, and hop among the branches around and above.

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