Poems and Translations :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hah! how Apollo's hallow'd Laurels wave?
How shakes the Temple from its inmost Cave?
Fly ye profane; for lo! in Heav'nly State
The Pow'r descends, and thunders at the Gate.
See, how the Delian Palms with Reverence nod!
Hark! how the tuneful Swans confess the God!
Leap from your Hinges, burst your brazen Bars,
Ye sacred Doors; the God, the God appears.

Ye Youths begin the Song; in Choirs advance;
Wake all your Lyres, and form the measur'd Dance.

No impious Wretch his holy Eyes have view'd,
None but the Just, the Innocent, and Good.
To see the Pow'r confest your Minds prepare,
Refin'd from Guilt, and purify'd by Pray'r.
So may you mount in Youth the Nuptial Bed,
So grace with silver Hairs your aged Head;
So the proud Walls with lofty Turrets crown,
And lay Foundations for the rising Town.

Apollo's Song with awful Silence hear;
Ev'n the wild Seas the sacred Song revere:
Nor wretched Thetis dares to make her Moan,
For great Apollo slew her darling Son.
When the loud Iö-Pœans ring around,
She checks her Sighs, and trembles at the Sound.
Fixt in her Grief must Niobe appear,
Nor thro' the Phrygian Marble drop a Tear;

Still, tho' a Rock, she dreads Apollo's Bow,
And stands her own sad Monument of Woe.

Sound the loud Iö's, and the Temple rend,
With the blest Gods 'tis impious to contend.
He, who the Pow'r of Ptolemy defies,
In his audacious Rage would brave the Skies,
(From whence the mighty Blessing was bestow'd)
Or challenge Phœbus, and resist the God.

Beyond the Night your hallow'd Strains prolong,
Till the Day rises on th'unfinish'd Song.
Nor less his various Attributes require,
So shall He honour, and reward the Choir;
For Honour is his Gift, and high above
He shines, and graces the Right-hand of Jove:
With beamy Gold his Robes divinely glow,
His Harp, his Quiver, and his Lictian Bow;

His Feet how fair and glorious to behold!
Shod in rich Sandals of refulgent Gold!
Wealth still attends Him, and vast Gifts bestow'd,
Adorn the Delphick Temple of the God.
Eternal Charms his youthful Cheeks diffuse;
His Tresses dropping with Ambrosial Dews,
Pale Death before him flies, with dire Disease,
And Health and Life are wafted in the Breeze.

To Thee, great Phœbus, various Arts belong,
To wing the Dart, and guide the Poet's Song:
Th'enlighten'd Prophet feels thy Flames Divine,
And all the dark Events of Lots are Thine.
By Phœbus taught, the Sage prolongs our Breath,
And in its flight suspends the Dart of Death.

To thy great Name, O Nomian Pow'r, we cry,
E'er since the Time, when stooping from the Sky,

To tend Admetus' Herds thy Godhead chose,
On the fair Banks where clear Amphrysus flows:
Blest are the Herds, and blest the Flocks, that lie
Beneath the Influence of Apollo's Eye.
The Meads re-eccho'd to the bleating Lambs,
And the Kids leap'd, and frisk'd around their Dams;
Her weight of Milk each Ewe dragg'd on with Pain,
And drop'd a double Offspring on the Plain.

On great Apollo for his Aid We call,
To build the Town and raise th'embattled Wall:
He, while an Infant, fram'd the wond'rous Plan,
In fair Ortygia for the Use of Man.
When young Diana urg'd her Sylvan Toils,
From Cynthus' Tops she brought her savage Spoils;
The Heads of Mountain-Goats, and Antlers lay
Spread wide around, the Trophies of the Day:

Of these a Structure He compos'd with Art,
In Order rang'd, and just in every Part;
And by that Model taught us to dispose
The rising City, and with Walls inclose;
Where the Foundations of the Pile should lie,
Or Tow'rs and Battlements should reach the Sky.

Apollo sent th'auspicious Crow before,
When our great Founder touch'd the Lybian Shore:
Full on the Right he flew to call him on,
And guide the People to their destin'd Town;
Which to a Race of Kings Apollo vow'd,
And fix'd for ever stands the Promise of the God.

Or hear'st Thou, while thy Honours we proclaim,
Thy Boëdromian, or thy Clarian Name?
(For to the Pow'r are various Names assign'd
From Cities rais'd, and Blessings to Mankind.)

In thy Carnean Title I rejoice,
And join my grateful Country's Publick Voice.
E'er to Cyrene's Realms our Course we bore,
Thrice were we led by thee from Shore to Shore;
Till our Progenitor the Region gain'd,
And annual Rites, and annual Feasts ordain'd.
When at thy Prophet Carnus' Will, we rais'd
A Glorious Temple; and the Altars blaz'd
With Hecatombs of Bulls, whose reeking Blood,
Great King, they shed to Thee their Guardian God.

Iö! Carnean Phœbus! awful Pow'r!
Whom fair Cyrene's suppliant Sons adore!
To deck thy hallow'd Temple, see! we bring
The choicest Flow'rs, and rifle all the Spring:
The most distinguish'd Odours Nature yields,
When balmy Zephyr breathes along the Fields;
Soon as the sad inverted Year retreats,
To Thee the Crocus dedicates his Sweets.

From thy bright Altars hallow'd Flames aspire;
They shine incessant from the sacred Fire.
What Joy, what Transport swells Apollo's Breast,
When at his great Carnean annual Feast,
Clad in their Arms our Lybian Tribes advance,
Mixt with our swarthy Dames, and lead the Dance.
Nor yet the Greeks had reach'd Cyrene's Floods;
But rov'd thro' wild Azilis' gloomy Woods;
Whom to his Nymph Apollo deign'd to show,
High as he stood on tall Myrtusa's Brow;
Where the fierce Lion by her Hands was slain,
Who in his fatal Rage laid waste the Plain.
Still to Cyrene are his Gifts convey'd,
In dear Remembrance of the ravish'd Maid;
Nor were her Sons ungrateful, who bestow'd
Their choicest Honours on their Guardian God.

Iö! with holy Raptures sing around;
We owe to Delphos the Triumphant Sound.
When thy Victorious Hands vouchsaf'd to show
The Wonders of thy Shafts and Golden Bow;
When Python from his Den was seen to rise,
Dire, fierce, tremendous, of enormous Size;
By Thee with many a fatal Arrow slain,
The Monster sunk extended on the Plain;
Shaft after Shaft in swift Succession flew;
As swift the People's Shouts and Pray'rs pursue.
Iö, Apollo, launch thy flying Dart;
Send it, oh! send it to the Monster's Heart.
When thy fair Mother bore thee, she design'd
Her mighty Son, a Blessing to Mankind.

Envy, that other Plague and Fiend, drew near;
And gently whisper'd in Apollo's Ear:

No Poet I regard but Him whose Lays
Are swelling, loud, and boundless as the Seas;
Apollo spurn'd the Fury, and reply'd,
The vast Euphrates rolls a mighty Tide;
With rumbling Torrents the rough River roars;
But black with Mud, discolour'd from his Shores,
Prone down Assyria's Lands his Course he keeps,
And with polluted Waters stains the Deeps.
But the Melissan Nymphs to Ceres bring
The purest Product of the limpid Spring;
Small is the sacred Stream, but never stain'd
With Mud, or foul Ablutions from the Land.

Hail Glorious King! beneath thy matchless Pow'r
May Malice sink, and Envy be no more.