Odes 1.10 (Creech): Mercuri Facunde

SWeet smooth-tongu'd God, wise Atlas Son,
Whose Voice did mould Mens flinty hearts,
Just risen from their Parent stone,
By softning Musick, and instructing Arts.

Thee, Thee my Muse shall gladly sing
Thee Post of Heaven, and Guard of Hell;
First Mover of the charming string;
By waggish Thievery cunning to conceal.

Unless you would restore the Cows
Whilst with his voice He dar'd the Child,
And threatned with his angry brows,
Now He had lost his Bow, Apollo smil'd.

Rich Priam with a Pious hast
Whilst You did guide his trembling feet,
Thessalian fires securely past;
The Camp, and proud Atrides haughty Fleet.

You gently guide the Pious Souls
To happy Seats; Your golden rod
The flitting Troop controuls;
O lov'd, Above, Below, by every God.