Odes 1.10 (Martin): Mercuri Facunde

Mercurius, Atlas' grandchild eloquent,
Who didst to gentle ways man's primal race
By language mould, and their uncouth limbs lent
The gymnast's grace,

Herald of mighty Jove, and all the gods.
Lord of the curved lyre, who canst at will
Filch for thy sport, whate'er may be the odds,
I'll hymn thee still!

When with loud threats he charged thee to forego
The kine, thy impish craft from him had wiled,
Even while he spoke, of quiver reft and bow,
Apollo smiled.

Quitting his halls, by thee rich Priam led
Stole past the watchfires round Troy's leaguer'd wall,
And through the Grecian camp in safety sped,
Unseen of all.

Thou guid'st to bliss the spirits of the just,
Driving the phantoms with thy golden rod,
In heaven and hell beloved and held in trust
By every god!