Part of Homer's Hymn to Apollo

God of the Bow! Apollo, thee I sing;
Thee, as thou draw'st amain the sounding string,
Th' immortal pow'rs revere with homage low,
And ev'ry godhead trembles at thy bow.
All but Latona: She with mighty Jove
Eyes thee with all a tender parent's love;
Closes thy quiver, thy tough bow unbends,
And high amid th' aethereal dome suspends,
Then smiling leads thee, her all-glorious son,
To share the mighty Thunderer's awful throne.
Goblets of nectar thy glad fire prepares,
And thee, his fairest, noblest son declares;
While ev'ry god sits rapt, Latona's breast
Beats with superior joy, and hails her son confest.
Thrice blest Latona! from thee, Goddess, sprung
Diana chaste, and Phoebus ever-young:
Her in Ortygia's isle, and Him you bore
At Cynthius' hill on Delos' sea-girt shore,
Where the tall palm uprears its lovely head,
And clear Inopus laves the slow'ry mead.

O Phoebus, where shall I begin thy praise?
Well can'st thou rule the poet's artless lays.
Oft on the craggy rock, or mountain hore,
By river-side, or on the sea's hoarse shore,
Wand'ring well-pleas'd, with music's magic sound,
And airs divine, thou charm'st the region round.
Say, shall I sing how first on Delos' shore
Thee, glorious progeny, Latona bore ?
How first, from other isles, beset with grief,
In vain thy tortur'd mother sought relief.
Each to her out-cast woe denied abode,
Nor durst one isle receive the future god.
At length to Delos came the lab'ring fair,
And suppliant thus besought her needful care.

Delos! receive Apollo, and O! raise
A glorious temple to record his praise!
Then shall He govern thee with gentle sway,
And only Phoebus shall thine isle obey.
What though no flocks, nor herds, nor juicy vine,
Nor plants of thousand natures shall be thine,
Swift to the temple of the Bowyer-king,
Oblations rich shall ev'ry nation bring;
For ever from thy altars shall arise
The fragrant incense of burnt-sacrifice.
No longer then regret thy barren soil,
Receive the God, and live by other's toil!

She spake: with inward rapture Delos smil'd,
And sooth'd the suppliant pow'r with answer mild.

Latona! mighty Caeus' daughter fair,
Full willingly wou'd Delos ease thy care,
Full willingly behold her barren earth
Witness the glories of Apollo's birth:
The mighty God wou'd raise my lowly name,
And consecrate his native isle to fame.
One fear alone distracts my beating heart;
That fear, O Goddess, list while I impart.
Second to none amid th' aethereal skies,
Apollo soon all terrible shall rise:
All nations shall adore the mighty God,
And kings and kingdoms tremble at his nod.
Haply (for ah! dire fears my soul infest,
And fill with horror my tumultuous breast)
Soon as the glorious Godhead shall be born,
My desert region will he view with scorn,
Indignant spurn me, curse my barren soil,
And plunge into the waves my hated isle.
Triumphant then to happier climes remove,
There fix his shrine, plant there his sacred grove.
Whelm'd in the briny main shall Delos lay,
To all the finny brood a wretched prey.
But, O Latona! if, to quell my fear,
You'll deign a solemn sacred oath to swear,
That here the God his glorious seat shall hold,
And here his sapient oracles unfold,
Your sacred burthen here, Latona, lay,
Here view the Godhead bursting into day.

Thus Delos pray'd, nor was her pray'r denied,
But soon with solemn vows thus ratified:
Witness O heaven and earth! O Stygian lake!
Dire adjuration, that no God may break!
In Delos shall Apollo's shrine be rear'd,
Delos, his best belov'd, most honour'd, most rever'd.

Thus vow'd Latona: Delos hail'd her earth
Blest in the glories of Apollo's birth.
Nine hapless days and nights, with writhing throes,
And all the anguish of a mother's woes,
Latona tortur'd lay; in sorrowing mood,
Around her many a sister-goddess stood,
Alost in heaven imperial Juno sat,
And view'd relentless her unhappy fate.
Lucina too; the kind assuaging pow'r
That tends the lab'ring mother's child-bed hour,
And mitigates her woes, in golden clouds
High on Olympus' top the Goddess shrouds.
Her large full eyes with indignation roll,
And livid envy seiz'd her haughty soul,
That from Latona's loins was doom'd to spring
So great a son, the mighty Bowyer-king.
The milder pow'rs, that near the lab'ring fair
View'd all her pangs with unavailing care,
Fair Iris sent, the many colour'd maid,
To gain with goodly gifts Lucina's aid.
But charg'd her heed, lest Juno shou'd prevent
With prohibition dire their kind intent.
Fleet as the winged winds, the flying fair
With nimble pinion cut the liquid air.
Olympus gain'd, apart she call'd the maid,
Then sought with many a pray'r her needful aid,
And mov'd her soul: when soon with dove-like pace
Swiftly they measur'd back the viewless airy space.

Soon as to Delos' isle Lucina came
The pangs of travail seiz'd Latona's frame.
Her twining arms she threw the palm around,
And prest with deep-indented knee the ground:
Then into day sprung forth the jolly boy,
Earth smil'd beneath, and heaven rang with joy.

The Sister Pow'rs that round Latona stood
With chaste ablutions cleans'd the infant-god.
His lovely limbs in mantle white they bound,
And gently drew a golden swathe around.
He hung not helpless at his mother's breast,
But Themis fed him with an heavenly feast.
Pleas'd while Latona views the heavenly boy,
And fondly glows with all a mother's joy,
The lusty babe, strong with ambrosial food,
In vain their bonds or golden swathes withstood,
Bonds, swathes, and ligaments with ease he broke,
And thus the wondring Deities bespoke;
"The lyre, and sounding bow, and to declare
"The Thund'rer's counsels, be Apollo's care!"

He spake; and onwards all majestic strode;
The Queens of Heaven awe-struck view'd the God.
Delos beheld him with a tender smile,
And hail'd, enrich'd with gold, her happy isle;
Her happy isle, Apollo's native seat,
His sacred haunt, his best-belov'd retreat.
Grac'd with Apollo, Delos glorious shines,
As the tall mountain crown'd with stately pines.

Now stony Cynthus wou'd the God ascend,
And now his course to various islands bend.
Full many a fane, and rock, and shady grove,
River, and mountain, did Apollo love;
But chiefly Delos: The Ionians there,
With their chaste wives and prattling babes, repair.
There gladly celebrate Apollo's name
With many a solemn rite and sacred game;
The jolly dance, and holy hymn prepare,
And with the Caestus urge the manly war.
If, when their sacred feast th' Ionians hold,
Their gallant sports a stranger shou'd behold,
View the strong nerves the brawny chiefs that brace,
Or eye the softer charms of female grace,
Then mark their riches of a thousand kinds,
And their tall ships born swift before the winds,
So goodly to the sight wou'd all appear,
The fair assembly Gods he wou'd declare.
There too the Delian Virgins, beauteous choir,
Apollo's handmaids, wake the living lyre;
To Phoebus first they consecrate the lays,
Latona then and chaste Diana praise,
Then heroes old, and matrons chaste rehearse,
And sooth the raptur'd heart with sacred verse.
Each voice, the Delian maids, each human sound
With aptest imitation sweet resound:
Their tongues so justly tune with accents new,
That none the false distinguish from the true.

Latona! Phoebus! Dian, lovely fair!
Blest Delian nymphs, Apollo's chiefest care,
All hail! and O with praise your poet crown,
Nor all his labours in oblivion drown!
If haply some poor pilgrim shall enquire,
"O, virgins, who most skilful smites the lyre?
"Whose lofty verse in sweetest descant rolls,
"And charms to extasy the hearers souls?
O answer, a blind bard in Chios dwells,
In all the arts of verse who far excells.
Then o'er the earth shall spread my glorious fame,
And distant Nations shall record my name.
But Phoebus never will I cease to sing,
Latona's noble son, the mighty Bowyer-king.

Thee Lycia and Maeonia, thee, great Pow'r,
The blest Miletus' habitants adore;
But thy lov'd haunt is sea-girt Delos' shore.

Now Pytho's stony soil Apollo treads,
And all around ambrosial fragrance sheds,
Then strikes with matchless art the golden strings,
And ev'ry hill with heavenly musick rings.

Olympus now and the divine abodes
Glorious he seeks, and mixes with the Gods.
Each heavenly bosom pants with fond desire
To hear the lofty verse and golden lyre.
Drawn by the magic sound, the Virgin-Nine
With warblings sweet the sacred minstrel join:
Now with glad heart, loud voice, and jocund lays
Full sweetly carol bounteous heaven's praise;
And now in dirges sad, and numbers slow
Relate the piteous tale of human woe;
Woe, by the Gods on wretched mortals cast,
Who vainly shun affliction's wintry blast,
And all in vain attempt with fond delay
Death's certain shaft to ward, or chase old age away.

The Graces there, and smiling Hours are seen,
And Cytherea, laughter-loving queen,
And Harmony, and Hebe, lovely band,
To sprightliest measures dancing hand in hand.
There, of no common port or vulgar mien,
With heavenly radiance, shines the Huntress-Queen,
Warbles responsive to the golden lyre,
Tunes her glad notes, and joins the virgin choir.
There Mars and Mercury with awkward play,
And uncouth gambols, waste the live-long day.
There as Apollo moves with graceful pace
A thousand glories play around his face;
In splendor drest he joins the festive band,
And sweeps the golden lyre with magic hand.
Mean while, Latona and imperial Jove
Eye the bright Godhead with parental love;
And, as the Deities around him play,
Well pleas'd his goodly mien and awful port survey.