Ye youth, begin the fong; in choirs advance;
Wake all your lyres, and form the measur'd dance.
No impious wretch his holy eyes have yiew'd,
None but the juft, the innocent, and good.
To fee the power confeft your minds prepare,
Refin'd from guilt, and purify'd by prayer.
So may you mount in youth the nuptial bed,
So grace with filver hairs your aged head;
So the proud walls with lofty turrets crown,
And lay foundations for the rifing town.

Apollo's fong with awful filence hear;
Ev'n the wild feas the facred fong revere:
Nor wretched Thetis dares to make her moan,
For great Apollo flew her darling fon.
When the loud Iö-Peans ring around,

She checks her fighs, and trembles at the found.
Fixt in her grief muft Niobe appear,

Nor through the Phrygian marble drop a tear;
Still, though a rock, fhe dreads Apollo's bow,
And ftands her own fad monument of woe.

Sound the loud Iö's, and the temple rend,
With the bleft Gods 'tis impious to contend.
He, who the power of Ptolemy defies,

In his audacious rage would brave the skies (From whence the mighty bleffing was beltow'd), Or challenge Phoebus, and refift the God.

Beyond the night your hallow'd strains prolong, Till the day rifes on th' unfinish'd song. Nor lefs his various attributes require, So fhall he honour, and reward the choir;

For honour is his gift, and high above

He fhines, and graces the right-hand of Jove:
With beamy gold his robes divinely glow,
His harp, his quiver, and his Líctian bow;
His feet how fair and glorious to behold!
Shod in rich fandals of refulgent gold!
Wealth still attends him, and vaft gifts bestow'd,
Adorn the Delphic temple of the god.
Eternal charms his youthful cheeks diffuse;
His treffes dropping with ambrofial dews,
Pale Death before him flies, with dire Disease,
And Health and Life are wafted in the breeze.

To thee, great Phoebus, various arts belong,
To wing the dart, and guide the Poet's fong:
Th' enlighten'd prophet feels thy flames divine,
And all the dark events of lots are thine.
By Phoebus taught, the fage prolongs our breath,
And in its flight fufpends the dart of death.

To thy great name, O Nomian power, we cry,
Ere fince the time when, ftooping from the fky,
To tend Admetus' herds thy godhead chofe,
On the fair banks where clear Amphryfus flows:
Bleft are the herds, and bleft the flocks, that lie
Beneath the influence of Apollo's eye.

The meads re-echo'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 th' town and raife th' embattled wall:

He,

He, while an infant, fram'd the wondrous plan,
In fair Ortygia, for the use of man.

When young Diana urg'd her fylvan toils,

From Cynthus' tops fhe brought her favage 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 rifing city, and with walls inclofe;
Where the foundations of the pile fhould lie,
Or towers and battlements should reach the sky.
Apollo fent th' auspicious crow before,

When our great founder touch'd the Libyan fhore :
Full on the right he flew to call him on,

And guide the people to their deftin'd town ;
Which to a race of kings Apollo vow'd,
And fix'd for ever ftands the promise of the God.
Or hear'ft thou, while thy honours we proclaim,
Thy Boëdromian, or thy Clarian name ?

(For to the power are various names affign'd
From cities rais'd, and bleffings to mankind.)
In thy Carnean title I rejoice,

And join my grateful country's public voice.
Ere to Cyrene's realms our course we bore,
Thrice were we led by thee from fhore to fhore;
Till our progenitor the region gain'd,
And annual rites and annual feafts ordain'd.
When at thy prophet Carnus' will, we rais'd
A glorious temple; and the altars blaz'd

With hecatombs of bulls, whofe reeking blood,
Great king, they fhed to thee their guardian God.
Iö! Carnean Phoebus! awful power!

Whom fair Cyrene's fuppliant fons adore !
To deck thy hallow'd temple, fee! we bring
The choiceft flowers, and rifle all the spring :
The most distinguish'd odours nature yields,
When balmy Zephyr breathes along the fields;
Soon as the fad inverted year retreats,

To thee the crocus dedicates his fweets.
From thy bright altars hallow'd flames afpire;
They fhine inceffant from the facred fire.
What joy, what tranfport, fwells Apollo's breaft,
When at his great Carnean annual feast,
Clad in their arms our Libyan tribes advance,
Mixt with our fwarthy dames, and lead the dance.
Nor yet the Greeks had reach'd Cyrene's floods;
But rov'd through wild Azilis' gloomy woods;
Whom to his nymph Apollo deign'd to show,
High as he stood on tall Myrtufa's brow ;
Where the fierce lion by her hands was flain,
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 fons ungrateful, who bestow'd
Their choiceft honours on their guardian God.
Iö! with holy raptures fing around;
We owe to Delphos the triumphant found.
When thy victorious hands vouchsaf'd to show
The wonders of thy fhafts and golden bow;

When Python from his den was seen to rife,
Dire, fierce, tremendous, of enormous fize;
By thee with many a fatal arrow flain,.
The monster funk extended on the plain;
Shaft after shaft in swift fucceffion flew;
As fwift the people's fhouts and prayers pursue.
Iö, Apollo, launch thy flying dart;

Send it, oh! fend it to the monster's heart.
When thy fair mother bore thee, she defign'd
Her mighty fon, a bleffing to mankind.

Envy, that other plague and fiend, drew near;
And gently whisper'd in Apollo's ear:
No Poet I regard but him whofe lays
Are fwelling, loud, and boundless as the feas;
Apollo fpurn'd the fury, and reply'd,
The vast Euphrates rolls a mighty tide;
With rumbling torrents the rough river roars;
But black with mud, difcolour'd from his fhores,
Prone down Affyria's lands his course he keeps,
And with polluted waters ftains the deeps.
But the Meliffan nymphs to Ceres bring
The pureft product of the limpid fpring;
Small is the facred ftream, but never ftain'd
With mud, or foul ablutions from the land.

Hail, glorious king! beneath thy matchless power May malice fink, and envy be no more!

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