Whom erst from his prophetic throne
Phœbus, he said, had call'd his own. 84
That he, o'er all of mortal birth,
His sire's prophetic power might claim,
Nor should his race e'er fail on earth 95
To keep alive their deathless name.
Thus spoke the god—but they averr'd
No eye had seen, no ear had heard;
Though since his natal day
The fifth revolving sun had shed 100
Its lustre o'er the infant's head. 89
Meanwhile within the rushy glade,
And tangled bushes' thickest shade,
His tender frame all wet with dew,
And gemm'd with violet's purple hue, [1] 105
Conceal'd from human sight he lay 93
And hence his mother bade the prophet's name
To each succeeding age his birth proclaim.
Soon as he gain'd from opening time
The golden flower of youthful prime, 110
Shrouded in night his steps he bore
Down to Alphéus' middle shore,
Invoking from the depths below
His great forefather Neptune's might,
And potent sire, whose silver bow 115
Defends the heaven-built Delos' height.
That public honour and renown
His brows might with their chaplet crown.
When thus in accents of eternal truth 119
His father's voice approved the suppliant's prayer,
"To Pisa's crowded plain, adventurous youth,
Follow my call, and strive for glory there." 108
- ↑ The exquisite periphrasis of the original may be illustrated by a passage in Lord Byron, (Childe Harold, iv. cxvii.)
"The sweetness of the violet's deep-blue dies,
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies."
