Translations from Homer/Hymn to the Delian Apollo

by Homer

HYMN TO THE DELIAN APOLLO

 

[Ex edit. Frid. August. Wolf. Halæ Saxon. 1781.]

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Of him my soul, of him my song shall tell,
Bowyer Apollo, at whose coming quake
The gods in Jove's Olympian dome that dwell,
And at his presence fit obeisance make
Uprising from their golden thrones, when he
Bends with his strong right hand the bow of majesty.

Alone beside the flash-delighting king
Latona sits, her hands the bowstring slack,
Then—lock'd the quiver—straight doth she unsling
The arms of glory from his mighty back,
And to the pillar'd shaft, his father's own,
Hangs on gold nail aloft; and leads him to his throne.

For him in golden cup the almighty one
Bright nectar pours, and gives the draught to drain,
Betokening thus his well-beloved son;
Hereat the gods resume their thrones again;
Then, holy Leto, laughs thy soul for joy,
That thou heaven's Archer-king hast borne, thy gallant boy.

Hail queen thrice blest, all hail! for thou hast been
Mother of children beautiful and fair,
Of bright Apollo and the shaft-joy'd queen,
Her on Ortygia whilom didst thou bear,
Him on cragg'd Delos¹, lapp'd on Cynthus' mount,
Fast by the palm that shades Inopus' river-fount².

But how, great lord of song, thy glories sing!—
Mark of all nature's minstrelsy³,—for all
Earth's grassy mainlands and gemm'd islets ring
Thy praise, each beacon-hill and foreland tall,
And seaward hurrying streams, and cliffs that sleep
On the salt wave, and all the havens of the deep.

Sing we how Leto thee, the pride of man,
On Cynthus couch'd, in Delos' rocky isle,
Bare, her firstborn!—and how encircling ran
The blue wave o'er its pebbly beach the while
Curl'd by the gusty breeze;—forth starting thence
O'er far-off nations stretch'd thy vast omnipotence.

All who in Crete and peopled Athens breathe,
Bark-famed Euboea, fair Ægina's isle,
Peiresiæ, Ægæ, sea-shore Peparethe,
And Thracian Athos, Pelion's towery pile,
Samos, and Ida dark with many a tree,
Phocæa, Seyros, and the height of huge Autocané;

O'er churlish Lemnos, Imbros' shapely piles,
Lesbos divine, Æolian Macar's bower,
And Chios, loveliest of the ocean-isles,
Cliff-cinctured Mimas, Corycus' vast tower,
Æsageæ's mount, and Claros' bathed in light,
Samos wave-wash'd, and Mycale with many a mountain height:

Miletus, Coos, old Meropian town,
And wind-swept Carpathus and Cnidus tall,
Naxos, and Paros, and Rhenaia's crown
Of crags,—thus far ranged Leto and o'er all
Womb'd with the Archer came, if haply one
A refuge would vouchsafe, delighting in her son.

But they were stricken with alarm, nor vouch'd
The god a home, tho' each with fulness blest,
Ere at famed Delos holy Leto touch'd,
And thus with winged words the isle address'd:
"Delos, if thou no chosen place of rest,
Nor odorous temple to my son wilt grant,
Sink shall thy name unloved and uncarest,
Thy fat kino perish, and thy flocks grow scant,
Wild winds thy vintage waste and wither every plant.

But if thou hold the Archer's wreathed fane,—
To thee shall all men lead rich hecatombs,
Thronging thy shores, and ceaseless victims slain
O'er thine high places roll their fragrant fumes,
And this—if thou wilt nurse on thy domain
My princely infant; so shall heaven's high hand
Fence thee from pirate-foe—a blest tho' barren land.

She said the island joy'd, and answering spake:
"Leto, the mighty Cæus' noblest child,
Unto my breast will I with gladness take
Thy son, the Bowyer-king, for sore reviled
Am I by man, but thus, methinks, shall I
Gain glory upon earth, ay, glory passing high!—

Yet, Leto, hence am I with dread imbued,
Nor will I cloak it from thee, for they say
That fierce Apollo in his angry mood
Will on the immortals his harsh bidding lay,
And, o'er the boon earth scatter'd widely, bind
With his imperious sway the races of mankind.

But from mine inmost soul this dread I most,
Lest, when he catch the sunlight's earliest shine,
He spurn mine isle, since rugged is my coast,
And thrust me down amid the deep sea brine;
Then, leaving me by winds and whirlpools tost,
Seek out some other country, that may please
His soul, and plant thereon a shrine and bowery trees.

While I must hold, by man untenanted,
The chambering polypus, the sea-calves' lair.—
Thou then, O goddess, swear the oath of dread,
That here thy son a temple passing fair
Shall fashion first, a cell of augury
To all mankind, for manifold shall his proud titles be."

This said, the gods' great oath Latona spake,
"Let earth bear witness—heaven's wide cope—attest—
And the dull tide of Styx' slow-creeping lake,
That awful oath, most binding to the blest,
His odorous altar and choice grove, in thee
Shall Phœbus plant, and bless thine isle surpassingly."

Her oath she ended in the babe divine
Joy'd holy Delos with exceeding joy;
But Leto full nine days, and nights full nine,
Worn by sore travail bare the Archer-boy.
Each goddess then, the noblest of heaven's line,
Stood by her side, Dione, Rhea bright,
Ichnæan Themis too, and howling Amphitrite.

And all save white-arm'd Juno. She the while
Sate in the halls of cloud-compeller Jove.
Lone too Lucina, thro' the queen's deep guile,
And veil'd by cloud of gold, heaven's hill above,
Sate,—by fierce Juno's sleepless envy won,
At bright-tress'd Leto doom'd to bear that brave and blameless son.

Then from their beauteous isle the goddess-throng
Sent Iris forth, to implore Lucina's aid,
And pledged her a fair braid nine cubits long,
With golden threads entwined, but strictly bade
That Iris call, from Juno's ken afar,
Lucina forth, lest she by word her coming bar.

Swift Iris heard, and boune for flight withal,
Clave the mid air, and clomb the Olympian crest,—
Seat of the gods—then bade from out the hall
Lucina, and with winged words address'd;
Telling of heaven's fair dwellers' high command,
Nor long did her sweet soul persuasion's voice withstand.

Straight like two fluttering ring-doves fared they forth,
When, just as kindly Delos welcomed them,
O'er her came travail and the pangs of birth,
Her arms then link'd she round a palm-tree stem,
And knelt on the soft meadow-grass: glad Earth
Smiled underneath, then sprang the heavenly boy
Forth to the light, and all the powers loud shouted in their joy.

Then did pure hands thee, Bowyer Phœbus, bathe
In the fair stream, and wrap in snowy fold,
Weblike, fresh shorn,—and gird in golden swathe:
Nor yet did Themis from thy lips withhold
Rich nectar, and the ambrosia's rapturous breath,—
Thy stainless lips, lord of the brand of gold,
From Leto's breast unfed;—then laugh'd with glee
Her soul, in that bright babe her Archer-boy to see.

Vain thought that strove in golden swathe to chain
That heaving chest, on fare immortal fed,—
Knapt were the withes, the babe-clothes rent in twain;
Forthwith then Phœbus to the immortals said,
"Mine be the lyre beloved, the bended bow,
And mine to mortal man Jove's faithful will to show."

This said, along the earth's broad paths he strode,
God of the locks unshorn!—strange thoughts 'gan move
The immortals;—then with gold far Delos glow'd
Eyeing the son of Leto and of Jove,
And glorying that the god for his abode
Her isle had cull'd, and guerdon'd with his love
Above all lands; then brake she forth in flower,
Like some tall hill-top crown'd with many a woodland bower.

Lord of the silver bow! far-darting king!—
Whose footstep now o'er rugged Cynthus roams,
Now thro' far isles and nations wandering,
Thine are a thousand groves, a thousand domes,
Each watch-tower thine, and thine the forelands tall,
Thine the high hills, and streams that into ocean fall.

Yet to thy heart is Delos far more dear,
Whose shores the sweepy-train'd Ionians haunt,
—They and their wives and little ones—to cheer
With cestus-play, and dance, and holy chaunt
Thy name, and there the merry pageant rear.
Fain would he cry, that chanced that throng behold,
"Lo! an immortal race—a race that grows not old!—"

Thrice joyous sight! unbounded and untold—
Of sire and son, pure matron and fair maid,
Of navies fleet, of treasures manifold,
And of that choir whose glory ne'er shall fade,
Daughters of Delos,—handmaids of their king—
The Archer-god, whose praise before all gods they sing.

To Leto next, and shaft-joy'd Dian, then
Telling of that high race of olden time,
Sweet hymns they chaunt, and thrill the tribes of men.—
So deftly they the voice and mellow chime
Of each one imitate, that all would say
"'Tis he himself that speaks"—thus tempers truth the lay.

Hail then!—my song, Apollo, Dian, grace,
Ye too, all hail! and in the days to come
Forget me not, when one of earthly race,
A worn wayfarer, reach your island-home,
And ask, "sweet maids, of all that hither roam
Whom love ye—best your prince of minëstrelles?"—
Then with one voice make answer,—"Ask ye whom?—
"'Tis the blind bard on Scio's rock that dwells,
'Tis he whose sweetest song henceforth all song excells."

But we throughout the wide world journeying long,
Haunts of mankind, thro' mart, and marbled town,
Will bear abroad thy glory—for our song
All ears shall hear, all hearts the truth shall own:
Then hymn we Archer Phœbus evermore,
Lord of the silver bow, whom bright-tress'd Leto bare.