Hymn to Apollo

How the laurel-branch of Apollo trembled! How the whole shrine trembled! Away, away with whoever is sinful! And now surely Phoebus knocks at the doors with his fair foot. Do you not see? The Delian palm has nodded sweetly, all at once, and the swan sings beautifully in the air. Now of yourselves draw back, you bolts of the gates, and you, the keys; for the god is no longer far off. And you young men, make ready for the song and for the dance.

Apollo does not appear to all, but only to whoever is good; whoever sees him, that man is great; whoever sees him not, that man is lowly. We shall see you, Far-shooter, and we shall never be lowly. Let not the children keep the lyre silent, nor their step soundless, now that Phoebus has come to dwell among us, if they mean to accomplish their marriage and to cut their grey hair, and that the wall may stand upon its ancient foundations. I marvel at the children, since the tortoise-shell is no longer idle. Keep holy silence as you hear, at the song of Apollo. Even the sea keeps silence, when the singers celebrate either the lyre or the bow, the gear of Lycorean Phoebus. Nor does Thetis, his mother, wail her dirges for Achilles, whenever she hears the cry "Hië Paiëon, Hië Paiëon." And even the weeping rock holds back its sorrows, that wet stone set fast in Phrygia, the marble in place of a woman, gaping in some lament. Cry "Hië, hië"; it is an evil thing to strive with the blessed gods. Whoever fights the blessed gods, let him fight my king; whoever fights my king, let him fight Apollo too. The chorus that sings to Apollo what is after his heart he will honour; for he has the power, since he sits at the right of Zeus. Nor will the chorus sing of Phoebus for one day only, for he is rich in song; who would not readily sing of Phoebus?

Golden is Apollo's mantle and his clasp, and his lyre, and his Lyctian bow, and his quiver; golden too are his sandals; for Apollo is rich in gold. And rich in possessions too: by Pytho you may judge it. And he is ever beautiful and ever young; never upon Phoebus's womanish cheeks has come so much as the down of youth. His tresses drip fragrant oils upon the ground; no common fat do Apollo's locks distil, but very healing itself; and in whatever city those drops fall to the earth, all things become free of harm. None is so manifold in skill as Apollo; to him belongs the archer, to him the singer (for to Phoebus are entrusted both the bow and song), his are the prophetic lots and the seers; and from Phoebus the physicians have learned the postponement of death. We call Phoebus also Nomios, ever since that time when by the Amphrysus he tended the yoked mares, fired with love for the youth Admetus. Easily would the herd grow larger, nor would the she-goats of the flock lack young, on whichever ones Apollo turned his eye as they grazed; nor would the ewes be without milk or barren, but all would have lambs at foot, and she who bore one would soon bear twins.

Following Phoebus, men have measured out their cities; for Phoebus ever delights in cities being founded, and Phoebus himself weaves their foundations. Four years old, Phoebus first laid the foundations in fair Ortygia near the round lake. Artemis, hunting, kept bringing the heads of Cynthian goats continually, and Apollo plaited an altar. He built the base of horns, and fixed the altar of horns, and laid horn walls round about. Thus first did Phoebus learn to raise foundations. Phoebus too showed my deep-soiled city to Battus, and as a raven led the people entering Libya, favourable to the founder, and swore he would give walls to our kings; and Apollo is ever true to his oath. Apollo, many call you Boedromios, and many Clarios, and everywhere your name is manifold; but I call you Carneios; for so it is in my father's house. Sparta, Carneios, was your first abode, and second again Thera, but third the city of Cyrene. From Sparta the sixth generation of the line of Oedipus led you to be settled at Thera; and from Thera sturdy Aristoteles set you in the Asbystian land, and built you a very fair temple, and in the city established a yearly rite, in which many bulls fall for the last time upon their haunch, O lord. Hië, hië, Carneios, much-besought, and your altars bear flowers in spring, as many as the Hours in their variety bring when the west wind breathes the dew, and in winter the sweet crocus; and your fire is ever unfailing, nor does the ash ever feed about yesterday's ember. Truly Phoebus rejoiced greatly, when the men, the war-belted warriors of Enyo, danced with the fair-haired Libyan women, when for them the appointed Carnean seasons came. But not yet had the Dorians come to the springs of Cyre; they dwelt in Azilis, thick with glens. The lord himself beheld them, and showed them to his nymph, standing on horned Myrtussa, where Hypseis slew the lion, the ravager of the oxen of Eurypylus. No other dance more divine has Apollo seen than that, nor to any city has he granted so many blessings as to Cyrene, remembering his former rape. Nor have they themselves, the sons of Battus, honoured any other god more than Phoebus.

Hië, hië, Paiëon we hear, because this refrain the Delphic people first invented, when you displayed the far-shooting of your golden bow. At Pytho, as you came down, there met you a daemonic beast, a dread serpent. Him you slew, casting shaft upon shaft, your swift arrow, and the people cried aloud, "Hië, hië, Paiëon, let fly the bolt." Straightway your mother bore you a helper, and from that time it is sung.

Envy spoke secretly into Apollo's ears: "I do not admire the singer who does not sing even as much as the sea." Apollo spurned Envy with his foot, and spoke thus: "Great is the stream of the Assyrian river, but it draws much refuse of the earth and much rubbish upon its water. And not from every source do the Bees carry water to Deo, but only that which, pure and undefiled, creeps up from a holy spring, a little drip, the choicest of all." Hail, lord; and let Blame go where Envy is.