THE SECOND HYMN OF CALLIMACHUS.

TO APOLLO.

Hah! how the Laurel, great Apollo's Tree,
 And all the Cavern shakes! far off, far off,
 The Man that is unhallow'd: for the God,
 The God approaches. Hark! He knocks: the Gates
 Feel the glad Impulse: and the sever'd Bars
 Submissive clink against their brazen Portals. 
Why do the Delian Palms incline their Boughs,
 Self-mov'd: and hov'ring Swans, their Throats releas'd
 From native Silence, carol Sounds harmonious? 

Begin, young Men, the Hymn: let all your Harps
 Break their inglorious Silence; and the Dance,
 In mystic Numbers trod, explain the Music. 
But first by ardent Pray'r, and clear Lustration
 Purge the contagious Spots of Human Weakness:
 Impure no Mortal can behold Apollo. 
So may Ye flourish, favor'd by the God,
 In Youth with happy Nuptials, and in Age
 With silver Hairs, and fair Descent of Children;
 So lay Foundations for aspiring Cities,
 And bless your spreading Colonies Encrease. 

Pay sacred Rev'rence to Apollo's Song;
 Lest wrathful the far-shooting god emitt
 His fatal Arrows. Silent Nature stands;
 And Seas subside, obedient to the Sound
 Of Io, Io Pean! nor dares Thetis
 Longer bewail Her lov'd Achilles' Death:
 For Phoebus was his Foe. Nor must sad Niobe
 In fruitless Sorrow persevere, or weep
 Ev'n thro' the Phrygian Marble. Hapless Mother! 
Whose Fondness cou'd compare her Mortal Off-spring
 To those which fair Latona bore to Jove. 
Io! again repeat Ye, Io Pean! 

Against the Deity 'tis hard to strive. 
He that resists the Power of Ptolemy,
 Resists the Pow'r of Heav'n: for Pow'r from Heav'n
 Derives; and Monarchs rule by Gods appointed. 

Recite Apollo's Praise, 'till Night draws on,
 The Ditty still unfinish'd; and the Day
 Unequal to the Godhead's Attributes
 Various, and Matter copious of your Songs. 

Sublime at Jove's right Hand Apollo sits,
 And thence distributes Honor, gracious King,
 And Theme of Verse perpetual. From his Robe
 Flows Light ineffable: his Harp, his Quiver,
 And Lictian Bow are Gold: with golden Sandals
 His Feet are shod; how rich! how beautiful! 
Beneath his Steps the yellow Min'ral rises;
 And Earth reveals her Treasures. Youth and Beauty
 Eternal deck his Cheek: from his fair Head
 Perfumes distill their Sweets; and chearful Health,
 His dutious Handmaid, thro' the Air improv'd,
 With lavish Hand diffuses Scents Ambrosial. 

The Spear-man's Arm by Thee, great God, directed,
 Sends forth a certain Wound. The Laurel'd Bard,
 Inspir'd by Thee, composes Verse Immortal. 
Taught by thy Art Divine, the sage Physician
 Eludes the Urn; and chains, or exiles Death. 

Thee Nomian We adore; for that from Heav'n
 Descending, Thou on fair Amphrysus' Banks
 Did'st guard Admetus' Herds. Sithence the Cow
 Produc'd an ampler Store of Milk; the She-Goat
 Not without Pain dragg'd her distended Udder;
 And Ewes, that erst brought forth but single Lambs,
 Now drop'd their Two-fold Burdens. Blest the Cattle,
 On which Apollo cast his fav'ring Eye! 

But, Phoebus, Thou to Man beneficent,
 Delight'st in building Cities. Bright Diana,
 Kind Sister to thy infant-Deity
 New-wean'd, and just arising from the Cradle,
 Brought hunted wild Goats-Heads, and branching Antlers
 Of Stags, The Fruit and Honor of her Toil. 
These with discerning Hand Thou knew'st to range,
 (Young as Thou wast) and in the well-fram'd Models,
 With Emblematic Skill, and mystic Order,
 Thou shew'dst, where Towers, or Battlements should rise;
 Where gates should open; or where Walls should compass:
 While from thy childish Pastime Man receiv'd
 The future Strength, and Ornament of Nations. 

Battus, our great Progenitor, now touch'd
 The Lybian Strand; when the fore-boding Crow
 Flew on the Right before the People, marking
 The Country destin'd the auspicious Seat
 Of future Kings, and Favor of the God,
 Whose Oath is sure, and Promise stands Eternal. 

Or Boedromian hear'st Thou pleas'd, or Clarian,
 Phoebus, great King? for diff'rent are Thy Names,
 As Thy kind Hand has founded many Cities,
 Or dealt benign Thy various Gifts to Man. 
Carnean let Me call Thee; for my Country
 Calls Thee Carnean: the fair Colony
 Thrice by Thy gracious Guidance was transported,
 E'er settl'd in Cyrene; there W'appointed
 Thy annual Feasts, kind God, and bless thy Altars
 Smoaking with Hecatombs of slaughter'd Bulls;
 As Carnus, thy High-Priest, and favor'd Friend,
 Had er'st ordain'd; and with mysterious Rites,
 Our great Forefathers taught their Sons to worship. 
Io Carnean Phoebus! Io Pean! 

The yellow Crocus there, and fair Narcissus
 Reserve the Honors of their Winter-Store,
 To deck Thy Temple; 'till returning Spring
 Diffuses Nature's various Pride; and Flow'rs
 Innumerable, by the soft South-west
 Open'd, and gather'd by Religious Hands,
 Rebound their Sweets from th'odorif'rous Pavement. 
Perpetual Fires shine hallow'd on Thy Altars. 
When Annual the Carnean Feast is held,
 The warlike Libyans clad in Armor, lead
 The Dance, with clanging Swords and Shields They beat
 The dreadful Measure: in the Chorus join
 Their Women, Brown but Beautiful: such Rites
 To Thee well-pleasing. Nor had yet Thy Votaries,
 From Greece transplanted, touch'd Cyrene's Banks,
 And Lands determin'd for their last Abodes;
 But wander'd thro' Azilis' horrid Forrest
 Dispers'd; when from Myrtusa's craggy Brow,
 Fond of the Maid, auspicious to the City,
 Which must hereafter bear her favor'd Name,
 Thou Gracious deign'st to let the Fair One view
 Her Typic People; Thou with Pleasure taught'st Her
 To draw the Bow, to slay the shaggy Lyon,
 And stop the spreading Ruin of the Plains. 
Happy the Nymph, who honor'd by Thy Passion,
 Was aided by thy Pow'r! The monstrous Python
 Durst tempt Thy Wrath in vain: for dead He fell,
 To thy great Strength, and golden Arms unequal. 

Io! while Thy unerring Hand elanc'd
 Another, and another Dart; The People
 Joyful repeated, Io! Io Pean! 
Elance the Dart, Apollo: for the Safety,
 And Health of Man, gracious Thy Mother bore Thee. 

Envy Thy latest Foe suggested thus:
 Like Thee I am a Pow'r Immortal; therefore
 To Thee dare speak. How can'st Thou favor partial
 Those Poets who write little? Vast and Great
 Is what I Love: The far extended Ocean
 To a small Riv'let I prefer. Apollo
 Spurn'd Envy with His Foot; and thus the God:
 Dæmon, the head-long Current of Euphrates,
 Assyrian River, copious runs, but Muddy;
 And carries forward with his stupid Force
 Polluting Dirt; His Torrent still augmenting,
 His Wave still more defil'd: mean while the Nymphs
 Melissan, Sacred and Recluse to Ceres,
 Studious to have their Off'rings well receiv'd,
 And fit for Heav'nly Use, from little Urns
 Pour Streams select, and Purity of Waters. 

Io! Apollo, mighty King, let Envy
 Ill-judging and Verbose, from Lethe's Lake
 Draw Tons unmeasurable; while Thy Favor
 Administers to my ambitious Thirst
 The wholesome Draught from Aganippe's Spring
 Genuine, and with soft Murmurs gently rilling
 Adown the Mountains, where Thy Daughters haunt.