Classic Poem

Bright grandson of old Atlas, thrice-eloquent of tongue,
Who raised the early races by the graces of your art,
With oratory noble and the splendid gift of song,
Who wrought a thousand wonders and reformed the savage heart,

I sing of you, light messenger of Jove and all the gods—
The parent of the lyre and the higher lord of theft;
Who smiles on his disciples, and in spite of all the odds,
Who seizes what he pleases and then smiles when nothing's left.

Once when you were a little boy, Apollo in a rage,
(His oxen having vanished as though banished from the sun)
Knowing your mischiefs, threatened you, not thinking of your age,
Then of a sudden stopped and laughed—his quiver too had gone!

And it was you whose guidance and whose mighty power led
The wealthy Priam when he left the many walls of Troy;
Deceived the sons of Atreus and saved his hoary head
By stealing through the camp which Trojans never could destroy.

You are companion to the soul, conductor of the dead;
The evil spirits cower at the power of your rod;
The airy throngs to soft abodes eternally are led
By you, who are the favorite of each and every god.