And mitigates her woes, in golden clouds The milder pow'rs, that near the lab'ring fair Then fought with many a pray'r her needful aid, Swiftly they measur'd back the viewless airy space. Soon as to Delos' ifle Lucina came The pangs of travail feiz'd Latona's frame. Her Her twining arms fhe threw the palm around, The Sifter Pow'rs that round Latona ftood With chafte ablutions cleans'd the infant-god. His lovely limbs in mantle white they bound, And gently drew a golden fwathe around. He hung not helpless at his mother's breast, But Themis fed him with an heavenly feaft. Pleas'd while Latona views the heavenly boy, And fondly glows with all a mother's joy, The lufty babe, strong with ambrofial food, In vain their bonds or golden fwathes withstood, Bonds, swathes, and ligaments with ease he broke, And thus the wondring Deities bespoke "The lyre, and founding bow, and to declare "The Thund'rer's counfels, be Apollo's care!" He spake; and onwards all majestic strode ; The Queens of Heaven awe-ftruck view'd the God. Delos beheld him with a tender fmile, And hail'd, enrich'd with gold, her happy isle; Her happy ifle, Apollo's native feat, His facred haunt, his best-belov'd retreat. Now ftony Cynthus wou'd the God ascend, And now his courfe to various iflands bend. Full many a fane, and rock, and fhady grove, River, and mountain, did Apollo love; But chiefly Delos: The Ionians there, With their chafte wives and prattling babes, repair. There gladly celebrate Apollo's name With many a folemn rite and facred game; And with the Cæftus urge the manly war. Their gallant sports a stranger shou'd behold, View the strong nerves the brawny chiefs that brace, Or the fofter charms of female grace, eye Then Then mark their riches of a thousand kinds, Their tongues so justly tune with accents new, Latona! Phoebus! Dian, lovely fair! If haply fome poor pilgrim fhall enquire, "O, virgins, who most skilful smites the lyre? "Whose lofty verse in sweetest descant rolls, "And charms to extafy the hearers fouls ?" O anfwer, a blind bard in Chios dwells, In all the arts of verfe who far excells. Then o'er the earth shall spread my glorious fame, But Phœbus never will I cease to fing, Thee Lycia and Mæonia, thee, great Pow'r, Now Pytho's ftony foil Apollo treads, Olympus now and the divine abodes Glorious he feeks, and mixes with the Gods. Each heavenly bofom pants with fond defire To hear the lofty verfe and golden lyre. } Drawn |