HYMNS OF HOMER. HYMN TO MERCURY. I. SING, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, In the deep night, unseen by gods or men, II. Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, III. The babe was born at the first peep of day; And the same evening did he steal away Apollo's herds;—the fourth day of the moon, On which him bore the venerable May, From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon, Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep, But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep. IV. Out of the lofty cavern wandering He found a tortoise, and cried out-"A treasure!" (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) The beast before the portal at his leisure The flowery herbage was depasturing, Moving his feet in a deliberate measure Over the turf. Jove's profitable son Eyeing him laughed, and laughing thus begun :— V. "A useful godsend are you to me now, Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know VI. "Better to be at home than out of door; So come with me, and though it has been said That alive defend from magic power, you I know you will sing sweetly when you're dead." Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, Lifting it from the grass on which it fed, VII. Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel, He bored the life and soul out of the beast- Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia's son VIII. And through the tortoise's hard strong skin IX. When he had wrought the lovely instrument, He tried the chords, and made division meet Preluding with the plectrum, and there went Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent X. He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal, XI. Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet head, Revolving in his mind some subtle feat Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might XII. Lo! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has Driven steeds and chariot-the child mean while strode D'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, Where the immortal oxen of the god Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, XIII. He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, But, being ever mindful of his craft, Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks, which seemed before, were aft His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft XIV. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, XV. The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: "Halloo, old fellow with the crooked shoulder You grub those stumps? Before they will bear wine Methinks even you must grow a little older: |