34. For Apollon

Come, blessed Paian, slayer of Tityos;
O Phoibos, Lykoreus, god of Memphis,
bright famed giver of wealth, crying “ie!”
With a golden lyre, herdsman, lord of seeds,
Pythios, Titan, Gryneios, Smintheus,
slayer of Python, and Delphic prophet.

Wild, lovely, light-bringing daimon, renowned
youth, you lead the Mousai in choral dance,
flinging far arrows from a bow, holy
finned-one, Didymeus, Loxias working
from afar, Lord of Delos. Your eye sees
all and brings light to mortals. Gold haired, you
reveal accurate oracular words.

Hear me praying for the people and have
a kindly heart. For you see the boundless
Aither, and the rich earth from up above;
and through the dead of night, in still silence,
under starry-eyed darkness, you perceive
the roots below. You hold the cosmic bounds.
You have concern for the first and the last.

Decked with flowers, you harmonize the poles
with your quick-striking lyre, arriving now
at the highest string, then turning downward
to the lowest ones, in the Doric mode;
balancing the poles you draw distinctions
between living nations. In harmony
you measure a common share to people,
an equal mix of winter and summer
for each of them; and you pick out the notes:
the lowest with winter, and the highest
for summer. In the Doric mode you play
for spring’s much loved and flowery season.

For this, mortals celebrate you in song,
and call you Lord and Pan, the two-horned god
who sends forth the whistling songs of the winds.
Wherefore you hold the seal of the cosmos—
hear, blessed one, the initiates’ cry,
supplicants, for you to be their savior.