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46 Whom erst from his prophetic throne

Phœbus, he said, had call'd his own.

That he, o'er all of mortal birth,

His sire's prophetic power might claim,

Nor should his race e'er fail on earth

To keep alive their deathless name.

Thus spoke the god—but they averr'd

No eye had seen, no ear had heard;

Though since his natal day

The fifth revolving sun had shed

Its lustre o'er the infant's head.

Meanwhile within the rushy glade,

And tangled bushes' thickest shade,

His tender frame all wet with dew,

And gemm'd with violet's purple hue,

Conceal'd from human sight he lay

And hence his mother bade the prophet's name

To each succeeding age his birth proclaim.

Soon as he gain'd from opening time

The golden flower of youthful prime,

Shrouded in night his steps he bore

Down to Alphéus' middle shore,

Invoking from the depths below

His great forefather Neptune's might,

And potent sire, whose silver bow

Defends the heaven-built Delos' height.

That public honour and renown

His brows might with their chaplet crown.

When thus in accents of eternal truth

His father's voice approved the suppliant's prayer,

"To Pisa's crowded plain, adventurous youth,

Follow my call, and strive for glory there."