Fain am I, by the favour of the Graces
Deep-girt, to chant aloud the victory won
By Telesikrates, Kyrene’s son,
At Pytho in the brazen-harnessed races.
His fortune fair I sing, and chant the glory
That crowns the city of the flying car,
Kyrene!—Her Apollo, saith the story,
The bright-haired Son of Leto, caught afar
From Pelion’s dells with echoing winds enfolden,
And bare her thence upon his chariot golden,
That huntress-maid, to where he made her queen
Of flocks and harvests in her wide demesne,
The third part of the great earth’s boundless bosom,
A root of leafage fair and lovely blossom.