But he, the Sun-God, did no sooner taste That food divine than every swaddling band Burst strand by strand, And burst the belt above his panting waist-- All hanging loose About him as he stood and gave command: 'Fetch me my lyre, fetch me my curving bow! And, taught by these, shall know All men, through me, the unfaltering will of Zeus!' So spake the unshorn God, the Archer bold, And turn'd to tread the ways of Earth so wide; While they, all they, had marvel to behold How Delos broke in gold Beneath his feet, as on a mountain-side Sudden, in Spring, a tree is glorified And canopied with blossoms manifold. But he went swinging with a careless stride, Proud, in his new artillery bedight, Up rocky Cynthus, and the isles descried-- All his, and their inhabitants--for wide, Wide as he roam'd, ran these in rivalry To build him temples in many groves: And these be his, and all the isles he loves, And every foreland height, And every river hurrying to the sea. But chief in thee, Delos, as first it was, is his delight. Where the long-robed Ionians, each with mate And children, pious to his altar throng, And, decent, celebrate His birth with boxing-match and dance and song: So that a stranger, happening them among, Would deem that these Ionians have no date, Being ageless, all so met; And he should gaze And marvel at their ways, Health, wealth, the comely face On man and woman--envying their estate-- And yet _You_ shall he least be able to forget, You maids of Delos, dear ones, as ye raise The hymn to Phoebus, Leto, Artemis, In triune praise, Then slide your song back upon ancient days And men whose very name forgotten is., And women who have lived and gone their ways: And make them live agen, Charming the tribes of men, Whose speech ye mock with pretty mimicries So true They almost woo The hearer to believe he's singing too! Speed me, Apollo: speed me, Artemis! And you, my dears, farewell! Remember me Hereafter if, from any land that is, Some traveller question ye-- 'Maidens, who was the sweetest man of speech Fared hither, ever chanted on this beach?' I you beseech Make answer to him, civilly-- 'Sir, he was just a blind man, and his home In rocky Chios. But his songs were best, And shall be ever in the days to come.' Say that: and as I quest In fair wall'd cities far, I'll tell them there (They'll list, for 'twill be true) Of Delos and of you. But chief and evermore my song shall be Of Prince Apollo, lord of Archery. God of the Silver Bow, whom Leto bare-- Leto, the lovely-tress'd.