To whom the king (who felt his generous breast Touch'd with concern for his unhappy guest) Replies--'Ah! why forbears the son to name His wretched father, known too well by fame? Fame, that delights around the world to stray, 810 Scorns not to take our Argos in her way. Ev'n those who dwell where suns at distance roll, In northern wilds, and freeze beneath the pole, And those who tread the burning Libyan lands, The faithless Syrtes, and the moving sands; Who view the western sea's extremest bounds, Or drink of Ganges in their eastern grounds; All these the woes of Oedipus have known, Your fates, your furies, and your haunted town. If on the sons the parents' crimes descend, 820 What prince from those his lineage can defend? Be this thy comfort, that 'tis thine t' efface, With virtuous acts, thy ancestors' disgrace, And be thyself the honour of thy race. But see! the stars begin to steal away, And shine more faintly at approaching day; Now pour the wine; and in your tuneful lays Once more resound the great Apollo's praise.' 'O father Phoebus! whether Lycia's coast And snowy mountains thy bright presence boast: 830 Whether to sweet Castalia thou repair, And bathe in silver dews thy yellow hair; Or pleased to find fair Delos float no more, Delight in Cynthus and the shady shore; Or choose thy seat in Ilion's proud abodes, The shining structures raised by labouring gods: By thee the bow and mortal shafts are borne; Eternal charms thy blooming youth adorn: Skill'd in the laws of secret fate above, And the dark counsels of almighty Jove, 840 'Tis thine the seeds of future war to know, The change of sceptres and impending woe, When direful meteors spread through glowing air Long trails of light and shake their blazing hair. Thy rage the Phrygian felt, who durst aspire T' excel the music of thy heavenly lyre; Thy shafts avenged lewd Tityus' guilty flame, Th' immortal victim of thy mother's fame; Thy hand slew Python, and the dame who lost Her numerous offspring for a fatal boast. 850 In Phlegyas' doom thy just revenge appears, Condemn'd to Furies and eternal fears; He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye, The mouldering rock that trembles from on high. 'Propitious hear our prayer, O power divine! And on thy hospitable Argos shine; Whether the style of Titan please thee more, Whose purple rays th' Achaemenes adore: Or great Osiris, who first taught the swain In Pharian fields to sow the golden grain; 860 Or Mithra, to whose beams the Persian bows, And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows; Mithra! whose head the blaze of light adorns, Who grasps the struggling heifer's lunar horns.' * * * * * JANUARY AND MAY. FROM CHAUCER.[58]