Where shall my song begin, ye Nymphs, or end? Wide is your praise and copious--first of things, First of the lonely powers, ere Time arose, Were Love and Chaos. Love,[A] the sire of Fate; [B] Elder than Chaos. [C] Born of Fate was Time, [D] Who many sons and many comely births Devour'd, [E] relentless father; till the child Of Rhea [F] drove him from the upper sky, [G] And quell'd his deadly might. Then social reign'd 30 The kindred powers, [H] Tethys, and reverend Ops, And spotless Vesta; while supreme of sway Remain'd the Cloud-Compeller. From the couch Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race, [I] Who from a thousand urns, o'er every clime, Send tribute to their parent; and from them Are ye, O Naiads: [J] Arethusa fair, And tuneful Aganippe; that sweet name, Bandusia; that soft family which dwelt With Syrian Daphne; [K] and the honour'd tribes 40 Beloved of Paeon. [L] Listen to my strain, Daughters of Tethys: listen to your praise. You, Nymphs, the winged offspring, [M] which of old Aurora to divine Astraeus bore, Owns, and your aid beseecheth. When the might Of Hyperion, [N] from his noontide throne, Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you They ask; Pavonius and the mild South-west Prom you relief implore. Your sallying streams [O] Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart. 50 Again they fly, disporting; from the mead Half-ripen'd and the tender blades of corn, To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel Contagious steams, which oft the parched earth Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve. Along the river and the paved brook, Ascend the cheerful breezes: hail'd of bards Who, fast by learned Cam, the AEolian lyre Solicit; nor unwelcome to the youth Who on the heights of Tibur, all inclined 60 O'er rushing Arno, with a pious hand The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes, Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp Of ancient Time; and haply, while he scans The ruins, with a silent tear revolves The fame and fortune of imperious Rome. You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid The rural powers confess, and still prepare For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands, Oft as the Delian king [P] with Sirius holds 70 The central heavens, the father of the grove Commands his Dryads over your abodes To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the god Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime.