Still as he rises in th' ethereal height, His native mountains lessen to his sight; While all his sad companions upward gaze, Fixed on the glorious scene in wild amaze; 645 And the swift hounds, affrighted as he flies, Run to the shade, and bark against the skies. This golden bowl with gen'rous juice was crowned, The first libations sprinkled on the ground, By turns on each celestial pow'r they call; 650 With Phoebus' name resounds the vaulted hall. The courtly train, the strangers, and the rest, Crowned with chaste laurel, and with garlands dressed, While with rich gums the fuming altars blaze, Salute the god in num'rous hymns of praise. 655 Then thus the king: "Perhaps, my noble guests, These honoured altars, and these annual feasts To bright Apollo's awful name designed, Unknown, with wonder may perplex your mind. Great was the cause; our old solemnities 660 From no blind zeal, or fond tradition rise; But saved from death, our Argives yearly pay These grateful honours to the god of day. "When by a thousand darts the Python slain With orbs unrolled lay cov'ring all the plain,[110] 665 (Transfixed as o'er Castalia's streams he hung, And sucked new poisons with his triple tongue)[111] To Argos' realms the victor god resorts, And enters old Crotopus' humble courts. This rural prince one only daughter blest, 670 That all the charms of blooming youth possessed; Fair was her face, and spotless was her mind, Where filial love with virgin sweetness joined. Happy! and happy still she might have proved, Were she less beautiful, or less beloved! 675 But Phoebus loved, and on the flow'ry side Of Nemea's stream, the yielding fair enjoyed: Now, ere ten moons their orb with light adorn, Th' illustrious offspring of the god was born; The nymph, her father's anger to evade, 680 Retires from Argos to the sylvan shade; To woods and wilds the pleasing burden bears, And trusts her infant to a shepherd's cares. "How mean a fate, unhappy child! is thine? Ah how unworthy those of race divine? 685 On flow'ry herbs in some green covert laid, His bed the ground, his canopy the shade,[112] He mixes with the bleating lambs his cries, } While the rude swain his rural music tries } To call soft slumbers on his infant eyes. } 690 Yet ev'n in those obscure abodes to live, Was more, alas! than cruel fate would give, For on the grassy verdure as he lay, And breathed the freshness of the early day, Devouring dogs the helpless infant tore, 695