Declare, O muse, in what ill-fated hour Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power? Latona's son a dire contagion spread, And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead; The king of men his reverend priest defy'd, And for the king's offence the people dy'd. Declare, O goddess, what offended power Enflam'd their _rage_, in that _ill-omen'd_ hour; anger, fatal, hapless Phoebus himself the _dire_ debate procur'd, fierce T' avenge the wrongs his injur'd priest endur'd; For this the god a dire infection spread, And heap'd the camp with millions of the dead: The king of men the sacred sire defy'd, And for the king's offence the people dy'd. For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain His captive daughter from the victor's chain; Suppliant the venerable father stands, Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands, By these he begs, and, lowly bending down, Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown. For Chryses sought by _presents to regain_ costly gifts to gain His captive daughter from the victor's chain; Suppliant the venerable father stands, Apollo's awful ensigns grac'd his hands, By these he begs, and, lowly bending down _The golden sceptre_ and the laurel crown, Presents the sceptre _For these as ensigns of his god he bare, The god that sends his golden shafts afar_; Then low on earth, the venerable man, Suppliant before the brother kings began. He sued to all, but chief implor'd for grace The brother kings of Atreus' royal race; Ye kings and warriors, may your vows be crown'd, And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground; May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er, Safe to the pleasures of your native shore. To all he sued, but chief implor'd for grace The brother kings of Atreus' royal race. Ye _sons of Atreus_, may your vows be crown'd, Kings and warriors _Your labours, by the gods be all your labours crown'd; So may the gods your arms with conquest bless, And_ Troy's proud walls _lie_ level with the ground: _Till_ _laid_ _And crown your labours with deserv'd success_ May Jove restore you, when your toils are o'er, Safe to the pleasures of your native shore. But, oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain, And give Chryseis to these arms again; If mercy fail, yet let my present move, And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove. But, oh! relieve a hapless parent's pain, And give my daughter to these arms again; _Receive my gifts_; if mercy fails, yet let my present move, And fear _the god that deals his darts around_, avenging Phosbus, son of Jove.