To some, I wot, not wise herein I seem, 565
Nor wilt thou praise: but mine halls have not learnt
To thrust away nor to dishonour guests.
Chorus.
(Str. 1)
Halls thronged of the guests ever welcome, O dwelling
Of a hero, for ever the home of the free,
The Lord of the lyre-strings sweet beyond telling, 570
Apollo, hath deignèd to sojourn in thee.
Amid thine habitations, a shepherd of sheep,
The flocks of Admetus he scorned not to keep,
While the shepherds' bridal-strains, soft-swelling
From his pipe, pealed over the slant-sloped lea.
(Ant. 1)
And the spotted lynxes for joy of thy singing
Mixed with thy flocks; and from Othrys' dell 580
Trooped tawny lions: the witchery-winging
Notes brought dancing around thy shell,
Phœbus, the dappled fawn from the shadow
Of the tall-tressed pines tripping forth to the meadow,
Beating time to the chime of the rapture-ringing
Music, with light feet tranced by its spell.
(Str. 2)
Wherefore the flocks of my lord unnumbered
By the Bœbian mere fair-rippling stray: 590
Where the steeds of the sun halt, darkness-cumbered,
By Molossian marches, far away
The borders lie of his golden grain,
And his rolling stretches of pasture-plain;
And the havenless beach Aegean hath slumbered
Under Pelion long 'neath the peace of his sway.
