Ion
Come, thou tender laurel-shoot, gathered from gardens divine to wait upon the glorious god,
thou that sweepest clean the altar of Phoebus hard by his shrine, where holy founts, that ever gush with ceaseless flow,
115
bedew the myrtle’s hallowed spray wherewith I cleanse the temple-floor the livelong day, so soon as the swift sun-god wings his flight on high, in my daily ministration.
120
Hail Paean, prince of healing! blest, ah! doubly blest be thou, child of Latona!
125
Ion. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1906.
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