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Lo! the sun-god is e’en now turning towards the earth his chariot-car resplendent; before yon fire the stars retire
to night’s mysterious gloom from forth the firmament; the peaks of Parnassus, where no man may set foot, are all ablaze and hail the car of day for mortal’s service.
Up mounts the smoke of myrrh, offering of the desert;
85
to Phoebus’ roof; there on the holy tripod sits the Delphian priestess, chanting to the ears of
Hellas
in numbers loud, whate’er Apollo doth proclaim. Ye Delphians, votaries of Phoebus, away!
90
to Castalia’s gushing fount as silver clear, and, when ye have bathed you in its waters pure, enter the shrine; and keep your lips in holy silence that it may be well, careful to utter words of good omen amongst yourselves
95
to those who wish to consult the oracle; while I with laurel-sprays and sacred wreaths and drops of water sprinkled o’er the floor will purify the entrance to the shrine of Phoebus,
100
my task each day from childhood’s hour; and with my bow will I put to flight the flocks of feathered fowls that harm his sacred offerings;
105
for here in Phoebus’ shrine, which nurtured me, I minister, an orphan, fatherless and motherless.
110
Lo! the sun-god is e’en now turning towards the earth his chariot-car resplendent; before yon fire the stars retire
to night’s mysterious gloom from forth the firmament; the peaks of Parnassus, where no man may set foot, are all ablaze and hail the car of day for mortal’s service.
Up mounts the smoke of myrrh, offering of the desert;
85
to Phoebus’ roof; there on the holy tripod sits the Delphian priestess, chanting to the ears of
Hellas
in numbers loud, whate’er Apollo doth proclaim. Ye Delphians, votaries of Phoebus, away!
90
to Castalia’s gushing fount as silver clear, and, when ye have bathed you in its waters pure, enter the shrine; and keep your lips in holy silence that it may be well, careful to utter words of good omen amongst yourselves
95
to those who wish to consult the oracle; while I with laurel-sprays and sacred wreaths and drops of water sprinkled o’er the floor will purify the entrance to the shrine of Phoebus,
100
my task each day from childhood’s hour; and with my bow will I put to flight the flocks of feathered fowls that harm his sacred offerings;
105
for here in Phoebus’ shrine, which nurtured me, I minister, an orphan, fatherless and motherless.
110
Ion. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1906.
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