Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue,O Mercury, whose wit could tameMan's savage youth by power of songAnd plastic game!Thee sing I, herald of the sky,Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet,Hiding whate'er might please thine eyeIn frolic cheat.See, threatening thee, poor guileless child,Apollo claims, in angry tone,His cattle;—all at once he smiled,His quiver gone.Strong in thy guidance, Hector's sireEscaped the Atridae, pass'd betweenThessalian tents and warders' fire,Of all unseen,Thou lay'st unspotted souls to rest;Thy golden rod pale spectres know;Blest power! by all thy brethren blest,Above, below!