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!Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;