What man, what hero, Clio sweet,On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim?What god shall echo's voice repeatIn mocking gameTo Helicon's sequester'd shade,Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill,Where once the hurrying woods obey'dThe minstrel's will,Who, by his mother's gift of song,Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze,And led with blandishment alongThe listening trees?Whom praise we first? the sire on high,Who gods and men unerring guides,Who rules the sea, the earth, the sky,Their times and tides.No mightier birth may he beget;No like, no second has he known;Yet nearest to her sire's is setMinerva's throne.