Homeric Hymn to Apollo
Hymn to Apollo

Memory must now turn to far-shooting Apollon.
The gods of the house of Zeus tremble at his coming,
and at once all spring up from their seats
as he approaches, stringing his splendid bow.
Leto alone remains by Zeus who delights in thunder
to unstring Apollon's bow and close his quiver;
from his mighty shoulders with her hands she takes
the bow and hangs it up on a golden peg
on her father's pillar, and after that she leads him to a seat.
Then his father offers him nectar in a golden goblet
and drinks a toast to his dear son; and then
the other gods sit down as mighty Leto rejoices,
because she bore a valiant son who carries the bow.

Hail, O blessed Leto, because you bore illustrious children,
lord Apollon and arrow-pouring Artemis,
her on Ortygia and him on rocky Delos,
as you leaned against the towering mass of the Kynthian hill,
very near a palm tree by the streams of the Inopos.
How shall I match the hymns already sung in your honor?
For everywhere, Phoibos, the field of singing is your domain,
both on the islands and the mainland which nurtures heifers.
All peaks and high ridges of lofty mountains
and rivers flowing seawards and harbors of the sea
and beaches sloping toward it give you pleasure.
Shall I sing how first Leto bore you, a joy to mortals,
as she leaned against Mount Kynthos, on the rocky and sea-girt
island of Delos, while on either side a dark wave
swept landwards impelled by shrill winds?
Thence you arose to rule over all mortal men:
over the inhabitants of Crete and of the town of Athens,
of Aigina and Euboea, famous for ships,
of Aigai and Eiresiai and Peparethos by the sea,
of Thracian Athos and Pelion's lofty peaks,
ofThracian Samos and Ida's shady mountains,
of Skyros and Phokaia and Autokane's steep heights,
of well-built Imbros and Lemnos, enveloped in haze,
of holy Lesbos, realm of Makar, son of Aiolos,
of Chios, brightest of all the islands lying in the sea,
of craggy Mimas and the lofty peaks of Korykos,
of shimmering Klaros and Aisagee's steep heights,
of well-watered Samos and Mykale's towering peaks,
of Miletos and Kos, city of Meropian men,
of rugged Knidos and wind-swept Karpathos,
of Naxos and Paras and rocky Rhenaia.
So many places did Leto visit, in travail with the far-shooter,
searching for a land which would give him a home.
But they trembled greatly in fear, and none dared-
not even the richer ones-to be a host to Phoibos,
until indeed mighty Leto set foot on Delos
and made an inquiry, addressing winged words to her:

"Delos, would you want to be the abode of my son,
Phoibos Apollon, and to house him in a lavish temple?
For it cannot escape you that no other will touch you
since I think you shall never be rich in oxen or sheep
and shall never produce vintage nor grow an abundance of plants.
If you have a temple for Apollon who shoots from afar,
then all men shall gather here and bring  hecatombs,
and the ineffably rich savor of burning fat
shall always rise, and you shall feed your dwellers
from the hands of strangers, since your soil is barren."

So she spoke. Then Delos rejoiced and gave this answer:
"Leto, most glorious daughter of great Koios,
I would gladly receive your offspring, the lord
who shoots from afar; since truly the sound of my name
is no pleasure to men, thereby I would be greatly honored.
But, Leto, I shall not hide the fear this word brings me.
They say that Apollon will be haughty
and greatly lord it over the immortal gods
and the mortal men of the barley-bearing earth.
Thus I dreadfully fear in my heart and soul
lest, when he first sees the light of the sun,
scorning an island whose ground is rocky,
he overturn me with his feet and push me into the deep sea.
And there a great billow will always flood me
up to my highest peak, while he arrives at another land,
where it may please him to establish a temple and wooded groves.
Then polyps will settle on me and black seals on me
will make their carefree abodes where there are no people.
But, goddess, if only you would deign to swear a great oath,
that here first he would build a beautiful temple
to be an oracle for men and afterwards
among all men, since today many are his names."
So she spoke, and Leto swore the god's great oath:
"Earth be my witness and the wide heaven above
and the cascading water of the Styx,
which is the greatest and most awful oath among the blessed gods,
that here there shall always be a fragrant altar and temple
for Phoibos and that he shall honor you above all others."

And when she swore and completed her oath
the far-shooting lord's expected birth brought great joy to Delos;
and for nine days and nine nights Leto was racked
by travail unexpected. The goddesses were all with her-
the best ones, that is-such as Dione, Rhea,
Ichnaian Themis, loud-groaning Amphitrite,
and other immortal goddesses save white-armed Hera,
who sat in the palace of cloud-gathering Zeus.
Only Eileithyia, goddess of labor pains, did not find out,
for she sat on top of Olympos under golden clouds,
through the counsels of white-armed Hera, who restrained her
out of jealousy, because fair-tressed Leto
was about to give birth to a mighty and blameless son.
They sent Iris forth from the well-built island
to bring Eileithyia, promising a great necklace
nine cubits long and held together by golden threads.
And they bid Iris call her apart from white-armed Hera
lest, with her words, she turn Eileithyia back from going.
When swift Iris, fleet of foot as the wind, heard this,
she set out to run and quickly traversed all the midspace,
and when she reached lofty Olympos, the seat of the gods,
forthwith she called Eileithyia out of the palace
to the doors and, addressing her with winged words,
told her all, as she had been commanded by the Olympian goddesses.
She did persuade her heart in her dear breast
and as they went their gait was like that of timid doves.
And when Eileithyia, goddess of travail, set foot on Delos,
the pains of labor seized Leto, and she yearned to give birth.
She threw her two arms round the palm tree, and propped her knees
on the soft meadow while the earth beneath her was all smiles.
Apollon sprang forth to the light, and all the goddesses screamed.
Then, noble Phoibos, the goddesses bathed you pure and clean
with fresh water and swaddled you in a white sheet,
fine and new-woven, and around you they wrapped a golden band.
Nor did his mother nurse Apollon of the golden sword
but Themis poured for him nectar and lovely ambrosia
with her immortal hands, and Leto rejoiced
for giving birth to a mighty son who carries the bow.
But when, O Phoibos, you devoured this food for immortals,
neither golden bands could hold you as you struggled
nor bonds restrain you, for their ends came loose.
Forthwith among the goddesses spoke Phoibos Apollon:

"My wish is to hold dear the lyre and the curved bow
and to prophesy for men the unerring will of Zeus."
With these words the long-haired, far-shooting god
walked away over the earth and its wide roads, and all
the goddesses were dazzled while all Delos with gold
was laden, looking upon the offspring of Zeus and Leto,
for joy, because from among the islands and the mainland
a god chose her for his dwelling and loved her dearly in his heart
bloomed as does a mountain peak with the flowers of the forest.
You yourself, far-shooting lord of the silver bow,
sometimes set foot on rocky Kynthos
while at other times you roam among islands and among men.
Many temples and wooded groves are yours,
and all the peaks and towering crags of lofty mountains
and rivers flowing forth to the sea are dear to you.

But it is in Delos, O Phoibos, that your heart delights the most,
for Ionians with trailing garments gather there
in your honor together with their children and modest wives.
And with boxing matches, dancing, and song, they delight you
and remember you whenever they hold the contests.
Whoever comes upon the Ionians, when they are gathered,
might think they were forever immortal and ageless.
For he would see their grace and delight his soul,
looking upon the fair-girded women and the men
with their swift ships and their many possessions.
There is also a great wonder of everlasting renown,
the Delian maidens, followers of the lord who shoots from afar.
After they first praise Apollon with a hymn
and now again Leto and arrow-pouring Artemis,
they tell of men and women who lived long ago
and sing a hymn, charming the races of men.
The tongues of all men and their noisy chatter
they know how to mimic; such is their skill in composing the song
that each man might think he himself were speaking.