Grandson of Atlas (MERCURI FACUNDE)

     Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue,
             O Mercury, whose wit could tame
     Man's savage youth by power of song
             And plastic game!
     Thee sing I, herald of the sky,
       Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet,
     Hiding whate'er might please thine eye
             In 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 sire
       Escaped the Atridae, pass'd between
     Thessalian 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!

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