STROPHE.
Oh! sweet-tongued oracle of Phœbus, say,
To aid th’ illustrious Thebans’ ancient shore,
Dost thou from golden Delphos bend thy way,
Where thousand altars daily incense pour?
God, we invoke thee by thy three-fold name,
Rack’d with suspence, and palpitating fear,
Whate’er thou now, or henceforth shalt proclaim,
We list in silence, and with reverence hear.
Child of Hope, immortal Fame,
Deign the dark decree to prove;10
Thy pow’r omnipotent we claim,
Pallas! progeny of Jove!