I hail thee the patron of craft and of guile,
To laugh while you grieve, to deceive while you smile,
When you chafed into wrath bright Apollo of old,
His dun-coloured steers having stol'n from the fold,
He laughed; for, while talking all fiercely he found
That his quiver, alack! from his back was unbound.
'Twas thou, who old Priam didst guide on his way,
When he passed unperceived thro' the hostile array,
Of the proud sons of Atreus, who sought to destroy
The towers of high Ilion, the city of Troy.