I
sing of Artemis, whose shafts are of gold, who cheers on the hounds, the pure
maiden, shooter of stags, who delights in archery, own sister to Apollo with
the golden sword. Over the shadowy hills and windy peaks she draws her golden
bow, rejoicing in the chase, and sends out grievous shafts. The tops of the
high mountains tremble and the tangled wood echoes awesomely with the outcry of
beasts: earthquakes and the sea also where fishes shoal.
But
the goddess with a bold heart turns every way destroying the race of wild
beasts: and when she is satisfied and has cheered her heart, this huntress who
delights in arrows slackens her supple bow and goes to the great house of her
dear brother Phoebus Apollo, to the rich land of Delphi, there to order the
lovely dance of the Muses and Graces.
There
she hangs up her curved bow and her arrows, and heads and leads the dances,
gracefully arrayed, while all they utter their heavenly voice, singing how
neat-ankled Leto bare children supreme among the immortals both in thought and
in deed.
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