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Phoebus, may my words find grace!

Child, who bare thee, nymph or goddess? sure thy sure was more than man,

Haply the hill-roamer Pan.

Of did Loxias beget thee, for he haunts the upland wold;

Or Cyllene’s lord, or Bacchus, dweller on the hilltops cold?

Did some Heliconian Oread give him thee, a new-born joy?

Nymphs with whom he love to toy?

Have met the man, may make a guess, methinks

I see the herdsman who we long have sought;

His time-worn aspect matches with the years

Of yonder agèd messenger; besides

I seem to recognise the men who bring him

As servants of my own. But you, perchance,

Having in past days known or seen the herd,

May better by sure knowledge my surmise.