Such was the grove that gathered round the poet.
In that assembly of wild beasts and birds,
the Thracian singer sat. He tried the chords:
he plucked them with his thumb; and when he heard
that, although each note had a different sound,
it stood in right relation to the rest,
he lifted up his voice. This was his chant:
“O Muse, my mother, let my song begin
with Jove (he is the king of every thing).
I’ve often sung his power before: I’ve told
the story of the Giants; in solemn mode
I chanted of those smashing lightning bolts
that on Phlaegrean fields were hurled by Jove.
But now my matter needs more tender tones:
I sing of boys the gods have loved, and girls
incited by unlawful lust and passions,
who paid the penalty for their transgressions.