('The Homeric Hymns,' III, 179 ff )
0 Lord, Lycia is yours and lovely Maeonia and Miletus, charming city by the sea, but over Delos you greatly reign your own self.
Leto's all-glorious son goes to rocky Pytho, playing upon his hollow lyre, clad in divine, perfumed
garments; and at the touch of the golden key his lyre sings sweet. Thence, swift as thought, he
speeds from earth to Olympus, to the house of Zeus, to join the gathering of the other gods: then
straightway the undying gods think only of the lyre and song, and all the Muses together, voice
sweetly answering voice, hymn the unending gifts the gods enjoy and the sufferings of men, all that
they endure at the hands of the deathless gods, and how they live witless and helpless and cannot
find healing for death or defense against old age. Meanwhile the rich-tressed races and cheerful
Seasons dance with Harmonia and Hebe and Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, holding each other by the
wrist. And among them sings one, not mean nor puny, but tall to look upon and enviable in mien,
Artemis who delights in arrows, sister of Apollo. Among them Sport Ares and the keen-eyed Slayer
of Argus, while Apollo plays his lyre stepping high and featly and a radiance shines around him, the
gleaming of his feet and dose-woven vest. And they, even gold-tressed Leto, and wise Zeus, rejoice
in their great hearts as they watch their dear son playing among the undying gods.
How then shall I sing of you-though in all ways you are a worthy theme for song? Shall I sing of
you as wooer and in the fields of love, how you went wooing the daughter of Azan along with god-like Ischys the son of well-horsed Flatius, or with Phorbas sprung from Triops, or with Ereutheus,
or with Leucippus and the wife of Leucippus . . . you on foot, he with his chariot, yet he fell not
short of Triops. Or shall I sing how at the first you went about the earth seeking a place of oracle
for men, 0 far-shooting Apollo? To Pieria first you went down from Olympus and passed by sandy
Lectus and Enienae and through the land of the Perrhaebi. Soon you came to folcus and set foot on
Cenaeum in Euboea, famed for ships: you stood in the Lelantine plain, but it pleased not your heart
to make a temple there and wooded groves. . . .
And further still you went, 0 far-shooting Apollo, and came to Orchestus, Poseidon's bright grove:
there the new-broken colt distressed with drawing the trim chariot gets spirit again, and the skilled
driver springs from his car and goes on his way. . . .
Then you went towards Telphusa: and there the pleasant place seemed fit for making a temple and
wooded grove. You came very near and spoke to her: 'Telphusa, here I am minded to make a
glorious temple, and oracle for men, and hither they will always bring perfect hecatombs, both
those, who live in rich Peloponnesus and those of Europe all the wave-washed isles, coming to seek
oracles. And I will deliver to them all counsel that cannot fail, giving answer in my rich temple.,
So said Phoebus Apollo, and laid out all the foundations throughout, wide and very long. But
when Telphusa saw this, she was angry in heart and spoke, saying: 'Lord Phoebus, worker from afar,
I will speak a word of counsel to your heart, since you are minded to make here a glorious temple
to be an oracle for men who will always bring hither perfect hecatombs for you; yet I will speak out,
and do you lay up my words in your heart. The trampling of swift horses and the sound of mules
watering at my sacred springs will always irk you, and men like better to gaze at the well-made
chariots and stamping, swift-footed horses than at your great temple and the many treasures that are
within. But if you will be moved by me-for you, lord, are stronger and mightier than 1, and your
strength is very great-build at Crisa below the glades of Parnassus,: there no bright chariot will clash,
and there will be no noise of swift-footed horses near your well-built altar. But so the glorious tribes
of men will bring gifts to you as lepaeon ("Hail-Healer"), and you will receive with delight rich
sacrifices from the people dwelling round about.' So said Telphusa, that she alone, and not the Far-Shooter, should have renown there; and she persuaded the Far-Shooter.
Further yet you went, far-shooting Apollo, until you came to the town of the presumptuous
Phlegyae who dwell on this earth in a lovely glade near the Cephisian lake, caring not for Zeus. And
thence you went . . . to Crisa beneath snowy Parnassus, a foothill turned towards the
west: a cliff hangs over it from above, and a hollow, rugged glade runs under. There the lord Phoebus Apollo resolved to make his lovely temple, and thus he said
'In this place I am minded to build a glorious temple to be an oracle for men, and here they will
always bring perfect hecatombs, both they who dwell in rich Peloponnesus and the men of Europe
and from all the wave-washed isles, coming to question me. And I will deliver to them all counsel
that cannot fail, answering them in my rich temple.
When he had said this, Phoebus Apollo laid out all the foundations throughout, wide and very long; and upon these the sons of Erginus, Trophonius and Agamedes, dear to the deathless gods, laid a footing of stone. And the countless tribes of men built the whole temple of wrought stones, to be sung of for ever.
But near by was a sweet flowing spring, and there with his strong bow the lord, the son of Zeus, killed the bloated, great-she-dragon, a fierce monster wont to do great mischief to men upon earth, to men themselves and to their thin-shanked sheep; for she was a very bloody plague. She it was who once received from gold-throned Hera and brought up fell, cruel Typhaon to be a plague to men. Once on a time Hera bare him because she was angry with father Zeus, when the son of Cronos bare all-glorious Athena in his head. . . .
And this Typhaon used to work great mischief among the famous tribes of men. 'whosoever met the dragoness, the day of doom would sweep him away, until the lord Apollo, who deals death from afar, shot a strong arrow at her. Then she, rent with bitter pangs, lay drawing great gasps for breath and rolling about that place. An awful noise swelled up unspeakable as she writhed continually this way and that amid the wood: and so she left her life, breathing it forth in blood. Then Phoebus Apollo boasted over her:
'Now rot here upon the soil that feeds man I You at least shall live no more to be a fell bane to men who eat the fruit of the all nourishing earth, and who will bring hither perfect hecatombs. Against cruel death neither Typhoeus shall avail you nor ill-famed Chimera, but here shall the Earth and shining Hyperion make you rot.'
Thus said Phoebus, exulting over her: and darkness covered her eyes. And the holy strength of Helios made her rot away there: wherefore the place is now called Pytho, and men call the lord Apollo by -another name, Pythian; because on that spot the power of piercing Helios made the monster rot away.
Then Phoebus Apollo saw that the sweet flowing spring had beguiled him, and he started out in anger against Telphusa; and soon coming to her, he stood close by and spoke to her:
'Telphusa, you were not, after all, to keep to yourself this lovely place by deceiving my mind, and pour forth your clear flowing water: here my renown shall also be and not yours alone.'
Thus spoke the lord, far working Apollo, and pushed over upon her a crag, with a shower of
rocks, hiding her streams: and he made himself an alter in a wooded grove very near the clear-flowing stream. In that place all men pray to the great one by the name Telphusian, because he humbled the stream of holy Telphusa.