Horace, Ode 1.10 || To Mercury

Mercuri, facunde nepos Atlantis,
qui feros cultus hominum recentum
voce formasti catus et decorae
     more palaestrae,

te canam, magni Iovis et deorum               5
nuntium curvaeque lyrae parentem,
callidum quicquid placuit iocoso
     condere furto.

Te, boves olim nisi reddidisses
per dolum amotas, puerum minaci               10
voce dum terret, viduus pharetra
     risit Apollo.

Quin et Atridas duce te superbos
Ilio dives Priamus relicto
Thessalosque ignis et iniqua Troiae               15
     castra fefellit.

Tu pias laetis animas reponis
sedibus virgaque levem coerces
aurea turbam, superis deorum
     gratus et imis.

Mercury, eloquent grandson of Atlas,

Who skillfully shaped the savage customs of the

Early days of man with voice and with the graceful

Custom of the wrestling ring,

I will sing about you, messenger of great Jupiter

And the gods, and progenitor of the curved lyre,

Crafty enough to hide whatever you please

In playful theft.

Apollo laughed while he was trying to frighten you

With a threatening voice when you were a boy,

Unless you returned the cattle taken away by your trickery,

Without his arrow.

And in fact wealthy Priam, with you as his guide,

Left Ilium behind and escaped the notice of the

Boastful Atrides and Thessalian fires and camps

Hostile to Troy.

You conduct pious souls to their happy (resting) places

And coax the weightless crowd with your golden staff,

Pleasing to the gods above and those below.