from The Power of Music

O lyre of gold, Apollo’s

Treasure, shared with the violet-wreathed Muses,

The light foot hears you, and the brightness begins:

Your notes compel the singer

When to lead out the dance

The prelude is sounded on your trembling strings.

You quench the warrior
Thunderbolt’s everlasting flame:

On God’s sceptre the Eagle sleeps,

Drooping his swift wings on either side.

Pindar