Doth Strymon summon to the field: of yore
When he the tuneful Muse addressed,
A gliding stream he sought her snowy breast,
Thee, lovely youth, the yielding goddess bore:
To us thou com’st a tutelary power
Yoking thy coursers to the fervid car:
O Phrygia! O my country! at this hour
Hastes thy deliverer glittering from afar,
Him may’st thou call thy Jove, thy thunderbolt of war.