The bird-choros of Ion

BIRDS from Parnassus, swift you dart from the loftiest peaks; you hover, dip, you sway and perch undaunted on the gold-set cornice; you eagle, god’s majestic legate, who tear, who strike song-birds in mid-flight, my arrow whistles toward you, swift be off; ah drift, ah drift so soft, so light, your scarlet foot so deftly placed to waft you neatly to the pavement, swan, swan and do you really think your song that tunes the harp of Helios, will save you from the arrow-flight? turn back, back to the lake of Delos; lest all the song notes pause and break across a blood-stained throat gone songless, turn back, back ere it be too late, to wave-swept Delos. Alas, and still another, what? you’d place your mean nest in the cornice? sing, sing my arrow-string, tell to the thief that plaits its house for fledglings in the god’s own house, that still the Alpheus whispers sweet to lure the birdlets to the place, that still the Isthmus shines with forests; on the white statues must be found no straw nor litter of bird-down, Phœbos must have his portal fair; and yet, O birds, though this my labour is set, though this my task is clear, though I must slay you, I, god’s servant, I who take here my bread and life and sweep the temple, still I swear that I would save you, birds or spirits, winged songs that tell to men god’s will; still, still the Alpheus whispers clear to lure the bird-folk to its waters, ah still the Isthmus blossoms fair; lest all the song notes pause and break across a blood-stained throat gone songless, turn back, back ere it be too late, to wave-swept Delos.