Quoted By:
<span class="mu-b">“How then shall I sing of you, O Phoebus,
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 Elatius
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,
O 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 Iolcus 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.
From there you crossed the Euripus, far-shooting Apollo,
and went up the green, holy hills,
going on to Mycalessus and grassy-bedded Teumessus,
and so came to the wood-clad abode of Thebe;
for as yet no man lived in holy Thebe,
nor were there tracks or ways about Thebe's wheat-bearing plain as yet…</span>
His words are sublime, the pacing perfect - even his work upon the lyre seems to be plucked from the halls of Olympus. Incredibly, the man creates the impression of improvisation, nodding at audience members who must clearly hail from the regions about which he sings - he is correctly deducing the origins of audience members and then concocting the poetry even as he performs it! Your mind rejects the concept even as it generates the thought - no mortal man can do such a thing!
Odysseus curses the necessity of illness in the world, even as he praises Apollo for his defense of the young - as Odysseus sings further of Apollo and the many blessings that Hellas receives from him, he weeps in gratitude for the gifts of the far-shooter, the sheer emotion flowing from his lips causing many in the raptly-attentive crowd to weep as well - yourself included! Your heart is moved by the truth of Odysseus' words - how many children has Apollo saved? How many vile, chthonic beasts have been slain by brilliant Phoebus? Surely, the blessing are countless.
A half-hour passes and Odysseus' expertly-woven stanzas close - he finishes with a desperate request that Apollo himself remember this performance, since Odysseus will never sing of it again; again, the implication that he simply spun the poetry out of his mind spontaneously and will not remember it later himself. When he concludes, the audience explodes in praise - surely, none present can top this performance, and your prediction is borne out - the other competitors, yourself included, are called to perform, but this inferior poetry is swiftly forgotten in the face of Odysseus' legendary performance.
King Anios summons Odysseus, his son Thasos, and Pollux to the stage - he presents the three with a golden, silver and bronze lyre pin, respectively.
