143Such was the grove the bard had drawn to him, and he sat in the middle of an assembly of wild beasts and a throng of birds. 145When he had tested enough with his thumb the strings he had struck, and felt that the notes, though they sounded differently, were in harmony, he raised his voice in this song: 'From Jupiter, Muse my mother (all things yield to Jupiter's rule!), set my songs in motion! 149Jupiter's power has often been sung by me before: I sang of the Giants with a heavier plectrum, and of the victorious thunderbolts scattered over the Phlegraean plains; now there is need of a lighter lyre, and let us sing of boys loved by the gods above, and of girls who, maddened by forbidden fires, earned punishment for their lust.' 155The king of the gods above once burned with love for Phrygian Ganymede, and something was found that Jupiter would rather be than what he was.
157Yet he does not deign to be turned into any bird except one that could carry his thunderbolts. 159Without delay, beating the air on false wings, he snatches away the descendant of Ilus; 160who even now mixes the cups and, to Juno's displeasure, serves nectar to Jupiter. 162You too, son of Amyclas, Phoebus would have set in the heavens, if the sad fates had given him time to set you there. 164Yet, as far as is allowed, you are everlasting: as often as spring drives winter away and the Ram follows the watery Fish, so often do you rise and bloom on the green turf. 167You my father loved before all others, and Delphi, placed at the centre of the world, lacked its guardian while the god haunted the Eurotas and unwalled Sparta.
170Neither lyre nor arrows are held in honour: forgetful of himself, he does not refuse to carry the nets, to hold the hounds, to go as a companion over the ridges of the rugged mountain, and by long familiarity he feeds his flames. 174And now Titan was almost midway between the night to come and the night gone by, and stood at an equal distance from either: they free their bodies of clothing, gleam with the juice of the rich olive, and begin a contest with the broad discus. 178This Phoebus first poised and sent into the airy breezes, and with its weight he scattered the clouds in its way.
180After a long time the weight fell back onto the solid earth and displayed skill joined with strength. 182At once, unthinking and driven by eagerness for the game, the Taenarian youth hurried to pick up the disc. 183But the hard earth, struck, sent it rebounding up into your face, Hyacinthus. 185The god turned as pale as the boy himself, and catches up the collapsing limbs, and now warms you again, now dries the grievous wounds, now applies herbs and holds back the fleeing soul. 189His arts are of no use: the wound was past healing. 190As, if someone in a garden should break violets or a stiff poppy or lilies bristling with tawny tongues, they would suddenly droop their limp heads, wilting, and not hold themselves up, and would gaze at the earth with their tops: so the dying face lies, and the neck, its strength gone, is a burden to itself and sinks back on the shoulder.
196'You are slipping away, son of Oebalus, cheated of your first youth,' says Phoebus, 'and I see your wound, my crime. 198You are my grief and my guilt: my right hand must be inscribed as the cause of your death! 199I am the author of your death. 200Yet what is my fault? 200Unless playing can be called a fault, unless loving too can be called a fault. 202And would that I were allowed to give up my life with you, as I deserve! 203But since we are held by the law of fate, you will always be with me and will cling to my mindful lips. 205You the lyre struck by my hand, you my songs will sound, and as a new flower you will imitate my groans with writing on your petals.
207And a time will come too when the bravest of heroes will add himself to this flower and be read on the same petal.' 209While these words are being spoken by Apollo's truthful lips, see, the blood which had poured onto the ground and stained the grass ceases to be blood, and a flower, brighter than Tyrian purple, springs up and takes the shape that lilies have, were it not that this one's colour is purple and theirs silver. 214This is not enough for Phoebus (for he was the author of the honour): he himself inscribes his groans on the petals, and the flower bears AI AI written on it, and the mournful letters are traced there.
217Nor is Sparta ashamed to have borne Hyacinthus, and his honour lasts to this age, and each year the Hyacinthia return, to be celebrated in the ancestral manner with a procession going before.