Mercury, Atlas's smooth-spoken grandson,
who wisely shaped new humans' brutish ways
through language and the institution of
    beautiful wrestling,

of you I'll sing, the messenger of mighty
Jove and the gods, the curving lyre's inventor,
who cleverly with playful theft can hide
    that which has pleased you.

Once, when Apollo frightened you, a child,
with threatening voice if you did not return
the cattle filched through trickery, he laughed,
    robbed of his quiver.

With you as a leader, wealthy Priam left
Ilium, hidden from the pompous sons
of Atreus, Thessalian fires, and camps
    hostile to Trojans.

You settle pious souls within the joyous
realms, and you keep the weightless horde confined
with your gold staff. You gratify the gods
    upper and lower.