For not estrang'd from your benignant arts
Is he, the God, to whose mysterious shrine
My youth was sacred, and my votive cares
Are due; the learned Paeon. Oft when all
His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain;
When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm
Rich with the genial influence of the sun,
(To rouze dark fancy from her plaintive dreams,
To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win
Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast
Which pines with silent passion) he in vain
Hath prov'd; to your deep mansions he descends.
Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades,
He entereth; where impurpled veins of ore
Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine
Your trickling rills insinuate. There the God
From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl
Wafts to his pale-ey'd suppliants; wafts the seeds
Metallic and the elemental salts
Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink: and soon
Flies pain; flies inauspicious care: and soon
The social haunt or unfrequented shade
Hears Io, Io Paean; as of old,
When Python fell. And, O propitious Nymphs,
Oft as for hapless mortals I implore
Your salutary springs, thro' every urn
O shed selected atoms, and with all
Your healing powers inform the recent wave.