Euripides, Ion 82–183: Ion sweeps the temple at dawn and drives off the birds

Lo! the sun-god is e’en now turning towards the earth his chariot-car resplendent; before yon fire the stars retire to night’s mysterious gloom from forth the firmament; the peaks of Parnassus, where no man may set foot, are all ablaze and hail the car of day for mortal’s service. Up mounts the smoke of myrrh, offering of the desert; to Phoebus’ roof; there on the holy tripod sits the Delphian priestess, chanting to the ears of Hellas in numbers loud, whate’er Apollo doth proclaim. Ye Delphians, votaries of Phoebus, away! to Castalia’s gushing fount as silver clear, and, when ye have bathed you in its waters pure, enter the shrine; and keep your lips in holy silence that it may be well, careful to utter words of good omen amongst yourselves to those who wish to consult the oracle; while I with laurel-sprays and sacred wreaths and drops of water sprinkled o’er the floor will purify the entrance to the shrine of Phoebus, my task each day from childhood’s hour; and with my bow will I put to flight the flocks of feathered fowls that harm his sacred offerings; for here in Phoebus’ shrine, which nurtured me, I minister, an orphan, fatherless and motherless.

Come, thou tender laurel-shoot, gathered from gardens divine to wait upon the glorious god, thou that sweepest clean the altar of Phoebus hard by his shrine, where holy founts, that ever gush with ceaseless flow, bedew the myrtle’s hallowed spray wherewith I cleanse the temple-floor the livelong day, so soon as the swift sun-god wings his flight on high, in my daily ministration. Hail Paean, prince of healing! blest, ah! doubly blest be thou, child of Latona!

Fair the service that I render to thee, Phoebus, before thy house, honouring thy seat of prophecy; a glorious task I count it, to serve not mortal man but deathless gods; wherefore I never weary of performing holy services. Phoebus is to me as the father that begot me, for as such I praise the god that gives me food. Whom I call by that helpful name of father, Tis Phoebus, who dwelleth in the temple, Hail Paean, healing god, good luck to thee and blessing, child of Latona!

My task is nearly done of sweeping with the laurel broom, so now from a golden ewer will I sprinkle o’er the ground water from Castalia’s gushing spring, scattering the liquid dew with hands from all defilement free. Oh may I never cease thus to serve Phoebus, or, if I do, may fortune smile upon me! Ha! they come, the feathered tribes, leaving their nests on Parnassus. I forbid ye to settle on the coping or enter the gilded dome. Thou herald of Zeus, that masterest the might of other birds with those talons of thine, once more shall my arrow o’ertake thee. Lo! another comes sailing towards the altar, a swan this time; take thy bright plumes elsewhere; the lyre that Phoebus tuneth to thy song shall never save thee from the bow; so fly away, and settle at the Delian mere, for if thou wilt not hearken, thy blood shall choke the utterance of thy fair melody. Ha! what new bird comes now? Does it mean to lodge a nest of dry straw for its brood beneath the gables? Soon shall my twanging bow drive thee away. Dost not hear me? Away and rear thy young amid the streams of swirling Alpheus, or get thee to the woody Isthmian glen, that Phoebus’ offerings and his shrine may take no hurt. I am loth to slay ye, ye messengers to mortal man of messages from heaven; still must I serve Phoebus, to whose tasks I am devoted, nor will I cease to minister to those that give me food.