O, born of the harsh cliff, nourished
by lions, allow yourself to be won over,
I pray, as when fire has been lessened
by clear water, or raging Auster
put to flight by Neptune. For a squadron,
tenacious thanks to Hector’s might,
hems in the Greek forces.
O our light, now quench the fire
of savage anger, through which
the flower of Achaea perish.
Let the cry of the dying, and the
deep-pitched trumpet now remind you
that Lycian spears cannot be sustained
for long, with Phoebus helping (them).