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and that he would be, for men on earth, a prophet above all mortals, and that his race would never fail. Such was his speech. But they claimed that they had neither seen nor heard the baby, born four days ago. For it had been hidden in the rushes and the boundless thicket,
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his tender body washed in the golden and purple light of violets. Therefore his mother declared that he should be called for all time
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by this immortal name, “Iamus.” And when he had attained the delightful fruit of golden-crowned Youth, he went down into the middle of the Alpheus, and called on wide-ruling Poseidon, his grandfather, and on the Archer who watches over god-built Delos,
praying that the honor of caring for the people be on his head, under the clear night sky. His father’s voice responded in clear speech, and sought him out: “Rise, my son, and follow my voice here to a place that welcomes all.”
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They came to the steep rock of the lofty hill of Cronus.
There the god gave him a double treasure of prophecy: there and then to hear a voice that did not know how to lie; and when bold-plotting Heracles came, the sacred scion of the Alcidae, and founded for his father a festival frequented by mortals and the greatest ritual of contests,
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then he commanded him to establish an oracle on the highest altar of Zeus.
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Since then the race of the sons of Iamus has been very famous throughout Greece, Prosperity attended them; and by honoring excellence, they walk along a bright path. Every action brings evidence. Envious blame from others hangs
over those who have once driven first down the final course of a race, and on whom honored Grace has shed glorious beauty. But if, Hagesias, it is true that the men on your mother’s side, living below the boundaries of Cyllene,
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