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1044–1095.
Stroph. I.
Fain would I be where meet,
In brazen-throated war,
The rush of foes who wheel in onset fleet,
Or by the Pythian shore,
Or where the waving torches gleam afar,
Where the Dread Powers watch o'er
Their mystic rites for men that mortal are,
E'en they whose golden key
Hath touched the tongue of priests, Eumolpidæ:
There, there, I deem, our Theseus leads the fight,
And those two sisters, dauntless, undismayed,
Will meet, with eager clamour of delight
That nothing leaves unsaid,
Where through these lands they tread.
Antistroph. I.
In brazen-throated war,
The rush of foes who wheel in onset fleet,
Or by the Pythian shore,
Or where the waving torches gleam afar,
Where the Dread Powers watch o'er
Their mystic rites for men that mortal are,
E'en they whose golden key
Hath touched the tongue of priests, Eumolpidæ:
There, there, I deem, our Theseus leads the fight,
And those two sisters, dauntless, undismayed,
Will meet, with eager clamour of delight
That nothing leaves unsaid,
Where through these lands they tread.
Or do they now, perchance,
On to the western slope
Of old Œatis' snowy crest advance,
Hastening on swiftest steed,
Or in swift chariots each with other cope?
Now will be spoil indeed:
Dread is their might who form our country's hope,
And dread the strength of those
Whom Theseus leads to triumph o'er their foes.
Each bit is glittering, all the squadrons speed;
Shaking their reins, they urge their horses on,
E'en they who serve Athena on her steed,
Or Rhea's ocean Son,
Who makes the earth his throne.
Stroph. II.
On to the western slope
Of old Œatis' snowy crest advance,
Hastening on swiftest steed,
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Now will be spoil indeed:
Dread is their might who form our country's hope,
And dread the strength of those
Whom Theseus leads to triumph o'er their foes.
Each bit is glittering, all the squadrons speed;
Shaking their reins, they urge their horses on,
E'en they who serve Athena on her steed,
Or Rhea's ocean Son,
Who makes the earth his throne.
Act they, or linger still?
Ah, how my soul forecasts the coming fate,
That he, against his will,
Will yield the maid whose daring has been great,
Who hath borne greatest ill
From hands of her own kin; but, soon or late,
Zeus works to-day great things:
I prophesy of glorious victories.
Ah! would that I on wings,
Swift as a dove on airy cloud that flies,
Might glad my longing eye
With sight of that much yearned-for victory!
Antistroph. II.
Ah, how my soul forecasts the coming fate,
That he, against his will,
Will yield the maid whose daring has been great,
Who hath borne greatest ill
From hands of her own kin; but, soon or late,
Zeus works to-day great things:
I prophesy of glorious victories.
Ah! would that I on wings,
Swift as a dove on airy cloud that flies,
Might glad my longing eye
With sight of that much yearned-for victory!
O Zeus! that reign'st on high,
All-seeing, grant the rulers of our land,
In strength of victory,
With good success in ambush there to stand;
And Thou, his child revered,
Athena Pallas; Thou, the huntsman-God,
Apollo, loved and feared.
And she, thy sister, who the woods hath trod
Following the dappled deer
Swift-footed; lo! on each of you I call,—
Come, bringing succour near
To this our land, and to its people all.
All-seeing, grant the rulers of our land,
In strength of victory,
With good success in ambush there to stand;
And Thou, his child revered,
Athena Pallas; Thou, the huntsman-God,
Apollo, loved and feared.
And she, thy sister, who the woods hath trod
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Swift-footed; lo! on each of you I call,—
Come, bringing succour near
To this our land, and to its people all.
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