, And By The Winds And Storms Of All The Sea, He Swears To Raze From Eyeshot Of The Sun This City Named Not Of His Father'S Name, And Wash To Deathward Down One Flood Of Doom This Whole Fresh Brood Of Earth Yeaned Naturally, Green Yet And Faint In Its First Blade, Unblown With Yellow Hope Of Harvest; So Do Thou, Seeing Whom Thy Time Is Come To Meet, For Fear Yield, Or Gird Up Thy Force To Fight And Die. Erechtheus. To Fight Then Be It; For If To Die Or Live, No Man But Only A God Knows This Much Yet Seeing Us Fare Forth, Who Bear But In Our Hands The Weapons Not The Fortunes Of Our Fight; For These Now Rest As Lots That Yet Undrawn Lie In The Lap Of The Unknown Hour; But This I Know, Not Thou, Whose Hollow Mouth Of Storm Is But A Warlike Wind, A Sharp Salt Breath That Bites And Wounds Not; Death Nor Life Of Mine Shall Give To Death Or Lordship Of Strange Kings The Soul Of This Live City, Nor Their Heel Bruise Her Dear Brow Discrowned, Nor Snaffle Or Goad Wound Her Free Mouth Or Stain Her Sanguine Side Yet Masterless Of Man; So Bid Thy Lord Learn Ere He Weep To Learn It, And Too Late Gnash Teeth That Could Not Fasten On Her Flesh, And Foam His Life Out In Dark Froth Of Blood Vain As A Wind'S Waif Of The Loud-Mouthed Sea Torn From The Wave'S Edge Whitening. Tell Him This; Though Thrice His Might Were Mustered For Our Scathe And Thicker Set With Fence Of Thorn-Edged Spears Than Sands Are Whirled About The Wintering Beach When Storms Have Swoln The Rivers, And Their Blasts Have Breached The Broad Sea-Banks With Stress Of Sea, That Waves Of Inland And The Main Make War As Men That Mix And Grapple; Though His Ranks Were More To Number Than All Wildwood Leaves The Wind Waves On The Hills Of All The World, Yet Should The Heart Not Faint, The Head Not Fall, The Breath Not Fail Of Athens. Say, The Gods From Lips That Have No More On Earth To Say Have Told Thee This The Last Good News Or Ill That I Shall Speak In Sight Of Earth And Sun Or He Shall Hear And See Them: For The Next That Ear Of His From Tongue Of Mine May Take Must Be The First Word Spoken Underground From Dead To Dead In Darkness. Hence; Make Haste, Lest War'S Fleet Foot Be Swifter Than Thy Tongue And I That Part Not To Return Again On Him That Comes Not To Depart Away Be Fallen Before Thee; For The Time Is Full, And With Such Mortal Hope As Knows Not Fear I Go This High Last Way To The End Of All. Chorus. Str. 1. Who Shall Put A Bridle In The Mourner'S Lips To Chasten Them, Or Seal Up The Fountains Of His Tears For Shame? Song Nor Prayer Nor Prophecy Shall Slacken Tears Nor Hasten Them, Till Grief Be Within Him As A Burnt-Out Flame; Till The Passion Be Broken In His Breast And The Might Thereof Molten Into Rest, And The Rain Of Eyes That Weep Be Dry, And The Breath Be Stilled Of Lips That Sigh. Ant. 1. Death At Last For All Men Is A Harbour; Yet They Flee From It, Set Sails To The Storm-Wind And Again To Sea; Yet For All Their Labour No Whit Further Shall They Be From It, Nor Longer But Wearier Shall Their Life'S Work Be. And With Anguish Of Travail Until Night Shall They Steer Into Shipwreck Out Of Sight, And With Oars That Break And Shrouds That Strain Shall They Drive Whence No Ship Steers Again. Str. 2. Bitter And Strange Is The Word Of The God Most High, And Steep The Strait Of His Way. Through A Pass Rock-Rimmed And Narrow The Light That Gleams On The Faces Of Men Falls Faint As The Dawn Of Dreams, The Dayspring Of Death As A Star In An Under Sky Where Night Is The Dead Men'S Day. Ant. 2. As Darkness And Storm Is His Will That On Earth Is Done, As A Cloud Is The Face Of His Strength. King Of Kings, Holiest Of Holies, And Mightiest Of Might, Lord Of The Lords Of Thine Heaven That Are Humble In Thy Sight, Hast Thou Set Not An End For The Path Of The Fires Of The Sun, To Appoint Him A Rest At Length? Str. 3. Hast Thou Told Not By Measure The Waves Of The Waste Wide Sea, And The Ways Of The Wind Their Master And Thrall To Thee? Hast Thou Filled Not The Furrows With Fruit For The World'S Increase? Has Thine Ear Not Heard From Of Old Or Thine Eye Not Read The Thought And The Deed Of Us Living, The Doom Of Us Dead? Hast Thou Made Not War Upon Earth, And Again Made Peace? Ant. 3. Therefore, O Father, That Seest Us Whose Lives Are A Breath, Take Off Us Thy Burden, And Give Us Not Wholly To Death. For Lovely Is Life, And The Law Wherein All Things Live, And Gracious The Season Of Each, And The Hour Of Its Kind, And Precious The Seed Of His Life In A Wise Man'S Mind; But All Save Life For His Life Will A Base Man Give. Str. 4. But A Life That Is Given For The Life Of The Whole Live Land, From A Heart Unspotted A Gift Of A Spotless Hand, Of Pure Will Perfect And Free, For The Land'S Life'S Sake, What Man Shall Fear Not To Put Forth His Hand And Take? Ant. 4. For The Fruit Of A Sweet Life Plucked In Its Pure Green Prime On His Hand Who Plucks Is As Blood, On His Soul As Crime. With Cursing Ye Buy Not Blessing, Nor Peace With Strife, And The Hand Is Hateful That Chaffers With Death For Life. Str. 5. Hast Thou Heard, O My Heart, And Endurest The Word That Is Said, What A Garland By Sentence Found Surest Is Wrought For What Head? With What Blossomless Flowerage Of Sea-Foam And Blood-Coloured Foliage Inwound It Shall Crown As A Heifer'S For Slaughter The Forehead For Marriage Uncrowned? Ant. 5. How The Veils And The Wreaths That Should Cover The Brows Of The Bride Shall Be Shed By The Breath Of What Lover And Scattered Aside? With A Blast Of The Mouth Of What Bridegroom The Crowns Shall Be Cast From Her Hair, And Her Head By What Altar Made Humble Be Left Of Them Naked And Bare? Str. 6. At A Shrine Unbeloved Of A God Unbeholden A Gift Shall Be Given For The Land, That Its Ramparts Though Shaken With Clamour And Horror Of Manifold Waters May Stand; That The Crests Of Its Citadels Crowned And Its Turrets That Thrust Up Their Heads To The Sun May Behold Him Unblinded With Darkness Of Waves Overmastering Their Bulwarks Begun. Ant. 6. As A Bride Shall They Bring Her, A Prey For The Bridegroom, A Flower For The Couch Of Her Lord; They Shall Muffle Her Mouth That She Cry Not Or Curse Them, And Cover Her Eyes From The Sword. They Shall Fasten Her Lips As With Bit And With Bridle, And Darken The Light Of Her Face, That The Soul Of The Slayer May Not Falter, His Heart Be Not Molten, His Hand Give Not Grace. Str. 7. If She Weep Then, Yet May None That Hear Take Pity; If She Cry Not, None Should Hearken Though She Cried. Shall A Virgin Shield Thine Head For Love, O City, With A Virgin'S Blood Anointed As For Pride? Ant. 7. Yet We Held Thee Dear And Hallowed Of Her Favour, Dear Of All Men Held Thy People To Her Heart; Nought She Loves The Breath Of Blood, The Sanguine Savour, Who Hath Built With Us Her Throne And Chosen Her Part. Epode. Bloodless Are Her Works, And Sweet All The Ways That Feel Her Feet; From The Empire Of Her Eyes Light Takes Life And Darkness Flies; From The Harvest Of Her Hands Wealth Strikes Root In Prosperous Lands; Wisdom Of Her Word Is Made; At Her Strength Is Strength Afraid; From The Beam Of Her Bright Spear War'S Fleet Foot Goes Back For Fear; In Her Shrine She Reared The Birth Fire-Begotten On Live Earth; Glory From Her Helm Was Shed On His Olive-Shadowed Head; By No Hand But His Shall She Scourge The Storms Back Of The Sea, To No Fame But His Shall Give Grace, Being Dead, With Hers To Live, And In Double Name Divine Half The Godhead Of Their Shrine. But Now With What Word, With What Woe May We Meet The Timeless Passage Of Piteous Feet, Hither That Bend To The Last Way'S End They Shall Walk Upon Earth? What Song Be Rolled For A Bride Black-Stoled And The Mother Whose Hand Of Her Hand Hath Hold? For Anguish Of Heart Is My Soul'S Strength Broken And The Tongue Sealed Fast That Would Fain Have Spoken, To Behold Thee, O Child Of So Bitter A Birth That We Counted So Sweet, What Way Thy Steps To What Bride-Feast Tend, What Gift He Must Give That Shall Wed Thee For Token If The Bridegroom Be Goodly To Greet. Chthonia. People, Old Men Of My City, Lordly Wise And Hoar Of Head, I A Spouseless Bride And Crownless But With Garlands Of The Dead From The Fruitful Light Turn Silent To My Dark Unchilded Bed. Chorus. Wise Of Word Was He Too Surely, But With Deadlier Wisdom Wise, First Who Gave Thee Name From Under Earth, No Breath From Upper Skies, When, Foredoomed To This Day'S Darkness, Their First Daylight Filled Thine Eyes. Praxithea. Child, My Child That Wast And Art But Death'S And Now No More Of Mine, Half My Heart Is Cloven With Anguish By The Sword Made Sharp For Thine, Half Exalts Its Wing For Triumph, That I Bare Thee Thus Divine. Chthonia. Though For Me The Sword'S Edge Thirst That Sets No Point Against Thy Breast, Mother, O My Mother, Where I Drank Of Life And Fell On Rest, Thine, Not Mine, Is All The Grief That Marks This Hour Accurst And Blest. Chorus. Sweet Thy Sleep And Sweet The Bosom Was That Gave Thee Sleep And Birth; Harder Now The Breast, And Girded With No Marriage-Band For Girth, Where Thine Head Shall Sleep, The Namechild Of The Lords Of Under Earth. Praxithea. Dark The Name And Dark The Gifts They Gave Thee, Child, In Childbirth Were, Sprung From Him That Rent The Womb Of Earth, A Bitter Seed To Bear, Born With Groanings Of The Ground That Gave Him Way Toward Heaven'S Dear Air. Chthonia. Day To Day Makes Answer, First To Last, And Life To Death; But I, Born For Death'S Sake, Die For Life'S Sake, If Indeed This Be To Die, This My Doom That Seals Me Deathless Till The Springs Of Time Run Dry. Chorus. Children Shalt Thou Bear To Memory, That To Man Shalt Bring Forth None; Yea, The Lordliest That Lift Eyes And Hearts And Songs To Meet The Sun, Names To Fire Men'S Ears Like Music Till The Round World'S Race Be Run. Praxithea. I Thy Mother, Named Of Gods That Wreak Revenge And Brand With Blame, Now For Thy Love Shall Be Loved As Thou, And Famous With Thy Fame, While This City'S Name On Earth Shall Be For Earth Her Mightiest Name. Chthonia. That I May Give This Poor Girl'S Blood Of Mine Scarce Yet Sun-Warmed With Summer, This Thin Life Still Green With Flowerless Growth Of Seedling Days, To Build Again My City; That No Drop Fallen Of These Innocent Veins On The Cold Ground But Shall Help Knit The Joints Of Her Firm Walls To Knead The Stones Together, And Make Sure The Band About Her Maiden Girdlestead Once Fastened, And Of All Men'S Violent Hands Inviolable For Ever; These To Me Were No Such Gifts As Crave No Thanksgiving, If With One Blow Dividing The Sheer Life I Might Make End, And One Pang Wind Up All And Seal Mine Eyes From Sorrow; For Such End The Gods Give None They Love Not; But My Heart, That Leaps Up Lightened Of All Sloth Or Fear To Take The Sword'S Point, Yet With One Thought'S Load Flags, And Falls Back, Broken Of Wing, That Halts Maimed In Mid Flight For Thy Sake And Borne Down, Mother, That In The Places Where I Played An Arm'S Length From Thy Bosom And No More Shalt Find Me Never, Nor Thine Eye Wax Glad To Mix With Mine Its Eyesight And For Love Laugh Without Word, Filled With Sweet Light, And Speak Divine Dumb Things Of The Inward Spirit And Heart, Moved Silently; Nor Hand Or Lip Again Touch Hand Or Lip Of Either, But For Mine Shall Thine Meet Only Shadows Of Swift Night, Dreams And Dead Thoughts Of Dead Things; And The Bed Thou Strewedst, A Sterile Place For All Time, Strewn For My Sleep Only, With Its Void Sad Sheets Shall Vex Thee, And The Unfruitful Coverlid For Empty Days Reproach Me Dead, That Leave No Profit Of My Body, But Am Gone As One Not Worth Being Born To Bear No Seed, A Sapless Stock And Branchless; Yet Thy Womb Shall Want Not Honour Of Me, That Brought Forth For All This People Freedom, And For Earth From The Unborn City Born Out Of My Blood To Light The Face Of All Men Evermore Glory; But Lay Thou This To Thy Great Heart Whereunder In The Dark Of Birth Conceived Mine Unlit Life Lay Girdled With The Zone That Bound Thy Bridal Bosom; Set This Thought Against All Edge Of Evil As A Sword To Beat Back Sorrow, That For All The World Thou Brought'St Me Forth A Saviour, Who Shall Save Athens; For None But I From None But Thee Shall Take This Death For Garland; And The Men Mine Unknown Children Of Unsounded Years, My Sons Unrisen Shall Rise Up At Thine Hand, Sown Of Thy Seed To Bring Forth Seed To Thee, And Call Thee Most Of All Most Fruitful Found Blessed; But Me Too For My Barren Womb More Than My Sisters For Their Children Born Shall These Give Honour, Yea In Scorn'S Own Place Shall Men Set Love And Bring For Mockery Praise And Thanks For Curses; For The Dry Wild Vine Scoffed At And Cursed Of All Men That Was I Shall Shed Them Wine To Make The World'S Heart Warm, That All Eyes Seeing May Lighten, And All Ears Hear And Be Kindled; Such A Draught To Drink Shall Be The Blood That Bids This Dust Bring Forth, The Chaliced Life Here Spilt On This Mine Earth, Mine, My Great Father'S Mother; Whom I Pray Take Me Now Gently, Tenderly Take Home, And Softly Lay In His My Cold Chaste Hand Who Is Called Of Men By My Name, Being Of Gods Charged Only And Chosen To Bring Men Under Earth, And Now Must Lead And Stay Me With His Staff A Silent Soul Led Of A Silent God, Toward Sightless Things Led Sightless; And On Earth I See Now But The Shadow Of Mine End, And This Last Light Of All For Me In Heaven. Praxithea. Farewell I Bid Thee; So Bid Thou Not Me, Lest The Gods Hear And Mock Us; Yet On These I Lay The Weight Not Of This Grief, Nor Cast Ill Words For Ill Deeds Back; For If One Say They Have Done Men Wrong, What Hurt Have They To Hear, Or He What Help To Have Said It? Surely, Child, If One Among Men Born Might Say It And Live Blameless, None More Than I May, Who Being Vexed Hold Yet My Peace; For Now Through Tears Enough Mine Eyes Have Seen The Sun That From This Day Thine Shall See Never More; And In The Night Enough Has Blown Of Evil, And Mine Ears With Wail Enough The Winds Have Filled, And Brought Too Much Of Cloud From Over The Sharp Sea To Mar For Me The Morning; Such A Blast Rent From These Wide Void Arms And Helpless Breast Long Since One Graft Of Me Disbranched, And Bore Beyond The Wild Ways Of The Unwandered World And Loud Wastes Of The Thunder-Throated Sea, Springs Of The Night And Openings Of The Heaven, The Old Garden Of The Sun; Whence Never More From West Or East Shall Winds Bring Back That Blow From Folds Of Opening Heaven Or Founts Of Night The Flower Of Mine Once Ravished, Born My Child To Bear Strange Children; Nor On Wings Of Theirs Shall Comfort Come Back To Me, Nor Their Sire Breathe Help Upon My Peril, Nor His Strength Raise Up My Weakness; But Of Gods And Men I Drift Unsteered On Ruin, And The Wave Darkens My Head With Imminent Height, And Hangs Dumb, Filled Too Full With Thunder That Shall Leave These Ears Death-Deafened When The Tide Finds Tongue And All Its Wrath Bears On Them; Thee, O Child, I Help Not, Nor Am Holpen; Fain, Ah Fain, More Than Was Ever Mother Born Of Man, Were I To Help Thee; Fain Beyond All Prayer, Beyond All Thought Fain To Redeem Thee, Torn More Timeless From Me Sorrowing Than The Dream That Was Thy Sister; So Shalt Thou Be Too, Thou But A Vision, Shadow-Shaped Of Sleep, By Grief Made Out Of Nothing; Now But Once I Touch, But Once More Hold Thee, One More Kiss This Last Time And None Other Ever More Leave On Thy Lips And Leave Them. Go; Thou Wast My Heart, My Heart'S Blood, Life-Blood Of My Life, My Child, My Nursling; Now This Breast Once Thine Shall Rear Again No Children; Never Now Shall Any Mortal Blossom Born Like Thee Lie There, Nor Ever With Small Silent Mouth Draw The Sweet Springs Dry For An Hour That Feed The Blind Blithe Life That Knows Not; Never Head Rest Here To Make These Cold Veins Warm, Nor Eye Laugh Itself Open With The Lips That Reach Lovingly Toward A Fount More Loving; These Death Makes As All Good Lesser Things Now Dead, And All The Latter Hopes That Flowered From These And Fall As These Fell Fruitless; No Joy More Shall Man Take Of Thy Maidenhood, No Tongue Praise It; No Good Shall Eyes Get More Of Thee That Lightened For Thy Love'S Sake. Now, Take Note, Give Ear, O All Ye People, That My Word May Pierce Your Hearts Through, And The Stroke That Cleaves Be Fruitful To Them; So Shall All That Hear Grow Great At Heart With Child Of Thought Most High And Bring Forth Seed In Season; This My Child, This Flower Of This My Body, This Sweet Life, This Fair Live Youth I Give You, To Be Slain, Spent, Shed, Poured Out, And Perish; Take My Gift And Give It Death And The Under Gods Who Crave So Much For That They Give; For This Is More, Much More Is This Than All We; For They Give Freedom, And For A Blast, An Air Of Breath, A Little Soul That Is Not, They Give Back Light For All Eyes, Cheer For All Hearts, And Life That Fills The World'S Width Full Of Fame And Praise And Mightier Love Than Children'S. This They Give, The Grace To Make Thy Country Great, And Wrest From Time And Death Power To Take Hold On Her And Strength To Scathe For Ever; And This Gift, Is This No More Than Man'S Love Is Or Mine, Mine And All Mothers'? Nay, Where That Seems More, Where One Loves Life Of Child, Wife, Father, Friend, Son, Husband, Mother, More Than This, Even There Are All These Lives Worth Nothing, All Loves Else With This Love Slain And Buried, And Their Tomb A Thing For Shame To Spit On; For What Love Hath A Slave Left To Love With? Or The Heart Base-Born And Bound In Bondage Fast To Fear, What Should It Do To Love Thee? What Hath He, The Man That Hath No Country? Gods Nor Men Have Such To Friend, Yoked Beast-Like To Base Life, Vile, Fruitless, Grovelling At The Foot Of Death, Landless And Kinless Thralls Of No Man'S Blood, Unchilded And Unmothered, Abject Limbs That Breed Things Abject; But Who Loves On Earth Not Friend, Wife, Husband, Father, Mother, Child, Nor Loves His Own Life For His Own Land'S Sake, But Only This Thing Most, More This Than All, He Loves All Well And Well Of All Is Loved, And This Love Lives For Ever. See Now, Friends, My Countrymen, My Brothers, With What Heart I Give You This That Of Your Hands Again The Gods Require For Athens; As I Give So Give Ye To Them What Their Hearts Would Have Who Shall Give Back Things Better; Yea, And These I Take For Me To Witness, All These Gods, Were Their Great Will More Grievous Than It Is, Not One But Three, For This One Thin-Spun Thread A Threefold Band Of Children Would I Give For This Land'S Love'S Sake; For Whose Love To-Day I Bid Thee, Child, Fare Deathward And Farewell. Chorus. O Wofullest Of Women, Yet Of All Happiest, Thy Word Be Hallowed; In All Time Thy Name Shall Blossom, And From Strange New Tongues High Things Be Spoken Of Thee; For Such Grace The Gods Have Dealt To No Man, That On None Have Laid So Heavy Sorrow. From This Day Live Thou Assured Of Godhead In Thy Blood, And In Thy Fate No Lowlier Than A God In All Good Things And Evil; Such A Name Shall Be Thy Child This City'S, And Thine Own Next Hers That Called It Athens. Go Now Forth Blest, And Grace With Thee To The Doors Of Death. Chthonia. O City, O Glory Of Athens, O Crown Of My Father'S Land, Farewell. Chorus. For Welfare Is Given Her Of Thee. Chthonia. O Goddess, Be Good To Thy People, That In Them Dominion And Freedom May Dwell. Chorus. Turn From Us The Strengths Of The Sea. Chthonia. Let Glory'S And Theirs Be One Name In The Mouths Of All Nations Made Glad With The Sun. Chorus. For The Cloud Is Blown Back With Thy Breath. Chthonia. With The Long Last Love Of Mine Eyes I Salute Thee, O Land Where My Days Now Are Done. Chorus. But Her Life Shall Be Born Of Thy Death. Chthonia. I Put On Me The Darkness Thy Shadow, My Mother, And Symbol, O Earth, Of My Name. Chorus. For Thine Was Her Witness From Birth. Chthonia. In Thy Likeness I Come To Thee Darkling, A Daughter Whose Dawn And Her Even Are The Same. Chorus. Be Thine Heart To Her Gracious, O Earth. Chthonia. To Thine Own Kind Be Kindly, For Thy Son'S Name'S Sake. Chorus. That Sons Unborn May Praise Thee And Thy First-Born Son. Chthonia. Give Me Thy Sleep, Who Give Thee All My Life Awake. Chorus. Too Swift A Sleep, Ere Half The Web Of Day Be Spun. Chthonia. Death Brings The Shears Or Ever Life Wind Up The Weft. Chorus. Their Edge Is Ground And Sharpened; Who Shall Stay His Hand? Chthonia. The Woof Is Thin, A Small Short Life, With No Thread Left. Chorus. Yet Hath It Strength, Stretched Out, To Shelter All The Land. Chthonia. Too Frail A Tent For Covering, And A Screen Too Strait. Chorus. Yet Broad Enough For Buckler Shall Thy Sweet Life Be. Chthonia. A Little Bolt To Bar Off Battle From The Gate. Chorus. A Wide Sea-Wall, That Shatters The Besieging Sea. Chthonia. Str. I Lift Up Mine Eyes From The Skirts Of The Shadow, From The Border Of Death To The Limits Of Light; O Streams And Rivers Of Mountain And Meadow That Hallow The Last Of My Sight, O Father That Wast Of My Mother Cephisus, O Thou Too His Brother From The Bloom Of Whose Banks As A Prey Winds Harried My Sister Away, O Crown On The World'S Head Lying Too High For Its Waters To Drown, Take Yet This One Word Of Me Dying, O City, O Crown. Ant. Though Land-Wind And Sea-Wind With Mouths That Blow Slaughter Should Gird Them To Battle Against Thee Again, New-Born Of The Blood Of A Maiden Thy Daughter, The Rage Of Their Breath Shall Be Vain. For Their Strength Shall Be Quenched And Made Idle, And The Foam Of Their Mouths Find A Bridle, And The Height Of Their Heads Bow Down At The Foot Of The Towers Of The Town. Be Blest And Beloved As I Love Thee Of All That Shall Draw From Thee Breath; Be Thy Life As The Sun'S Is Above Thee; I Go To My Death. Chorus. Str. 1. Many Loves Of Many A Mood And Many A Kind Fill The Life Of Man, And Mould The Secret Mind; Many Days Bring Many Dooms, To Loose And Bind; Sweet Is Each In Season, Good The Gift It Brings, Sweet As Change Of Night And Day With Altering Wings, Night That Lulls World-Weary Day, Day That Comforts Night, Night That Fills Our Eyes With Sleep, Day That Fills With Light. Ant. 1. None Of All Is Lovelier, Loftier Love Is None, Less Is Bride'S For Bridegroom, Mother'S Less For Son, Child, Than This That Crowns And Binds Up All In One; Love Of Thy Sweet Light, Thy Fostering Breast And Hand, Mother Earth, And City Chosen, And Natural Land; Hills That Bring The Strong Streams Forth, Heights Of Heavenlier Air, Fields Aflower With Winds And Suns, Woods With Shadowing Hair. Str. 2. But None Of The Nations Of Men Shall They Liken To Thee, Whose Children True-Born And The Fruit Of Thy Body Are We. The Rest Are Thy Sons But In Figure, In Word Are Thy Seed; We Only The Flower Of Thy Travail, Thy Children Indeed. Of Thy Soil Hast Thou Fashioned Our Limbs, Of Thy Waters Their Blood, And The Life Of Thy Springs Everlasting Is Fount Of Our Flood. No Wind Oversea Blew Us Hither Adrift On Thy Shore, None Sowed Us By Land In Thy Womb That Conceived Us And Bore. But The Stroke Of The Shaft Of The Sunlight That Brought Us To Birth Pierced Only And Quickened Thy Furrows To Bear Us, O Earth. With The Beams Of His Love Wast Thou Cloven As With Iron Or Fire, And The Life In Thee Yearned For His Life, And Grew Great With Desire. And The Hunger And Thirst To Be Wounded And Healed With His Dart Made Fruitful The Love In Thy Veins And The Depth Of Thine Heart. And The Showers Out Of Heaven Overflowing And Liquid With Love Fulfilled Thee With Child Of His Godhead As Rain From Above. Ant. 2. Such Desire Had Ye Twain Of Each Other, Till Molten In One Ye Might Bear And Beget Of Your Bodies The Fruits Of The Sun. And The Trees In Their Season Brought Forth And Were Kindled Anew By The Warmth Of The Moisture Of Marriage, The Child-Bearing Dew. And The Firstlings Were Fair Of The Wedlock Of Heaven And Of Earth; All Countries Were Bounteous With Blossom And Burgeon Of Birth, Green Pastures Of Grass For All Cattle, And Life-Giving Corn; But Here Of Thy Bosom, Here Only, The Man-Child Was Born. All Races But One Are As Aliens Engrafted Or Sown, Strange Children And Changelings; But We, O Our Mother, Thine Own. Thy Nurslings Are Others, And Seedlings They Know Not Of Whom; For These Hast Thou Fostered, But Us Thou Hast Borne In Thy Womb. Who Is He Of Us All, O Beloved, That Owe Thee For Birth, Who Would Give Not His Blood For His Birth'S Sake, O Mother, O Earth? What Landsman Is He That Was Fostered And Reared Of Thine Hand Who May Vaunt Him As We May In Death Though He Die For The Land? Well Doth She Therefore Who Gives Thee In Guerdon Epode. The Bloom Of The Life Of Thy Giving; And Thy Body Was Bowed By No Fruitless Burden, That Bore Such Fruit Of Thee Living. For Her Face Was Not Darkened For Fear, For Her Eyelids Conceived Not A Tear, Nor A Cry From Her Lips Craved Pity; But Her Mouth Was A Fountain Of Song, And Her Heart As A Citadel Strong That Guards The Heart Of The City. Messenger. High Things Of Strong-Souled Men That Loved Their Land On Brass And Stone Are Written, And Their Deeds On High Days Chanted; But None Graven Or Sung That Ever Set Men'S Eyes Or Spirits On Fire, Athenians, Has The Sun'S Height Seen, Or Earth Heard In Her Depth Reverberate As From Heaven, More Worth Men'S Praise And Good Report Of Gods Than Here I Bring For Record In Your Ears. For Now Being Come To The Altar, Where As Priest Death Ministering Should Meet Her, And His Hand Seal Her Sweet Eyes Asleep, The Maiden Stood, With Light In All Her Face As Of A Bride Smiling, Or Shine Of Festal Flame By Night Far Flung From Towers Of Triumph; And Her Lips Trembled With Pride In Pleasure, That No Fear Blanched Them Nor Death Before His Time Drank Dry The Blood Whose Bloom Fulfilled Them; For Her Cheeks Lightened, And Brighter Than A Bridal Veil Her Hair Enrobed Her Bosom And Enrolled From Face To Feet The Body'S Whole Soft Length As With A Cloud Sun-Saturate; Then She Spake With Maiden Tongue Words Manlike, But Her Eyes Lit Mildly Like A Maiden'S: Countrymen, With More Goodwill And Height Of Happier Heart I Give Me To You Than My Mother Bare, And Go More Gladly This Great Way To Death Than Young Men Bound To Battle. Then With Face Turned To The Shadowiest Part Of All The Shrine And Eyes Fast Set Upon The Further Shade, Take Me, Dear Gods; And As Some Form Had Shone From The Deep Hollow Shadow, Some God'S Tongue Answered, I Bless You That Your Guardian Grace Gives Me To Guard This Country, Takes My Blood, Your Child'S By Name, To Heal It. Then The Priest Set To The Flower-Sweet Snow Of Her Soft Throat The Sheer Knife'S Edge That Severed It, And Loosed From The Fair Bondage Of So Spotless Flesh So Strong A Spirit; And All That Girt Them Round Gazing, With Souls That Hung On That Sad Stroke, Groaned, And Kept Silence After While A Man Might Count How Far The Fresh Blood Crept, And Bathed How Deep The Dark Robe And The Bright Shrine'S Base Red-Rounded With A Running Ring That Grew More Large And Duskier As The Wells That Fed Were Drained Of That Pure Effluence: But The Queen Groaned Not Nor Spake Nor Wept, But As A Dream Floats Out Of Eyes Awakening So Past Forth Ghost-Like, A Shadow Of Sorrow, From All Sight To The Inner Court And Chamber Where She Sits Dumb, Till Word Reach Her Of This Whole Day'S End. Chorus. Str. More Hapless Born By Far Beneath Some Wintrier Star, One Sits In Stone Among High Lydian Snows, The Tomb Of Her Own Woes: Yet Happiest Was Once Of The Daughters Of Gods, And Divine By Her Sire And Her Lord, Ere Her Tongue Was A Shaft For The Hearts Of Her Sons, For The Heart Of Her Husband A Sword. Ant. For She, Too Great Of Mind, Grown Through Her Good Things Blind. With Godless Lips And Fire Of Her Own Breath Spake All Her House To Death; But Thou, No Mother Unmothered, Nor Kindled In Spirit With Pride Of Thy Seed, Thou Hast Hallowed Thy Child For A Blameless Blood-Offering, And Ransomed Thy Race By Thy Deed. Messenger. As Flower Is Graffed On Flower, So Grief On Grief Engraffed Brings Forth New Blossoms Of Strange Tears, Fresh Buds And Green Fruits Of An Alien Pain; For Now Flies Rumour On A Dark Wide Wing, Murmuring Of Woes More Than Ye Knew, Most Like Hers Whom Ye Hailed Most Wretched; For The Twain Last Left Of All This House That Wore Last Night A Threefold Crown Of Maidens, And To-Day Should Let But One Fall Dead Out Of The Wreath, If Mad With Grief We Know Not And Sore Love For This Their Sister, Or With Shame Soul-Stung To Outlive Her Dead Or Doubt Lest Their Lives Too The Gods Require To Seal Their Country Safe And Bring The Oracular Doom To Perfect End, Have Slain Themselves, And Fallen At The Altar-Foot Lie By Their Own Hands Done To Death; And Fear Shakes All The City As Winds A Wintering Tree, And As Dead Leaves Are Men'S Hearts Blown About And Shrunken With Ill Thoughts, And Flowerless Hopes Parched Up With Presage, Lest The Piteous Blood Shed Of These Maidens Guiltless Fall And Fix On This Land'S Forehead Like A Curse That Cleaves To The Unclean Soul'S Inexpiate Hunted Head Whom His Own Crime Tracks Hotlier Than A Hound To Life'S Veiled End Unsleeping; And This Hour Now Blackens Toward The Battle That Must Close All Gates Of Hope And Fear On All Their Hearts Who Tremble Toward Its Issue, Knowing Not Yet If Blood May Buy Them Surety, Cleanse Or Soil The Helpless Hands Men Raise And Reach No Stay. Chorus. Ill Thoughts Breed Fear, And Fear Ill Words; But These The Gods Turn From Us That Have Kept Their Law. Str. 1. Let Us Lift Up The Strength Of Our Hearts In Song, And Our Souls To The Height Of The Darkling Day. If The Wind In Our Eyes Blow Blood For Spray, Be The Spirit That Breathes In Us Life More Strong, Though The Prow Reel Round And The Helm Point Wrong, 1290 And Sharp Reefs Whiten The Shoreward Way. Ant. 1. For The Steersman Time Sits Hidden Astern, With Dark Hand Plying The Rudder Of Doom, And The Surf-Smoke Under It Flies Like Fume As The Blast Shears Off And The Oar-Blades Churn The Foam Of Our Lives That To Death Return, Blown Back As They Break To The Gulfing Gloom. Str. 2. What Cloud Upon Heaven Is Arisen, What Shadow, What Sound, From The World Beyond Earth, From The Night Underground, That Scatters From Wings Unbeholden The Weight Of Its Darkness Around? Ant. 2. For The Sense Of My Spirit Is Broken, And Blinded Its Eye, As The Soul Of A Sick Man Ready To Die, With Fear Of The Hour That Is On Me, With Dread If An End Be Not Nigh. Str. 3. O Earth, O Gods Of The Land, Have Ye Heart Now To See And To Hear What Slays With Terror Mine Eyesight And Seals Mine Ear? O Fountains Of Streams Everlasting, Are All Ye Not Shrunk Up And Withered For Fear? Ant. 3. Lo, Night Is Arisen On The Noon, And Her Hounds Are In Quest By Day, And The World Is Fulfilled Of The Noise Of Them Crying For Their Prey, And The Sun'S Self Stricken In Heaven, And Cast Out Of His Course As A Blind Man Astray. Str. 4. From East To West Of The South Sea-Line Glitters The Lightning Of Spears That Shine; As A Storm-Cloud Swoln That Comes Up From The Skirts Of The Sea By The Wind For Helmsman To Shoreward Ferried, So Black Behind Them The Live Storm Serried Shakes Earth With The Tramp Of Its Foot, And The Terror To Be. Ant. 4. Shall The Sea Give Death Whom The Land Gave Birth? O Earth, Fair Mother, O Sweet Live Earth, Hide Us Again In Thy Womb From The Waves Of It, Help Us Or Hide. As A Sword Is The Heart Of The God Thy Brother, But Thine As The Heart Of A New-Made Mother, To Deliver Thy Sons From His Ravin, And Rage Of His Tide. Str. 5. O Strong North Wind, The Pilot Of Cloud And Rain, For The Gift We Gave Thee What Gift Hast Thou Given Us Again? O God Dark-Winged, Deep-Throated, A Terror To Forth-Faring Ships By Night, What Bride-Song Is This That Is Blown On The Blast Of Thy Breath? A Gift But Of Grief To Thy Kinsmen, A Song But Of Death, For The Bride'S Folk Weeping, And Woe For Her Father, Who Finds Thee Against Him In Fight. Ant. 5. Turn Back From Us, Turn Thy Battle, Take Heed Of Our Cry; Let Thy Dread Breath Sound, And The Waters Of War Be Dry; Let Thy Strong Wrath Shatter The Strength Of Our Foemen, The Sword Of Their Strength And The Shield; As Vapours In Heaven, Or As Waves Or The Wrecks Of Ships, So Break Thou The Ranks Of Their Spears With The Breath Of Thy Lips, Till Their Corpses Have Covered And Clothed As With Raiment The Face Of The Sword-Ploughed Field. Str. 6. O Son Of The Rose-Red Morning, O God Twin-Born With The Day, O Wind With The Young Sun Waking, And Winged For The Same Wide Way, Give Up Not The House Of Thy Kin To The Host Thou Hast Marshalled From Northward For Prey. Ant. 6. From The Cold Of Thy Cradle In Thrace, From The Mists Of The Fountains Of Night, From The Bride-Bed Of Dawn Whence Day Leaps Laughing, On Fire For His Flight, Come Down With Their Doom In Thine Hand On The Ships Thou Hast Brought Up Against Us To Fight. Str. 7. For Now Not In Word But In Deed Is The Harves