Ant. a. And blooming in the dew of heaven,

The lovely clustering daffodil,

Which to the mighty twain,

The goddesses, hath aye been given

With saffron's golden crownlet, still

Springs from the grassy plain.

Nor ever shall the sleepless source

Of pure Cephisus fail its course,

Gushing with fruitful rain,

And waking day by day to birth

The seeds of our broad-breasted earth;

The Muse's troop regard its worth,

And Aphrodite, queen of mirth,

Who rides with golden rein.

Str. B.

But one of all her treasures grows not on Asia's stand,

Nor yet in Pelop's mighty isle where reigns the Dorian band,

A plant self-reared, without a hand,

Terror to every foeman's brand,

Fairest it blooms in this our land, -

The dark-green olive whence our offspring feed.

Nor young nor old shall e'er prevail its honors to destroy.

Beheld by blue Pallas and Jove's deathless gaze with joy,

Since Fate hath so decreed.

Ant. B.

And yet another glory to my mother town I bring,

Gift of a mighty god the best, the highest boast to sing,

The horse is hers to ride, and hers the sea.

This didst thou send, Poseidon, King,

Who taught'st the taming bit to fling,

And curb the steed's impetuous spring.

And here the gallant rower's hand sends flying o'er the main

The oar-blade's lap that follows fast the Nereids' countless train,

Like ocean gay and free.

'59.