Music, till all the heavens were telling
The glory of beauty his breathings bring.
(Ant. 1)
The choice of my city's virgin-flowers,
A gift of beauty to Loxias made,
To the land of the children of Kadmus we came,
To the sons of Agenor of ancient fame,
Hither brought to a people by lineage the same
With my fathers, even to Laïus' towers.
But as gold-wrought statues to stand arrayed220
For the service of Phœbus appointed we were;
And Kastaly's fount yet waiteth us there,
That my maiden glory of shining hair
May be oversprayed by its hallowing showers
Ere for Phœbus's service its tresses I braid.
(Mesode)
Hail, rock that flashest a splendour of light
From the cloven tongue of thy flame o'er the height
Of the Bacchic peak Dionysus haunteth!
Hail, vine that with each morn offerest up
Thy giant cluster to brim the cup230
That never the mystic ritual wanteth![1]
Hail, cavern revered where the Dragon abode!
Hail, watchtower scaur of the Archer-god!
Hail, snow-smitten ridges by mortal untrod!
O that the wreaths of the dance I were weaving,
With soul unafraid, to the Goddess undying,
These fear-stricken waters of Dirkê leaving
For Apollo's dells[2] by the world's heart lying!
