I praise the Gods for Athens. O sweet Earth, Mother, what joy thy soul has of thy son, Thy life of my dead lord, mine own soul knows That knows thee godlike; and what grief should mine, What sorrow should my heart have, who behold Thee made so heavenlike happy? This alone 1590 I only of all these blessed, all thy kind, Crave this for blessing to me, that in theirs Have but a part thus bitter; give me too Death, and the sight of eyes that meet not mine. And thee too from no godless heart or tongue Reproachful, thee too by thy living name, Father divine, merciful God, I call, Spring of my life-springs, fountain of my stream, Pure and poured forth to one great end with thine, Sweet head sublime of triumph and these tears, 1600 Cephisus, if thou seest as gladly shed Thy blood in mine as thine own waves are given To do this great land good, to give for love The same lips drink and comfort the same hearts, Do thou then, O my father, white-souled God, To thy most pure earth-hallowing heart eterne Take what thou gavest to be given for these, Take thy child to thee; for her time is full, For all she hath borne she hath given, seen all she had Flow from her, from her eyes and breasts and hands 1610 Flow forth to feed this people; but be thou, Dear God and gracious to all souls alive, Good to thine own seed also; let me sleep, Father; my sleepless darkling day is done, My day of life like night, but slumberless: For all my fresh fair springs, and his that ran In one stream's bed with mine, are all run out Into the deep of death. The Gods have saved Athens; my blood has bought her at their hand, And ye sit safe; be glorious and be glad 1620 As now for all time always, countrymen, And love my dead for ever; but me, me, What shall man give for these so good as death?
From the cup of my heart I pour through my lips along [_Str._ 1. The mingled wine of a joyful and sorrowful song; Wine sweeter than honey and bitterer than blood that is poured From the chalice of gold, from the point of the two-edged sword. For the city redeemed should joy flow forth as a flood, And a dirge make moan for the city polluted with blood. Great praise should the Gods have surely, my country, of thee, [_Ant._ 1. 1630 Were thy brow but as white as of old for thy sons to see, Were thy hands as bloodless, as blameless thy cheek divine; But a stain on it stands of the life-blood offered for thine. What thanks shall we give that are mixed not and marred with dread For the price that has ransomed thine own with thine own child's head? For a taint there cleaves to the people redeemed with blood, [_Str._ 2. And a plague to the blood-red hand. The rain shall not cleanse it, the dew nor the sacred flood That blesses the glad live land. In the darkness of earth beneath, in the world without sun, [_Ant._ 2. 1640 The shadows of past things reign; And a cry goes up from the ghost of an ill deed done, And a curse for a virgin slain.