Strophe I.
Ye gods, heaven-born, if e'er before,
Hear now the prayers that for this race we pour!
Never may this Pelasgic town,
Fire-wasted, lift the joyless cry
Of Ares, wanton deity,
Who men in other harvest-fields mows down!
For that a gracious law
They passed, to mercy stirred; 630
And for this pity-moving herd,
Thy supplicants, oh Zeus! felt righteous awe.
Antistrophe I.
Nor, voting on the side of men,
The women's cause did they disdainful slight;
But the dread watcher held in ken,
Full hard to cope with, vengeful Might,
Whom on its roofs what house could bear
Wrathful? For heavily he sitteth there.
Yea, sith their proper kin,
Suppliants of Zeus severe,
They venerate with pious fear;
Hence with pure altars they heaven's grace shall win. 640
Strophe II.
Therefore, in tuneful rivalry, lot vows
Ascend from lips shaded by olive boughs.
May pestilence ne'er drain
Of manly strength this town;
Nor discord's lawless reign
