Or in swift chariots each with other cope?
Now will be spoil indeed:
Dread is their might who form our country's hope,
And dread the strength of those
Whom Theseus leads to triumph o'er their foes.
Each bit is glittering, all the squadrons speed;
Shaking their reins, they urge their horses on,
E'en they who serve Athena on her steed,
Or Rhea's ocean Son,
Who makes the earth his throne.
Stroph. II.
Act they, or linger still?
Ah, how my soul forecasts the coming fate,
That he, against his will,
Will yield the maid whose daring has been great,
Who hath borne greatest ill
From hands of her own kin; but, soon or late,
Zeus works to-day great things;
I prophesy of glorious victories.
Ah! would that I on wings,
Swift as a dove on airy cloud that flies,
Might glad my longing eye
With sight of that much yearned-for victory!
Antistroph. II.
Ο Zeus! that reign'st on high,
All-seeing, grant the rulers of our land,
In strength of victory,
With good success in ambush there to stand;
And Thou, his child revered,
Athena Pallas; Thou, the huntsman-God,
Apollo, loved and feared.
And she, thy sister, who the woods hath trod
