693–717.
Strophe.
I thrill with eager delight,
And with passionate joy I leap;
Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan!
Come over the waves from the height
Of the cliffs of Kyllene, where sweep
The storm-blasts of snow in their might!
Come, come, Ο King, at the head
Of the dance of the Gods as they tread,
That thou, with me, may'st twine
The self-taught Nysian line,
Or Knossian dance divine!
Right well I now may dance:
And o'er Icarian wave,
Coming with will to save,
May Delos' King, Apollo, gloriously advance!
Antistrophe.
Yes, the dark sorrow and pain,
Far from me Ares hath set;
Io Pan! Io Pan! once more;
And now, Ο Zeus, yet again
May our swift-sailing vessels be met
By the dawn with clear light in its train.
Our Aias from woe is released,
And the wrath of the Gods hath appeased,
And now, with holiest care,
He offers reverent prayer.
Ah, great Time nought will spare:
Nought can I count as strange,
Since, out of hopeless pain,
