English

No fairer prelude of the minstrel's victory-chant can be
Than praise of Athens' mighty town,
When he would hymn the far-prevailing Alkmaionidae,
And their swift steeds' renown.
Yea, for what fatherland, what habitation,
O singer, canst thou name
That doth transcend, through all the Hellene nation,
Fair Athens' fame?

There is no city but therethrough doth that proud story ring
Of King Erechtheus' burghers told,
Who made thy shrine in hallowed Pytho, Phoebus Harper-King,
A marvel to behold.

As the sons of Homer, the singers of deftly-woven lays,
Ever begin their chants with a prelude in Zeus's praise,
So in the Grove whose glory is chanted in every nation
This hero-athlete hath laid his achievements' first foundation
Where in Nemean Zeus's name are bestowed the victor's bays.

And if She, who unswerving hath guided his feet, even Destiny,
On the path by his forefathers trodden, hath given this man to be
A glory to mighty Athens, he surely is fated victorious,
This son of Timonous, often to pluck the flower most glorious

Mother mine, O Thebe of shield all-golden,
Me shall thy sovran behest embolden,
How full soever mine hands be, to lay
All other service aside for to-day
O Delos, thou for whose exaltation
Hath my soul been outpoured, have no indignation!
What to a son true-hearted can be
More dear than a mother? Ah, yield to my plea,
Isle of Apollo! By grace of Heaven
Shall coupled fulfilment ere long be given
Unto hymnal-homages twain by me,

When to Him of the hair unshorn I come paying
Due honour with choral dance-arraying

Sometimes the wind-battalions shouting loud
Do men most service, now again
The rains of heaven, the children of the cloud,
Bring blessing in their train.
But when by toil one winneth victory,
The singer's honey-throated lays
Upringing, plant for fame that yet shall be
A sure foundation, are a prophecy
Of exploits worthy praise.

Far beyond envy are the praises stored
For victors at Olympia crowned.
Songs are my sheep; I, as some shepherd-lord,
Find them fair pasture-ground.

Winter 's back wi' snaw an' sleet
Tho' lilac braks the bud.
Unco roads an' a'thing weet—
Winter 's back wi' snaw an' sleet
Mend the fire wi' guid black peat—
Soakin' claes an' clorts o' mud;
Winter 's back wi' snaw and sleet
Tho' lilac braks the bud.

Her tears are spent, but no dreams come.
She can hear the others singing through the night.
She has lost his love. Alone with her beauty,
She leans till dawn on her incense-pillow.

Who was the far-off founder of the house,
With its red gates abutting to the road?—
A palace, though its outer wings are shorn,
And domes of glittering tiles. The wall without
Has tottered into ruin, yet remain
The straggling fragments of some seven courts,
The wreck of seven fortunes: roof and eaves
Still hang together. From this chamber cool
The dense blue smoke arose. Nor heat nor cold
Now dwells therein. A tall pavilion stands
Empty beside the empty rooms that face
The pine-browed southern hills. Long purple vines

Into the night the sounds of luting flow;
The west wind stirs amid the root-crop blue;
While envious fireflies spoil the twinkling dew,
And early wild-geese stem the dark Kin-ho.

Now great trees tell their secrets to the sky,
And hill on hill looms in the moon-clear night,
I watch one leaf upon the river light,
And in a dream go drifting down the Hwai.

Tis a time for much rejoicing;
Let each heart be lured away;
Let each tongue, its thanks be voicing
For Emancipation Day.
Day of victory, day of glory,
For thee, many a field was gory!

Many a time in days now ended,
Hath our fathers' courage failed,
Patiently their tears they blended;
Ne'er they to their, Maker, railed;
Well we know their groans, He numbered,
When dominions fell, asundered.

As of old the Red Sea parted,
And oppressed passed safely through,
Back from North, the bold South, started,

Last night my girdle came undone,
And this morning a luck-beetle flew over my bed.
So here are my paints and here are my powders—
And a welcome for my yoke again.