Then hast thou in it a better part than we, A holier portion than we all; for each Hath but the length of his own life to live, And this most glorious mother-land on earth To worship till that life have end; but thine Hath end no more than hers; thou, dead, shalt live Till Athens live not; for the days and nights Given of thy bare brief dark dividual life, Shall she give thee half all her agelong own 540 And all its glory; for thou givest her these; But with one hand she takes and gives again More than I gave or she requires of thee. Come therefore, I will make thee fit for death, I that could give thee, dear, no gift at birth Save of light life that breathes and bleeds, even I Will help thee to this better gift than mine And lead thee by this little living hand That death shall make so strong, to that great end Whence it shall lighten like a God's, and strike 550 Dead the strong heart of battle that would break Athens; but ye, pray for this land, old men, That it may bring forth never child on earth To love it less, for none may more, than we. CHORUS. Out of the north wind grief came forth, [_Str._ 1. And the shining of a sword out of the sea. Yea, of old the first-blown blast blew the prelude of this last, The blast of his trumpet upon Rhodope. Out of the north skies full of his cloud, With the clamour of his storms as of a crowd 560 At the wheels of a great king crying aloud, At the axle of a strong king's car That has girded on the girdle of war-- With hands that lightened the skies in sunder And feet whose fall was followed of thunder, A God, a great God strange of name, With horse-yoke fleeter-hoofed than flame, To the mountain bed of a maiden came, Oreithyia, the bride mismated, Wofully wed in a snow-strewn bed 570 With a bridegroom that kisses the bride's mouth dead; Without garland, without glory, without song, As a fawn by night on the hills belated, Given over for a spoil unto the strong. From lips how pale so keen a wail [_Ant._ 1. At the grasp of a God's hand on her she gave, When his breath that darkens air made a havoc of her hair, It rang from the mountain even to the wave; Rang with a cry, _Woe's me, woe is me!_ From the darkness upon Hæmus to the sea: 580 And with hands that clung to her new lord's knee, As a virgin overborne with shame, She besought him by her spouseless fame, By the blameless breasts of a maid unmarried And locks unmaidenly rent and harried, And all her flower of body, born To match the maidenhood of morn,