Babble not thou in witless folly
Of battle and war of Immortals, nor dare
Blaspheme them! Nay, to the city holy
Of Protogeneia thy song-gift bear,
Telling how by His dooming who wields evermore
The flickering lightning, the thunder’s roar,
Deukalion and Pyrrha long of yore
Fixed their first habitation there,
When down from Parnassus they came, and unmated
Of Aphrodite in wedlock-yoke,
Out of the stones of the field created
A race that should be thenceforth one folk;
And from stones were they named, that stone-born race.
Awaken for these thy clear-ringing lays!
O yea, old wine well mayest thou praise;
But ’tis song’s fresh flowers that our praises provoke.