That treasure no rain-storm, hurling
Its pitiless hosts from the cloud
Amid thunders crashing loud
Shall sweep to abysses of sea
By the storm-wind with shingle-drift swirling;
But the porch of our treasury
In brightness unsullied shall flame, it
Shall publish the triumph afar,
Thrasybulus, won by thy car
In Krisa; and men shall acclaim it
For thy sire and thy kindred, shall name it
Their glory, their splendour-star.