Wealth strikes root in prosperous lands;

Wisdom of her word is made;

At her strength is strength afraid;

From the beam of her bright spear

War's fleet foot goes back for fear;

840

In her shrine she reared the birth

Fire-begotten on live earth;

Glory from her helm was shed

On his olive-shadowed head;

By no hand but his shall she

Scourge the storms back of the sea,

To no fame but his shall give

Grace, being dead, with hers to live,

And in double name divine

Half the godhead of their shrine.

[Pg 49]

850

But now with what word, with what woe may we meet

The timeless passage of piteous feet,

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