While the holy torches quiver and blaze.
Escort him up with his own sweet gongs,
And his noble festival lays.
First, as the poet triumphant
is passing away to the light,
Grant him success on his journey,
ye powers that are ruling below.
Grant that he find for the city
good counsels to guide her aright;
So we at last shall be freed
from the anguish, the fear, and the woe,
Freed from the onsets of war.
Let Cleophon now and his band
Battle, if battle they must,
far away in their own fatherland.