Destined to sway supreme
on the steppes where Cephisus glides and crests
and the nursing foals run sleek,
Queens of Song and Orchomenus' fastness
building into the light, as You keep perennial
watch on the Minyan Glory born in the roots of Time,
bend to me, O my Graces, guard my prayers and guide them.
Bringing the lift at heart
and the long delight's unfolding, You are all the best in men:
the skilled, the handsome, the high and shining great;
not even the Deathless Ones could dress
Their feasts or marshal dancing corps without You,
Graces, Ladies grave in mien and movement;
no, You minister all events in the vaulting sky,
and poised on thrones erect by Pytho's Lord of the Sun
Who draws His golden bow, You steep in Awe
the world-without-end Praise that flows, streaming race to race
from Olympian Father Zeus.

O Aglaia the glow
of Triumph, throb of the choirs Euphrosyne
sprung by the Spanning Arch of Gods,
and You over all, Lady Thalia
the dancers' darling, listen, look, down here!
my young ones, stirred by a thrust of luck and lifting
brisk on their nimble feet, come on strong with the song
I've born and raised for Asopichus,
trained to the firm turn and cut of true Lydian work:
the Minyan meadows teem with wreaths from Olympia
sown by You, Your harvest home.
So down with You now, my Echo! pierce the unyielding
Walls of the Reaving Queen sealed off by Night;
rush at the wraith of Cleodamus, sound out clear till the boy's
father rings reborn with our warmth, our bursting news:
" Grazing the swelling breast of Pisa springing
Praise, his son crowns his fresh locks with the wings of a racer's
inexhaustible Glory!"