Chorus: Wonders are many, and none is more
Wonderful than man; the power that crosses the
White sea, driven by the stormy south-wind,
Making a path under surges that threaten
To engulf him; and Earth, the eldest of the
Gods, the immortal, the unwearied, doth he
Wear, turning the soil with the offspring of
Horses, as the ploughs go to and fro from year
To year.
And the lighthearted race of birds, and the
Tribes of savage beasts, and the sea-brood
Of the deep, he snares in the meshes of his
Woven toils, he leads captive, man excellent in
Wit. And he masters by his arts the beast whose
Lair is in the wilds, who roams the hills; he
Tames the horse of shaggy mane, he puts the
Yoke upon its neck, he tames the tireless
Mountain bull.
And speech, and wind-swift thought, and all the
Moods that mold a state, hath he taught himself;
And how to flee the arrows of the frost, when
‘tis hard lodging under the clear sky, and the
Arrows of the rushing rain; yea, he hath
Resource for all; without resource he meets nothing
That must come: only against Death shall he
Call for aid in vain; but from baffling maladies
He hath devised escapes.
Cunning beyond fancy’s dream is the
Fertile skill which brings him, now to evil,
Now to good. When he honors the laws of
The land, and that justice which he hath
Sworn by the gods to uphold, proudly
Stands his city: no city hath he who,
For his rashness, dwells with sin. Never
May he share my hearth, never think
My thoughts, who doth these things.
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