Wakeful answers from the huts the great pack of the hounds,
And the whole valley is filled with the sound of their noisy barking.
But the man whom thou awakest to life-consuming labour,
He, O ancient Youth, O Youth eternal,
Still thoughtful admires thee, even as on the mountain
The Aryan Fathers adored thee, standing amid their white oxen.
Again upon the wing of the fresh morning flies forth
The hymn which to thee they sang over their heaped-up spears.
“Shepherdess thou of heaven! from the stalls of thy jealous sister
Thou loosest the rosy kine and leadest them back to the skies: