Triumphant. Welcome life and light!
Sing rocks and mountains, plain and sea;
Fearful though lovely was the night;
Hail to more perfect beauty—hail to THEE!
“Why stop you, Athanasia?” said the priestess, finding that here she paused,—“why do you rise up, and take your fingers from the lyre, before you sing out the chorus?”—“No more, dear aunt—excuse me—no more. I have already sung all that I can,” replied Athanasia.—“Nay, then,” says she, “if you be fatigued, sing not; but join me, maidens, in the close—perhaps it rises too high for Athanasia.”
And with that the ancient lady herself, joined by the three damsels that had been embroidering, took up the strain, which, indeed, rose higher towards its end
Hail to thee Phœbus, son of Jove,
Glorious Apollo, Lord of Light,
Hail, lovely in thy Delian grove,
And terrible on Delphos’ haunted height!