The teeming earth,
The crops we bring to birth;
Thence shall we hear
The music of the ever-flowing streams,
The low deep thunders of the booming sea.
Lo, the bright Eye of Day unwearied beams!
Shedding our veil of storms
From our immortal forms,
We scan with keen-eyed gaze this nether sphere.
Socrates falls to the ground in adoration of his beloved deities; and Strepsiades follows his example, in great terror at the thunder, with all the buffoonish exaggeration which would delight an Athenian audience.
(Chorus of Clouds, nearer.)
Sisters who bring the showers,
Let us arise and greet
This glorious land, for Pallas' dwelling meet,
Rich in brave men, beloved of Cecrops old;
Where Faith and Reverence reign,
Where comes no foot profane,
When for the mystic rites the Holy Doors unfold.
There gifts are duly paid
To the great gods, and pious prayers are said;
Tall temples rise, and statues heavenly fair.
There, at each holy tide,
With coronals and song,
The glad processions to the altars throng;
There, in the jocund spring,
Great Bacchus, festive king,
With dance and tuneful flute his Chorus leads along.
And now, while Socrates directs the attention of his pupil towards Mount Parnes, from whose heights he
