XVIII
Τὸν δ’ ἐπιπλάζοντες ἄμοι φέροιeν
καὶ μελεδώναις·
BOREAS, leave thy Thracian cave,
Cross the grey, up-tossing wave ;
With thy lips, rough-bearded, swell
All the voices of thy shell.
Chase the wheat-producing mist,
That the teeming furrows kissed ;
With thy morning breath drive forth
Every dense cloud of the north ;
Let thy chilly blasts prevail,
Make the shivering olive pale,
Hold the sailor in the bay,
Sweep distress and care away !
Let thy winds, wide-wandering, bleak,
Dry the tears on Sappho's cheek !
Buffeting with gusts, constrain
Woes of love to quit my brain :
Bind them on thy pinions strong,
Bear them on thy course along.
Come, stern god, and set me free ;
Rival Eros' tyranny!
Then, exultant, I will praise,
Now at banquets, now in lays,
Thee, fierce Thracian, gentle grown,
And thy mighty godhead own.
