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Thou that dwellest in the shadow

Of great glory here beside us,

Spirit, Spirit, we have hied us

To thy dancing in the meadow!

Come, Iacchus; let thy brow

Toss its fruited myrtle bough;

We are thine, O happy dancer; O our comrade, come and guide us!

Let the mystic measure beat:

Come in riot fiery fleet;

Free and holy all before thee,

While the Charites adore thee,

And thy Mystae wait the music of thy feet!

O Virgin of Demeter, highly blest,

What an entrancing smell of roasted pig!

Hush! hold your tongue! Perhaps they'll give you some.

Spirit, Spirit, lift the shaken

Splendour of thy tossing torches!

All the meadow flashes, scorches:

Up, Iacchus, and awaken!

Come, thou star that bringest light

To the darkness of our rite,

Till thine old men leap as young men, leap with every thought forsaken