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Rh Kephisos' wandering streams;

They fail not from their spring, but evermore,

Swift-rushing into birth,

Over the plain they sweep,

The land of broad, full breast,

With clear and stainless wave.

Nor do the Muses in their minstrel choirs,

Hold it in slight esteem,

Nor Aphrodite with her golden reins.

And in it grows a marvel such as ne'er

On Asia's soil I heard,

Nor the great Dorian isle from Pelops named,

A plant self-sown, that knows

No touch of withering age,

Terror of hostile swords,

Which here on this our ground

Its high perfection gains,

The grey-green foliage of the olive-tree,

Rearing a goodly race:

And never more shall man,