I'LL wreathe my sword, with myrtle; as the brave Harmodius did,
And as Aristogeiton, his avenging weapon hid,
When they slew the haughty tyrant, and regained our liberty,
And breaking down oppression, made the men of Athens free.
Thou art not, loved Harmodius, thou art not, surely dead,
But to some secluded sanctuary, far away art fled,
With the swift-footed Achilles, unmolested there to rest,
And to rove, with Diomedes, through the islands of the blest.
I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle; as Aristogeiton did,
And as the brave Harmodius, his avenging weapon hid,
When on Minerva's festival, they aimed the glorious blow,
And, calling on fair freedom, laid the proud Hipparchus low.
Thy fame, beloved Harmodius, through ages, still shall brighten,
Nor ever shall thy glory fade, beloved Aristogeiton,
Because your country's champions, ye nobly dared to be,
And striking down the tyrant, made the men of Athens free.