THE CLOUDS. 119

“ Bringers of rain, a maiden band,
We seek Athené’s gracious land,
The fair heaven-favoured dwelling-place
Of ancient Cecrops’ noble race,
Where in their awful mansion dwell
The mysteries inscrutable ;
Nor miss the gods on high their right
Of honour due, the pillared height
Of stately fane, and shapely grace
Of sculptured form, the solemn pace
Of pomps that move through gazing streets,
The festive flower-crowned throng that meets
At feast or ritual, while the years
Pass .through the. seasons’ ordered way,
And when the gladsome Spring appears,
Our joyous Bacchic holiday,
The while the dancers’ twinkling feet
Time to the flute’s clear music beat.”

Strep. “Tell me, Socrates, who are these that
sing this very solemn strain? Are they heroines?”

Soc. “Not at all; they are the Clouds of heaven.
It is they who give us wise maxims, and logic, and
circumlocution, and cheating.”

Strep. “Yes; and when I hear them my soul is
all agog for all kinds of subtleties and chatterings.
But I should like to see them plainly, if it is
possible.” ;

Soc. “Look towards Mount Parnes, then; I see
them plainly coming down from it.”

Strep. “Where? where?”

Soc. “There, down through the glens and
thickets.”