In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,

  Like them of old whose one immortal blow

Struck off the galling fetters that hung over

  Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.

Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;

  Still midst the brave and free,

In isles, o'er ocean lying,

  Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,

  Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade

Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'

  And in the dust a despot victim laid.

Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story

  Your wedded names shall be;

A tyrant's death your glory,

  Your meed, a nation free!