The following fragment on musicians and poets is transmitted by the Byzantine scholar Photius:
Although he does not attribute it directly in his Lexicon to Aelius Dionysius, Photius elsewhere speaks of the utility of the Atticist’s specialized lexicon, Attika Onomata and recommends it—in both its first and second ekdoseis—to all who would care to learn Athenian epichoric terms for lawsuits and festivals, among much other useful information (Photius, Bibl. Cod. 152–153). Several other late sources enable us to fill out further this intriguing bit of antiquarian lore. The fullest version of the information, and the only to trace it directly back to Aelius Dionysius, comes in the 12th-century Homeric commentary by Eustathius, in partial explanation of a line in Book 2 of the Iliad:
Zenobius the paroemiographer (Cent. 5.99) appears to give a faulty version of the rhapsodic tag-line, but usefully adds a phrase to the citharodic closing:
Diogenianus (Cent. 6.88), another collector of proverbs, attests to the more plausible phrasing “Now [nun] blessed gods” although his version (missing the particle de) is unmetrical for inclusion in hexameter verses. He indicates further that the phrase had a usage—perhaps outside of any poetic context—“said of those worthily avenged for what they did” (ἐπὶ τῶν ἀξίως τιμωρουμένων ἐφ’ οἷς ἔπραξαν.) An entry in the Suda (σ 1454) employs the Zenobian phrasing (Σὺν δὲ θεοὶ μάκαρες), and identifies it as rhapsodic then gives a slightly shorter form of the citharodic signature line (ἀλλ’ ἄναξ χαῖρε) and ends by explaining “these are finishing phrases (ἐπιφωνήματα) among the old-time poets.” No doubt the traditions of stylistic ornamentation among the teachers of rhetoric have influenced this description, as they may also have helped preserve the details about closing phrases, in the first place. We can note, for example, that the essay of Demetrius on style devotes a section to the definition and use of the epiphonema (De elocutione 106–111)—although he expands the idea to cover ornamental passages unneeded by the immediate argument (such as a phrase used to fill out a Homeric simile, or a gnomic utterance added to the narrative description of the arms in the hall of Odysseus). 
πολλὰ δ’ ἀέλπτως κραίνουσι θεοί·
καὶ τὰ δοκηθέντ’ οὐκ ἐτελέσθη,
τῶν δ’ ἀδοκήτων πόρον ηὗρε θεός.
τοιόνδ’ ἀπέβη τόδε πρᾶγμα.
θρέψασ’ ἁ δυωδεκατειχέος
λαοῦ πρωτέος ἐξ Ἀχαιῶν.
ἀλλ’ ἑκαταβόλε Πύθι’ ἁγνὰν
ἔλθοις τάνδε πόλιν σὺν ὄλβωι,
πέμπων ἀπήμονι λαῶι
τῶιδ’ εἰρήναν θάλλουσαν εὐνομίαι.
Admittedly, it is not followed by ἄναξ or the rest of the full citharodic tag-line. Yet the line does contain a vocative addressing the god Apollo as Pythios and formulates a prayer for peace and prosperity.  (In this latter point it resembles the rhapsodic exodion, which is overtly a prayer for similar good things: esthla).
χαίροις, ἄν̣αξ Παίη̣ον, ὂς μ̣έδεις Τρίκκης
καὶ Κῶν γλυκεῖαν κἠπίδαυρον ὤικηκας,
σὺν καὶ Κορωνὶς ἤ σ’ ἔτικτε κὠπόλλων
χαίροιεν, ἦς τε χειρὶ δεξιῆι ψαύεις
῾Υγίεια, κὦνπερ οἴδε τίμιοι βωμοί
Πανάκη τε κἠπιώ τε κἰησὼ χαίροι…
Hail, Lord Paieon, you who rule over Trikka
And have made Kos and Epidauros your dwelling-place;
Koronis, too, who bore you and Apollo,
May they fare well, and she whom you touch with the right hand, Hygieia,
And those for whom altars are revered, Panake and Epio and Ieso—Hail.
ἂν μὴ τὰ μέρη λάβω, (20)
τὸ μὲν ἥμισυ οὐρανῶ,
τὸ δ’ ἥμισυ γαίας,
πόντω τὸ τρίτον μέρος
χαῖρ’ ὦ μεγάλα ἄνασ– (25)
σα Μᾶτερ Ὀλύμπου.
So the individual elements of the alleged citharodic exodion—khaire-forms, forms of *wanax—are hardly surprising in a hymnic context. In addition to the examples above, and in several epigraphic hymns, it is worth noting that every one of the collection of “Homeric” hymns contains a khaire formula.  A few employ a multiform line that is quite close in wording to the citharodic exodion, as the following examples show:
Χαῖρε ἄναξ Διὸς υἱέ· δίδου δ’ ἀρετήν τε καὶ ὄλβον.
In Solem Line 17:
Χαῖρε ἄναξ, πρόφρων δὲ βίον θυμήρε’ ὄπαζε·
In Lunam Line 17:
Χαῖρε ἄνασσα θεὰ λευκώλενε δῖα Σελήνη
Whether such lines are meant to actively summon up citharodic practice, in a medium that might have been recited rather than sung (see below), or whether the resemblance is a reflex of a more general hymnic-prayer rhetoric, it is hard to deny that the placement of these verses underlines their similarity with the citharodic exodion.
Then again, paeans and dithyrambs, which Plato’s speaker places apart from humnoi, are clearly directed towards gods (Apollo and Dionysos, usually), just like hymns. Because the texts of identifiable citharodic nomes are so meager, the lore about citharodes must be consulted. It yields a number of details that do connect performance to the god Apollo. First of all, Apollo as depicted in the Hymn to Apollo, and in visual art, is himself the archetypal citharode.  Second, the chief festival at his shrine in Delphi had as its centerpiece in the mousikoi agônes a citharodic competition.  Before the reorganization of the Pythian games in the 6th century BC, the only contest was in citharody, which according to Pausanias, took the form of singing a hymn to Apollo. The first winner was Chrysothemis of Crete (10.7.3):
καὶ Πάρον ἀμφιρύτην Ἄντρωνά τε πετρήεντα,
πότνια ἀγλαόδωρ’ ὡρηφόρε Δηοῖ ἄνασσα
αὐτὴ καὶ κούρη περικαλλὴς Περσεφόνεια
πρόφρονες ἀντ’ ᾠδῆς βίοτον θυμήρε’ ὀπάζειν.
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ’ ἀοιδῆς.
Nagy concludes that “ the medium of the Homeric Hymns, which is poetry recited in dactylic hexameter, is several stages removed from the medium of kitharôidiâ, that is, song. 
νίκην τῷδε φέρεσθαι, ἐμὴν δ’ ἔντυνον ἀοιδήν.
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ’ ἀοιδῆς.
The deployment of the unmarked word “song” (ἀοιδῆς) here and elsewhere in hexameter verse that was most likely recited allows the competing poet to elide the actual conditions of performance and to affiliate himself with a tradition of musically accompanied verse, whether or not he himself plays or is accompanied by a musician. To put this another way, one type of poetry shaped for competitive performance in recitation (hexameter long narrative, including “Homeric” style hymns) clearly asserts a genealogical link to another type of poetry meant for singing (again, in competition) to the accompaniment of a cithara. What is the upshot? In short, we have a perfect setting for intertextual, inter-generic and inter-performative hybridization. Recall once more that the Panathenaia featured both rhapsodic and citharodic competitions: it was only natural that performers of one type would listen to and learn from those of the other, and that audiences for both would appreciate strategies, tropes, and even phrasings borrowed and shifting (in intergeneric competition) from one to the other. We might label this speculative, but—as with most philological work beyond the most basic steps—a certain amount of imaginative “reconstruction forward” has to be indulged in if we are to make progress.
χαίρετε δ’ ὑμεῖς πᾶσαι· ἐμεῖο δὲ καὶ μετόπισθε
μνήσασθ’, ὁππότε κέν τις ἐπιχθονίων ἀνθρώπων
ἐνθάδ’ ἀνείρηται ξεῖνος ταλαπείριος ἐλθών·
ὦ κοῦραι, τίς δ’ ὔμμιν ἀνὴρ ἥδιστος ἀοιδῶν
ἐνθάδε πωλεῖται, καὶ τέῳ τέρπεσθε μάλιστα; (170)
ὑμεῖς δ’ εὖ μάλα πᾶσαι ὑποκρίνασθ’ ἀμφ’ ἡμέων·
τυφλὸς ἀνήρ, οἰκεῖ δὲ Χίῳ ἔνι παιπαλοέσσῃ,
τοῦ πᾶσαι μετόπισθεν ἀριστεύουσιν ἀοιδαί.
ἡμεῖς δ’ ὑμέτερον κλέος οἴσομεν ὅσσον ἐπ’ αἶαν
ἀνθρώπων στρεφόμεσθα πόλεις εὖ ναιεταώσας· (175)
οἱ δ’ ἐπὶ δὴ πείσονται, ἐπεὶ καὶ ἐτήτυμόν ἐστιν.
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν οὐ λήξω ἑκηβόλον Ἀπόλλωνα
ὑμνέων ἀργυρότοξον ὃν ἠΰκομος τέκε Λητώ.
ὦ ἄνα, καὶ Λυκίην καὶ Μῃονίην ἐρατεινὴν
καὶ Μίλητον ἔχεις ἔναλον πόλιν ἱμερόεσσαν, (180)
αὐτὸς δ’ αὖ Δήλοιο περικλύστου μέγ’ ἀνάσσεις.
Clearly, all four elements of the citharodic exodion appear in these lines (ἀλλ’ at 165; ἄνα, 179; μάλα, 171; χαίρετε, 166). In retrospect, I now see more clearly that the conventional citharodic exodion has been dispersed and re-cast in two ways. First, there is an internal expansion (lines 166–78) that arises from the hymnist’s elaborate presentation of a dialogic episode within the narrative, in which the poet-speaker (“the man from Chios”) addresses the Delian maidens and contrasts their epichoric choral performance (marvelous for its fascinating imitative qualities) with his own mobile song-making—possibly Panhellenic in ambition.  If we did not have the intricate pronominal play of humeis/hemeis/egon (lines 166, 171, 174, 177), which is generated by this interplay (itself a vivid genre-contrast), and could in effect collapse the passage, suppressing the lines that intervene and that describe the respective musical accomplishments and tasks of the performing entities, line would 165 meet up with 179:
ὦ ἄνα, καὶ Λυκίην καὶ Μῃονίην ἐρατεινὴν (179)
That is, a version of the citharodic exodion would be prominently displayed, one element of it at the start of each line. I am not suggesting that any sort of mechanical expansion did in fact ever occur; rather, the entire idea of the Hymn to Apollo, with its multiple innovations and pairings, embodies an expansion aesthetic that has been organically employed to make a long and interesting narrative, the fruit of generations of reworking various traditions. Such an expansion might even have occurred in the context of rhapsodic contests, as I suggested some years ago (Martin 2000). A second sort of expansion in this particular passage of the Hymn takes the conventional sign-off formula with ἀλλ’ and lengthens it into a pivot passage: what sounds to be at first hearing a sign-off tag (at line 165) is then, after the internal expansion I have just outlined, re-doubled by the formulaic line αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν οὐ λήξω ἑκηβόλον Ἀπόλλωνα. Note that this, too, sounds at first like an exodion-style close: compare in the very same Hymn to Apollo the last lines (545-546): 
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ καὶ σεῖο καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ’ ἀοιδῆς.
To sum up: the Hymn to Apollo, in its pursuit of a conscious modelling of its protagonists (Apollo and the Chian poet) on citharodes, makes “citharodic” sounds at the key switch-over point in the middle of the composition, which is both and ending and a beginning. It is further worth noting that αὐτάρ in this use is a perfect formulaic complement for ἀλλ(ά), because, while both are isosyllabic and of the same metrical shape, the latter ends with a vowel and can thus fit a range of line-initial metrical situations that cannot be accommodated by the former. The Hymn to Apollo passage shows us both complementary formulas at work, one backing up the other.
Ἄρτεμις ἢ Λητὼ ἠὲ χρυσέη Ἀφροδίτη
ἢ Θέμις ἠϋγενὴς ἠὲ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη
ἤ πού τις Χαρίτων δεῦρ’ ἤλυθες, αἵ τε θεοῖσι (95)
πᾶσιν ἑταιρίζουσι καὶ ἀθάνατοι καλέονται,
ἤ τις νυμφάων αἵ τ’ ἄλσεα καλὰ νέμονται,
ἢ νυμφῶν αἳ καλὸν ὄρος τόδε ναιετάουσι
καὶ πηγὰς ποταμῶν καὶ πίσεα ποιήεντα.
But an echo of the citharodic exodion would be perfectly apt, since the audience at this stage already knows what Anchises was doing when first approached by Aphrodite—namely, playing the cithara (76–80):
Ἀγχίσην ἥρωα θεῶν ἄπο κάλλος ἔχοντα.
οἱ δ’ ἅμα βουσὶν ἕποντο νομοὺς κάτα ποιήεντας
πάντες, ὁ δὲ σταθμοῖσι λελειμμένος οἶος ἀπ’ ἄλλων
πωλεῖτ’ ἔνθα καὶ ἔνθα διαπρύσιον κιθαρίζων. (80)
That is to say, the first words of Anchises to the goddess are also the last words of his song—his exodion. Perhaps, in a mise en abyme effect not unfamiliar to archaic Greek composers (one thinks of Iliad 9.186–91—Achilles singing to the phorminx while Patroclus waits), Anchises can be imagined as in the process of breaking off from singing to his cithara something like the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite. He is, after all, as a rustic singer who encounters a goddess in the wild (like Hesiod or Archilochus), himself a multiform; perhaps he performs a tale of one, as well.
οὔ τοι ἀπόβλητον ἔπος ἔσσεται ὅττί κεν εἴπω·
κρῖν’ ἄνδρας κατὰ φῦλα κατὰ φρήτρας Ἀγάμεμνον,
ὡς φρήτρη φρήτρηφιν ἀρήγῃ, φῦλα δὲ φύλοις.
εἰ δέ κεν ὣς ἕρξῃς καί τοι πείθωνται Ἀχαιοί,
γνώσῃ ἔπειθ’ ὅς θ’ ἡγεμόνων κακὸς ὅς τέ νυ λαῶν (365)
ἠδ’ ὅς κ’ ἐσθλὸς ἔῃσι· κατὰ σφέας γὰρ μαχέονται.
γνώσεαι δ’ εἰ καὶ θεσπεσίῃ πόλιν οὐκ ἀλαπάξεις,
ἦ ἀνδρῶν κακότητι καὶ ἀφραδίῃ πολέμοιο.
It is remarkable that this passage, which can be pinpointed nowadays through searching digitized texts, on the basis of its otherwise unattested sequence ἀλλὰ ἄναξ, was already singled out for comment in the 12th century (perhaps recalling earlier, no longer extant analyses) by Eustathius. For this is the precise point in his massive commentary when the Homeric scholar chooses to make the remark with which I began this paper:
Perhaps as both bishop and master rhetorician, Eustathius was hypersensitive to forms of address and prayer-style. Or, it could be that his well-trained literary ear detected the unusual combination. He does not give an opinion as to whether the strong resemblance to the citharodic exodion in this (and only this) line in all of Homer means anything. But I believe we can indeed make a claim for several latent associations. First, it should be recognized that the overall structure of Nestor’s speech (Il. 2.336–68) places the vocative appeal at the proper location for an exodion-like close. Eight lines from the end of his intervention, it comes as he turns from comments more generally aimed at the reluctant troops of the Achaeans toward a final address to Agamemnon. The first part of his speech, moreover, functions like the hypomnesis of a prayer. The content, as well, has an overtly religious dimension, as the aged warrior reminds the Achaeans of the vows they undertook, with solemn libations, to conquer Troy. If they return to Argos now, it will be a denial of faith in the promises of Zeus, sealed with his own signs of thunder and lightning as they set out on the expedition (348–53). Unlike the usual prayer-style, Nestor does not match the hypomnesis with a wish for future blessings: rather than saying simply “just as you promised…so now act” he expands on the rhetorical formula to say “so now do not go until requiting Helen’s woes” (354–56). The final prayer or wish is then directed to Agamemnon (not the troops): he should marshall the troops, marking them off (κρῖν) by tribe and clan. This, too, has a religious function, for in this manner it will be possible to tell, says Nestor, whether failure to succeed comes through a divinity’s will (θεσπεσίῃ) or human insufficiency.
ἄφθιτον ἀέναον γέρας ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσιν,
καί νιν ἅπας δᾶμος θεθμὸν θέτο πατρίδος ἀμᾶς,
χεῖρας ἀνασχόντες μακάρεσσιν ἐς οὐρανὸν εὐρύ[ν·
οἵ κεν ἀριστεύωσι πόληος τᾶσδ’ Ἐπιδαύρου
λέξασθαί τ’ ἄνδρας καὶ ἐπαγγεῖλαι κατὰ φυλὰς (15)
οἷς πολιοῦχος ὑπὸ στέρνοις ἀρετά τε καὶ αἰδώς,
τοῖσιν ἐπαγγέλλεν καὶ πομπεύεν σφε κομῶντας
Φοίβωι ἄνακτι υἱῶι τ’ Ἀσκλαπιῶι ἰατῆρι
εἵμασιν ἐν λευκοῖσι δάφνας στεφάνοις ποτ’ Ἀπόλλω,
ποὶ δ’ Ἀσκλαπιὸν ἔρνεσι ἐλαίας ἡμεροφύλλου (20)
ἁγνῶς πομπεύειν, καὶ ἐπεύχεσθαι πολιάταις
πᾶσιν ἀεὶ διδόμεν τέκνοις τ’ ἐρατὰν ὑγίειαν,
εὐνομίαν τε καὶ εἰράναν καὶ πλοῦτον ἀμεμφῆ,
τὰν καλοκαγαθίαν τ’ Ἐπιδαυροῖ ἀεὶ ῥέπεν ἀνδρῶν,
ὥραις ἐξ ὡρᾶν νόμον ἀεὶ τόνδε σέβοντας· (25)
οὕτω τοί κ’ ἀμῶν περιφείδοιτ’ εὐρύοπα Ζεύς. 
Obviously a careful student of epic-style hexameters, Isyllus may have heard in the unusual phrasing that the Homeric poet gives Nestor at Il. 2.360–63 a reminiscence of Apolline citharodic ethos.
Rhapsodic practice—an intermezzo
τοῖσιν ἔην· καρπὸν δ’ ἔφερε ζείδωρος ἄρουρα
αὐτομάτη πολλόν τε καὶ ἄφθονον· οἳ δ’ ἐθελημοὶ
ἥσυχοι ἔργ’ ἐνέμοντο σὺν ἐσθλοῖσιν πολέεσσιν. (120)
αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ τοῦτο γένος κατὰ γαῖα κάλυψε,
τοὶ μὲν δαίμονες ἁγνοὶ ἐπιχθόνιοι τελέθουσιν
ἐσθλοί, ἀλεξίκακοι, φύλακες θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων,
οἵ ῥα φυλάσσουσίν τε δίκας καὶ σχέτλια ἔργα
ἠέρα ἑσσάμενοι πάντη φοιτῶντες ἐπ’ αἶαν, (125)
πλουτοδόται· καὶ τοῦτο γέρας βασιλήιον ἔσχον.
As Greg Nagy eloquently argued thirty years ago, the Golden generation (along with the Silver) represents a poetically stylized version of heroes as they appear in cult.  Let us note, in relation to the rhapsodic exodion and the specific association we have seen of the vocative θεοὶ μάκαρες with just vengeance in the Odyssey, that the Golden Age daimones hagnoi as presented by Hesiod are specifically called defenders of justice (124). They are marked, further, by having good things and being good themselves (119, 123). In other words, we have overt or latent associations within this short passage of the Golden Age heroes, with the “gods,” givers of abundance and esthla, as addressed in the vocative of the exodion.  Finally, it is worth noting that—as Nagy has once more shown—the Golden Age is described in terms that make it a multiform of the Age of Heroes a few lines later in Hesiod (170–73): 
ἐν μακάρων νήσοισι παρ’ Ὠκεανὸν βαθυδίνην,
ὄλβιοι ἥρωες, τοῖσιν μελιηδέα καρπὸν
τρὶς ἔτεος θάλλοντα φέρει ζείδωρος ἄρουρα.
The lucky heroes of this latter, fourth age, also beneficiaries of abundant crops, dwell blissfully in the Isles of the Blessed (also under the rule of Kronos).  In this multiform of the Golden Age, we therefore have the specific verbal link with θεοὶ μάκαρες of the exodion. What is to be made of these indications?
End-piece: the “comic” exodion
In our extant comic texts (from the 152 authors compiled in the Canon of the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae), the adjective appears once—or so it seems. Actually, the citation from Demianczuk’s Supplementum Comicum (1912) printed as #48 of his Fragmenta incertae comoediae and reading “ἥδε καλλιϲτέφανοϲ” is, of course, derived from the lexicographers, so we end up in a perfect textual circle. Furthermore, the old supplementum citation perpetuates a misunderstanding of the lexicographers’ syntax (a construction that may stem from Aelius Dionysius himself), a misconstrual also found in editions of Photius (but not Eustathius), by intruding into the quoted exodion the deictic ἥδε, which clearly was part of the scholars’ own prose transmitting the poetic tag-line, rather than a piece of the exodion.  So we are left empty-handed.
ὦ στέφανε, χαίρων ἄπιθι· καί σ’ ἄκων ἐγὼ (1250)
λείπω· σὲ δ’ ἄλλος τις λαβὼν κεκτήσεται,
κλέπτης μὲν οὐκ ἂν μᾶλλον, εὐτυχὴς δ’ ἴσως.
Ἑλλάνιε Ζεῦ, σὸν τὸ νικητήριον.
ὦ χαῖρε, καλλίνικε, καὶ μέμνησ’ ὅτι
ἀνὴρ γεγένησαι δι’ ἐμέ·
Begone and farewell my crown; against my will do I abandon you.
“Some other man will take you as his own, no greater thief but luckier perhaps.”
Zeus of the Hellenes, yours the prize of victory!
Hail, fair victor, and bear in mind that you became a big shot thanks to me. (trans. Henderson)
Χο. τήνελλα δῆτ’, εἴπερ καλεῖς γ’, ὦ πρέσβυ, καλλίνικος.
Δι. καὶ πρός γ’ ἄκρατον ἐγχέας ἄμυστιν ἐξέλαψα.
Χο. τήνελλά νυν, ὦ γεννάδα· χώρει λαβὼν τὸν ἀσκόν. (1230)
Δι. ἕπεσθέ νυν ᾄδοντες· “ὦ τήνελλα καλλίνικος”.
Χο. ἀλλ’ ἑψόμεσθα σὴν χάριν
τήνελλα καλλίνικον ᾄ-
δοντες σὲ καὶ τὸν ἀσκόν.
Dicaeopolis : Look, this pitcher’s empty cup! Hail the Champion!
Chorus : Hail then—since you bid me, old sir—the Champion!
Dicaeopolis: And what’s more, I poured the wine neat and chugged it straight down!
Chorus: Then Hail, old chap! Take the wineskin and go.
Dicaeopolis: Then Follow me, singing “Hail the Champion”
Chorus: Yes, we’ll follow in your honor singing “Hail the Champion” for you and your wineskin. (trans. Henderson).
Dicaeopolis announces his victory with the traditional cry that we have already heard accompanying the transfer of the crown in the Knights. There is no crown mentioned at this moment in the Acharnians (although we might imagine that Dicaeopolis as a symposiast at the Anthesteria is wearing one). What starts as a triumphal interjection is then turned by both the protagonist and the chorus into a song as they exit the orchestra (1231: ᾄδοντες). This same song-phrase τήνελλα καλλίνικος also concludes the Birds, as Peisetaerus leads his bride Basileia (beautifully crowned?) offstage to the triumphal paean of the chorus (Av. 1763–65):
τήνελλα καλλίνικος, ὦ δαιμόνων ὑπέρτατε.
Thus far we have seen three send-off scenes, two of them at the position of an exodion, all marked with the language of the victory song (and one—although not an exodion—with an overt reference to crowning). But such circumstantial evidence does not seem quite enough to make a firm connection with the alleged exodion phrase καλλιστέφανος. The scholia to the end of the Birds, however, provide some further information that can help narrow the gap between our texts and the lexicographic evidence. From the commentary we learn—with some confusion—the deeper history of the τήνελλα καλλίνικος song:
χαῖρε ἄναξ Ἡράκλεες,
αὐτός τε κἰόλαος, αἰχμητὰ δύω.”
Hail lord Herakles
Yourself and Iolaos, two spear-fighters
Worth noting, first off, is the detail that the τήνελλα song is marked as having a double performance heritage, even in this compact rendition of its history. It was both a declaration celebrating personal victory in a hymn contest (a scenario similar to its use by Dicaeopolis in Acharnians) and part of a praise-song for Heracles. The time dimensions, relative and absolute, are vague. Is Archilochus imagined to have been present at the victory of Heracles, or simply to have recalled it? And was he the first ever to win the Demeter hymn-contest (as Chrysothemis had been first at Delphi to win the Apollo-hymn event)? Or, did he win the hymn-contest first, and then compose the praise verses? And do we get here a glimpse of an Archilochus as citharode? (If so the phrase χαῖρε ἄναξ might recall the citharodic exodion). The association of Archilochus with Parian Demeter cult is attested in other sources, as well, so this may be the place to note that the second-earliest occurence of the rare adjective καλλιστέφανος is as an epithet of Demeter in the Homeric Hymn dedicated to her (Hy. Dem. 251, 295). (The very earliest would be the late 8th-century BC Nestor’s Cup inscription, where the epithet modifies the name of Aphrodite.) If we can imagine Archilochus’s own hymn to Demeter as featuring this epithet, then the phrase καλλίνικε applied to himself would have been a nice complement and ending to the body of the hymn, in effect playing on her crown within the narrative to draw attention to his own (crowned?) victory after singing the praise narrative.
καλλίνικος ὁ τριπλόος κεχλαδώς
ἄρκεσε Κρόνιον παρ’ ὄχθον ἁγεμονεῦσαι
κωμάζοντι φίλοις Ἐφαρμόστῳ σὺν ἑταίροις·
The resounding strain of Archilochus,
the swelling thrice-repeated song of triumph,
sufficed to lead Epharmostus to the hill of Cronus,
in victory-procession with his dear companions. (trans. Svarlien)
In addition to what we have learned from the scholia to the Birds, the Pindaric poem pins down the place of performance to Olympia, refers to a triplex singing, and uses the apparently impromptu short song as a foil for Pindar’s own epinician praises. Note also that the short song is said to be sufficient for the victor Epharmostos as he celebrates in a komos with his friends. We shall return to this setting shortly.
We should note at this point that tree and nymphs share the epithet—just as we have seen it applied to a goddess (Demeter in the Hymn to her). In the work attributed to Aristotle called On Marvellous Things Heard, an account is given of the progenitor of this Olympic sacred olive tree (De mirab. auscult. 51):
This story fits, in general outline, with the myth attested in Pindar’s Olympian 3, that Heracles was the first to plant olive trees at Olympia. But the remarkable feature of this report, a bit of lore not found elsewhere, is that the famous Olympian olive was actually a transplanted shoot of an older tree that grew in Athens. In the Pindaric ode, Heracles travels to the land of the Hyperboreans to get saplings. As Pavlos Sfyroeras has pointed out, however, there are signs that Pindar in Olympian 3 appears to be manipulating traditions about the birthplace of the olive tree in an indirect challenge to Athenian claims about their polis having been the first place such trees grew, as gifts of Athena.  If this is right, then the erasure in non-Athenian literature might have extended to epichoric Athenian stories about which spot the Olympian Καλλιστέφανος supposedly originated from. The site of the “Pantheon” near the Ilissos is not discussed elsewhere, as far as I can find, in the ancient descriptions of Athens. (The building called “of all the gods” in Pausanias is a later Hadrianic construction, near his Library and the Agora.) The foundations of a few as yet unidentified temples have been found near the Ilissos, southeast of the Olumpieion. Further complication is introduced by the version of the story in [pseudo-]Aristotle that we find in the scholion to Aristophanes Plutus (ad 586): in an otherwise very similar account, the tree is said to be near the Ilissos yet some distance from a temple “σταδίους ξʹ τοῦ ἱεροῦ ἀπέχουσα.” It is unclear whether the commentator had in mind a different temple, or placed the tree apart from the so-called Pantheon. Another scholiast, on Pindar Olympian 3, elucidates line 12 with a note that conflates the alsos at Olympia with an (otherwise unattested) Pantheon in Olympia itself: πρὸς αὐτὸ τὸ τῆς Πίσης ἄλσος διαλέγεται· ἢ πρὸς τὸ Πάνθειον, ὅπου αἱ ἐλαῖαι φύονται.