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But, Jesus, in that mortal fray,
Like sunshine in a stormy day,
When soon or late this feeble breath No more to thee shall pray,
Support ine through the vale of death, And in the darksome way.
When clothed in fleshly weeds again I wait thy dread decree,
Judge of the world, bethink thee then That thou hast died for me.
THE FIRST OLYMPIC ODE.
To HIERo of SYRACUSE, VICTOR IN THE HORSE RACE.
CAN earth, or fire, or liquid air,
Over sheep clad Sicily Who the righteous sceptre beareth, Every flower of virtue’s tree Wove in various wreath he weareth, But the bud of poesy Is the fairest flower of all; Which the bards, in social glee, Strow round Hiero's wealthy hall.— The harp on yonder pin suspended, Sieze it, boy, for Pisa's sake, And that good steed's, whose thought will wake A joy with anxious fondness blended:– No sounding lash his sleek side rended: | By Alpheus' bride, with feet of flame, Self-driven to the goal he tended: And earned the olive wreath of fame For that dear lord, whose righteous name The sons of Syracusa tell:— Who loves the generous courser well ; Beloved himself by all who dwell In Pelop's Lydian colony.— —Of earth-embracing Neptune, he The darling, when, in days of yore, All lovely from the caldron red By Clotho's spell delivered, The youth an ivory shoulder bore.—