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Accept of these Olympian games the crown,
Daughter of Ocean, rushy Camarine.
The flower of knightly worth and high renown,
Which car-borne Psaurais on thy parent shrine,
(Psaumis, the patriot, whom thy peopled town
Its second author owns,) with rite divine
Suspends. His praise the twice six altars tell
Of the great gods whom he hath feasted well
With blood of bulls; the praise of victory,
Where cars and mules and steeds contest the prize;And that green garland of renown to thee
He hallows, virgin daughter of the sea,
And to his sire and household deities;
Thee too, returning home from Pelop'sland,
Thee, guardian Pallas, and thy holy wood,
He hails with song, and cool Oanus' flood;
And of his native pool the rushy strand;
And thy broad bed, refreshing Hipparis,
Whose silent waves the peopled city kiss,
That city which hath blest his bounteous hand,

Rearing her goodly bowers on high.

That now, redeemed from late disgrace, The wealthy mother of a countless race, She lifts her front in shining majesty.

'T is ever thus, by toil and pain,
And cumbrous cost, we strive to gain
Some seeming prize whose issues lie
In darkness and futurity.
And yet, if conquest crown our aim,
Then, foremost in the rolls of fame,
Even from the envious herd a forced applause
we claim.
O cloud-enthroned, protecting Jove,
Who sittest the Cronian cliffs above,

And Alpheus' ample wave,
And that dark gloom hast deigned to love

Of Ida's holy cave.
On softest Lydian notes to thee
I tune the choral prayer,
That this thy town, the brave, the free,
The strong in virtuous energy,
May feel thine endless care.

And, victor thou, whose matchless might

The Pisan wreath hath bound. Still, Psaumis, be thy chief delight

Id generous coursers found. Calm be thy latter age, and late And gently fall the stroke of fate,

Thy children standing round.
And know, when favoring gods have given
A green old age, a temper even.

And wealth and fame in store,
The task were vain to scale the heaven.
Have those immortals more?



Who seeks a goodly bower to raise,
Conspicuous to the stranger's eye,
With gold the lintel overlays.
And clothes the porch in ivory.
So bright, so bold, so wonderful,
The choicest themes of verse I cull,
To each high song a frontal high. But lives there one whose brows around The green Olympian wreath is bound;Prophet and priest in those abodes Where Pisans laud the sire of gods;And Syracusa's denizen ?— Who, 'mid the sons of mortal men, While envy's self before his name Abates her rage, may fitlier claim Whate'er a bard may yield of fame?For sure to no forbidden strife, In hallowed Pisa's field of praise,

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He came, the priest of blameless life.
Nor who in peace hath past his days,

Marring with canker sloth his might,
May hope a name in standing fight,
Nor in the hollow ship to raise.

By toil, illustrious toil alone,
Of elder times the heroes shone;
And, bought by like emprize, to thee,
O warrior priest, like honor be,—
Such praise as good Adrastus bore
To him, the prophet chief of yore,
When, snatched from Thebes' accursed fight,
With steed and car and armor bright,
Down, down he sank to earthly night.

When the fight was ended,
And the sevenfold pyres
All their funeral fires
In one sad lustre blended,

The leader of the host
Murmured mournfully,
'I lament for the eye
Of all mine army lost,—
To gods and mortals dear,
Either art he knew;
Augur tried and true,

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