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By whose pure rills my youth hath played;
Who now assembled Greece among,
To car-borne chiefs and warriors strong,
Have wove the many-colored song.

Then, minstrel, bid thy chorus rise

To Juno, queen of deities,

Parthenian lady of the skies,

For, live there yet who dare defame

With sordid mirth our country's name,

Who tax with scorn our ancient line,

And call the brave Boeotians swine ?—

Yet, jEneas, sure thy numbers high

May charm this brutish enmity;

Dear herald of the holy muse,

And teeming with Parnassian dews,

Cup of untasted harmony,—

That strain once more.—The chorus raise

To Syracusa's wealthy praise,

And his the lord whose happy reign

Controls Trincria's ample plain,

Hiero, the just, the wise,

Whose steamy offerings rise
To Jove, to Ceres, and that darling maid,

Whom, rapt in chariot bright,

And horses silver-white, Down to his dusky bower the lord of hell conveyed.

Oft hath he heard the muses' string resound
His honored name; and may his latter days,
With wealth and worth, and minstrel garlands

Mark with no envious ear a subject praise,
Who now from fair Arcadia's forest wide
To Syracusa, homeward, from his home
Returns, a common care, a common pride,—
(And, whoso darkling braves the ocean foam,
May safeliest moored with twofold anchor ride,)
Arcadia, Sicily, on either side
Guard him with prayer; and thou who rulest the deep,
Fair Amphitrite' safety keep
His tossing keel,—and evermore to me
No meaner theme assign of poesy.




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