By whose pure rills my youth hath played; Then, minstrel, bid thy chorus rise For, live there yet who dare defame 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 con veyed. Oft hath he heard the muses' string resound Mark with no envious ear a subject praise, Guard him with prayer; and thou who rulest the deep, Fair Amphitrite's lord, in safety keep |