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Rh Such were the strains by fate inspired

That dropp'd from sage Medea's tongue,

Silent the godlike men admired,

And round in fix'd attention hung.

Bless'd son of Polymnestus! thee,

Gladden'd by this spontaneous strain,

The Delphic priestess' augury

Bade the sublimest hopes maintain.

Thrice cried her monitory voice,

"Cyrene's destined king, rejoice!"

When thou inquiredst at the Pythian shrine

The doubtful issue of the voice divine.

And now, as in the vernal hour

Impurpled glows each opening flower,

So shines his eighth succeeding race,

Arcesilaus' youthful grace.

Apollo in the Pythian field

And just Amphictyons' high decree

To his triumphant coursers yield

The glorious palm of victory.

Him will I to the muses' train

Give with the ram's bright fleece of gold,

For which when sail'd the Minyæ bold,

Honours from heaven 'twas theirs to gain.