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To Lacedæmon's fertile seats

And hardy sons the wanderers come;

Then fair Callista's island greets

The heroes in a foreign home.

With honour hence derived from heaven

To you Latoides has given

Fair Libya's wealthy plain to crown,

And golden-throned Cyrene's town

With counsel justly framed to sway,

Which her bless'd citizens obey.

Now learn the Theban sage's art—

If sharp-edged axe with ruthless stroke

Her branches from the giant oak,

The form disgraced, compel to part,

Though shorn her fruit, enough is there

Her pristine beauties to declare—

If fire be ever sought at last

To shelter from the wintry blast,

Or among pillars straight and tall,

It now sustain some lordly dome,

Hard labour in a foreign wall,

Leaving all bare its native home.

Thou a most timely healer art,

Since Pasan's favour crowns thy name—

Then, oh! a tender hand impart

To heal the state's disorder'd frame:

A city's pride the weakest arm

May shake with danger and alarm.

But hard indeed the task to place

Her glory on its ancient base,

Unless the god with sudden sway

Direct the steersman on his way.