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But in his victor chariot borne,

Where pure Castalia's waters flow,

He gain'd the envied wreath, thy brow

With honour'd triumph to adorn:

Urging his wheels' uninjured force

Twelve times around the sacred course.

For never by unskilful stroke

His car's compacted strength he broke;

But, the Crisæan hill o'ercome,

This fabric of ingenious hands

Is hung aloft in Phœbus' dome

That in the woody hollow stands,

Upon the beam of cypress laid,

Where the bright image is display'd;

Which, fix'd by Cretan archers, stood,

A single offspring of the wood;

Conspicuous on its lofty place,

The proud Parnassian fane to grace.

'Tis then thy part, with willing mind,

To meet thy benefactor kind.

Offspring of Alexibius, thee

Extol the bright-hair'd graceful three.

How bless'd to have thy labours past

Long in the poet's record last!

Of forty guides, whose skill would steer

'Gainst thine their chariot's rash career,

Bringing with fearless mind thy car

Alone unbroken in the war.

And now, the strife of glory past,

Thou art return'd once more