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Th' accepted hymn, oh child of Jove,

Who dwells enthroned in clouds above,

Begin, for I to chant his praise

Their voice and social lyre will raise.

The fruit of my delightful toil

Shall crown the glory of the soil.

Where dwelt the Myrmidons of yore,

Whose ancient and illustrious race

Aristoclides with disgrace

Of tarnish'd fame ne'er cover'd o'er;

Subdued in the pancratium's fight,

Where heroes strive with valiant might.

He who on Nemea's fertile plain

The palm of conquest wins, has found

An antidote to labouring pain,

A healing balm for every wound.

With his sweet form's unequall'd grace

The valour of his arm agrees,

And onward bears in glory's race

The son of Aristophanes.

No farther o'er the trackless main

An easy passage hope to gain

Than where Alcides' pillars stand.

Placed by the hero god, to stay

The wandering seaman on his way,

And witness the proud naval band

What time on the Herculean main

The mighty monsters he had slain.

Impell'd by his adventurous mind

The springs of marshy lakes to find,

Proceeding far as he could roam,

He traced the realm and voyage home.

But to what distant headland, say,

Waft'st thou, oh mind, my sail away?

To Æacus I charge thee bear

And to his race the chaplet fair;