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Rh And every rite divine;

Where strangers' feet innumerous tread

The precincts of the mighty dead,

Is rear'd his hallow'd shrine.

At distance beams his glory's ray

Conspicuous in Olympia's fray,

Where strength and swiftness join in arduous strife:

And round the victor's honour'd head

The verdant wreath of conquest spread,

Heightens with bliss the sweet remains of life.

Such bliss as mortals call supreme,

Which with its mild, perpetual beam

Cheers every future day:

And such my happy lot to grace

His triumphs in the equestrian race

With soft Æolian lay.

Nor will the muse another find

Among the bless'd of human kind

More potent or in regal fame,

Or arts that raise a monarch's name,

For whom she rather would prolong

The rich varieties of song.

The god who makes thy cares his own,

Thee, Hiero, still with favour crown.

And soon, if his protecting love

Not vain and transitory prove,

I hope to find on Cronium's sunny height

A sweeter vehicle of song

To publish, as it rolls along,

Thy rapid chariot's flight.

For me the muse with vigorous art

Prepares her most puissant dart.