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28 Then justly, noble king, to thee,

Ænesidemus' progeny,

Thy willing poet's lyre shall raise

The tributary song of praise.

Alone in the Olympic sand

The victor's crown he wore;

But when upon the Pythian strand,

As on the Isthmian shore,

Twelve times his steeds the destined bound

The car triumphant whirl'd around,

The social Graces who decree

Each high reward of victory,

To his loved brother's head the wreath of conquest bore.

This honour'd guerdon to obtain

Has power to free from mental pain.

Such bliss the envied wealth of kings,

When crown'd by patient labour brings,

And emulation's flame.

True star of glory! given to cheer

The clouds that hang on life's career,

And gild the path to fame.

But let the proud oppressor know

What torments in the world below