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48 From the Stymphalian nymph, Metopa fair,

My mother drew the vital air—

Within equestrian Thebes, whose fame

Salutes her with a founder's name.

At her pure wave my thirst I slake, and raise The varied hymn that chants the warriors' praise.

Now, Æneas, urge thy tuneful band,

Parthenian Juno first demands the stram.

Then let clear truth the old disgrace

That loads Bœotia's sons efface;

Thou, like the general's trusty wand,

Art charged the faithful embassy to bear,

From the sweet muses with the lovely hair,

Who bade thy cup the sounding lays retain.

Command them in their grateful verse

The praise of Hiero to rehearse,

That monarch whose unblemish'd sway

Ortygia's isle and Syracuse obey.