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Rh Made the brave Amazonian squadrons yield,

And closed their female warrior ranks in death.

Chimæra, breathing fire, his arms o'erthrew,

And the proud race of Solymi he slew.

His death I sing not—while from thraldom freed,

The ancient stalls of Jove receive th' aspiring steed.

But 'tis not mine beyond the mark to throw

The whirling arrows from my potent bow.

The high-throned muses' willing slave, I raise

With the just tribute of poetic praise,

The Oligæthidæ's Corinthian train,

Victors at Isthmus and on Nemea's plain.

While in brief tale their glories I rehearse,

True is the oath that sanctifies my verse.

Since thirty wreaths the herald's sweet-toned sound

In either contest won, sings to the world around.

Their triumphs on Olympia's plain

Ere now my song has given to fame;

And future crowns the lay shall move,

If true my ardent wishes prove.

But should the natal demon bless,

Since God alone confers success,

To Jove and war's stern lord we leave

The embryo glories to achieve.

For them what verdant garlands grow

On the Parnassian mountain's brow!

What chaplets Thebes and Argos yield,

And green Arcadia's sacred grove!

Where stands as witness of the field,

The altar of Lycæan Jove.