And every rite divine;150
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,155
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.159
Such bliss as mortals call supreme,160
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.[1]165
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 prolong170
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,175
I hope to find on Cronium's sunny height [2]
A sweeter vehicle of song
To publish, as it rolls along,
Thy rapid chariot's flight.
For me the muse with vigorous art180
Prepares her most puissant dart.179
