Chapter_8

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Hiero!⁠—yea, for the rod of his power

Is a sceptre of righteousness stretched o’er the land

Of the myriad flocks; and the choice of the flower

Of chivalry ever is plucked by his hand.

Yea, and he also is garlanded

With the blossom of song enstarring his head,

The song that with gladsome voices now

We singers chant, at the banquet meeting

Of the Prince who giveth us friendship’s greeting.

Now, O my Muse, from its rest take thou

The lyre that is strung to the Dorian strain,

If the glory of fleet Pherenikus, he

Who triumphed in Pisa’s Olympian plain,

Haply with rapture of song thrilled thee,

When flashed in the course by Alpheus’ river

His body by lash or by goad touched never,

And wedded to victory