For those Games’ sake. Yea, the good that unceasing
On man’s lot daily as dew droppeth down
Is that which to each is most well-pleasing.
Now is it my bounden duty to crown
With a strain wherein hoof-beats triumphant ring
In Aeolian mood Sicilia’s King.
And hereof is my spirit assured past doubt
That amidst all men on the wide earth dwelling
There is found no host whom with prouder-swelling
Notes in many a winding bout
Of noble song I may glorify,
Yea, none more learned in honour’s lore,
None who showeth therein more potency.
The God who guardeth thee watcheth o’er
Thine hopes and thine aims, that no evil assail thee;
And if—O nay, but he cannot fail thee!—
I trust ere long once more