Who o’er Syracuse holdeth empery,
A king to his citizens gracious-souled;
Never jealous of good men’s weal is he
Whom stranger-friends from far lands hold
As a father with worshipful marvelling.
O might I but land on his shores and bring
A twofold boon, even health’s pure gold,
And the triumph-chant therewithal that I sing
To light with splendour the Pythian crown
Which his steed Pherenikus in days gone by
At Kirrha won for his lord’s renown,
To my friend then, crossing the deep sea, I
Had come as a light clear-shining afar,
Ay, beaming brighter than any star
In yonder sky.