But let me now the rider raiſe,

And crown him with Æolian lays, ⁠180
The victor's due: and I confide,
Though every welcome gueſt were try'd,
Not one, in all the concourſe, would be found
For faireſt knowledge more renown'd,
Nor yet a maſter more to twine, ⁠185
In laſting hymns, each wreathing line.
The guardian god, who watchful guides
Thy fortunes, Hiero, preſides
O'er all thy cares with anxious pow'r:
And ſoon, if he does not deny ⁠190
His needful aid, my hopes run high
To ſing more pleaſing, in the joyful hour,

On thy chariot, triumphant when thou ſhalt appear,
And fly o'er the courſe with a rapid career,
Tracing paths of language fair, ⁠195
As I to Cronion's ſunny mount repair.
Even now the muſe prepares to raiſe,
Her growth, the ſtrongeſt dart of praiſe,
For me to wield. Approv'd in other things,

Do others riſe, conſpicuous: only Kings, ⁠200