Ii

Five thousand warriors--O the rapturous day! Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield, Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, To Syracuse advance in bright array. Who leads them on?--The anxious people see Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad! Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain, Salute those strangers as a holy train Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) That brought their precious liberty again. Lo! when the gates are entered, on each hand, Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine In seemly order stand, On tables set, as if for rites divine;-- And, as the great Deliverer marches by, He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown; And flowers are on his person thrown In boundless prodigality; Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, Invoking Dion's tutelary care, As if a very Deity he were!