The more characteristic extract given below consists of portions of the Seventh Olympic Ode, in which the poet sings the praises of Diag’oras of Rhodes for having gained a victory with the cestus (made of leather thongs and worn round the hands in boxing). This ode was so much admired by the Rhodians that they wrote it in golden letters on the wall of Minerva’s temple at Lindus. It relates the birth of their patron goddess and the story of their own origin, closing with an invocation to Jupiter, who was worshipped on Ataby’ris, a mountain of the island. Here stood a temple, dedicated to him, containing the fabulous brazen bulls that bellowed when any calamity threatened. ODE TO DIAGORAS. “As when a sire the golden bowl, All foaming with the dew of wine, Takes with a liberal hand and soul, Chief gem where all his treasures shine— Then tends the beverage (hallowed first By prayers to all the powers above) To slake the youthful bridegroom’s thirst, In honor of connubial love; The social pledge he bears on high, And, homeward as his course he bends, Blesses the fond connubial tie, Admired by all his circling friends; E’en thus I bring the nectared strain, The Muses’ gift, to those who gain The Pythian and Olympic crown; Thrice blest, to whom ’tis given to share The arduous fruit of mental care, Cheered by the voice of high renown! Full many a victor in the fray My life-inspiring strains survey— Which bid the sweet-toned lyre its music raise, And wake the sounding flutes through all their notes of praise. And now, Diagoras, to thee They breathe united melody. When Rhodes, the warlike isle, is sung, Apollo’s bride from Venus sprung; He too, the hero brave and bold, With hardy frame of giant mould, Who, by Alphe´us’ sacred tide, And where Castalia’s waters glide, First in the cestus’ manly fray, Bore the triumphant prize away. Let Damage’tus next, his sire, To justice dear, the strain inspire. Fixed on that isle which three fair cities grace, Where Embolus protects wide Asia’s coast, They dwell united with the Argive host. In that blest isle secure at last, ’Twas thine, Tlepolemus, to meet For each afflictive trial past A recompense and respite sweet. Chief of Tirynthian hosts, to thee, As to a present deity, The fumes of slaughtered sheep arise In all the pomp of sacrifice: Awarded by thy just decree, The victor gains his verdant prize— That crown whose double honors glow, Diagoras, around thy brow; On which four times the Isthmian pine, And twice the Nemean olive shine: While Athens on her rocky throne Made her illustrious wreath his own.