Whilst thou, Fernando, strikest from thy strings
The illustrious deeds of heroes and of kings,
Whilst men, whilst Gods stand spellbound at thy strain
Of barbarous nations tamed by sceptred Spain,—
From Pindus' sacred crown and tuneful falls,
Thee with sweet words Calliope thus calls:
"Hail, youth, whose temples, late alone entwined
By Mars' red hand, now bays Phoebean bind!
This grants Apollo, this the God of wine,
The lightfoot Nymphs, and whole harmonious Nine,
That with the kings that to thy lyric fire
Owe half their fame, thyself that smit'st the lyre,
Shall unborn nations join—admire, and praise,
And no dark night succeed thine endless days."