The Charioteer

Stranger, that one who treads the golden pole,
His steeds of black, in one hand fourfold rein,
The other holding whip of ashen grain,
Better than Castor can his car control.

His father's not so high on glory's roll...
But see, he starts, the limit red to gain,
And strews his rivals o'er the arena's plain—
This Libyan bold dear to the Emperor's soul.

Round the dazed circus toward the goal and palm
Seven times the victor, dizzy yet still calm,
Has whirled. All Hail, son of Calchas the Blue!

And thou mayst see (if that a mortal eye
The heaven-crowned car with wings of fire may view)
Once more to Porphyry glorious Victory fly.