Discerned, will not escape thine eye. It stands An ell above the ground, a sapless post, Of oak or larch⁠—a wood of slow decay By rain, and at its foot on either side Lies a white stone; there narrow is the way, But level is the race-course all around. The monument it is of one long dead, Or haply it has been in former days A goal, as the swift-footed Peleus’ son Has now appointed it. Approach it near, Driving thy chariot close upon its foot, Then in thy seat lean gently to the left And cheer the right-hand horse, and ply the lash, And give him a loose rein, yet firmly keep The left-hand courser close beside the goal⁠— So close that the wheel’s nave may seem to touch The summit of the post; yet strike thou not The stone beside it, lest thou lame thy steeds And break the chariot, to thy own disgrace And laughter of the others. My dear son, Be on thy guard; for if thou pass the goal Before the rest, no man in the pursuit Can overtake or pass thee, though he drave The noble courser of Adrastus, named