The sumptuous banquet, with th’ enlivening dance
Now every Theban shall employ;
Dried are our tears, and past mischance
Yields to the lyre abundant themes of joy:
Stretched low in dust the tyrant lies;
But he, who by an ancient right
Obtains the sceptre, is our king;
From Acheron’s loathed stream behold him rise,
Revisiting the cheerful realms of light,
And hope, unlooked for, doth fresh transports bring.