IV.
Descende cœlo.
COME down, Calliope, from above:
Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire:
Or if a graver note thou love,
With Phœbus' cittern and his lyre.
You hear her? or is this the play
Of fond illusion? Hark! meseems
Through gardens of the good I stray,
'Mid murmuring gales and purling streams.
Me, as I lay on Vultur's steep,
A truant past Apulia's bound,
O'ertired, poor child, with play and sleep,
With living green the stock-doves crown'd—
A legend, nay, a miracle,
By Acherontia's nestlings told,
By all in Bantine glade that dwell,
Or till the rich Forentan mould.
"Bears, vipers, spared him as he lay,
The sacred garland deck'd his hair,
The myrtle blended with the bay:
The child's inspired: the gods were there."
Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me still
On Sabine heights, or lets me range
Where cool Præneste, Tibur's hill,
Or liquid Baiæ proffers change.
