Should Troy revive to hateful life,Her star again should set in gore,While I, Jove's sister and his wife,To victory led my host once more.Though Phoebus thrice in brazen mailShould case her towers, they thrice should fall,Storm'd by my Greeks: thrice wives should wailHusband and son, themselves in thrall.”—Such thunders from the lyre of love!Back, wayward Muse! refrain, refrainTo tell the talk of gods above,And dwarf high themes in puny strain.

Come down, Calliope, from above:Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire:Or if a graver note thou love,With Phoebus' cittern and his lyre.You hear her? or is this the playOf fond illusion? Hark! meseemsThrough gardens of the good I stray,'Mid murmuring gales and purling streams.