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.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.”