Tough wits to your mild torture yieldTheir treasures; you unlock the soulOf wisdom and its stores conceal'd,Arm'd with Lyaeus' kind control.'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal;Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn;Inspired by you, the soldier's steel,The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn,Liber and Venus, wills she so,And sister Graces, ne'er unknit,And living lamps shall see you flowTill stars before the sunrise flit.Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid,Who to young wives in childbirth's hourThrice call'd, vouchsafest sovereign aid,O three-form'd power!This pine that shades my cot be thine;Here will I slay, as years come round,A youngling boar, whose tusks designThe side-long wound.