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 stillOn Sabine heights, or lets me rangeWhere cool Praeneste, Tibur's hill,Or liquid Baiae proffers change.Me to your springs, your dances true,Philippi bore not to the ground,Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew,Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.