’Tis thine, all thine; dream not thy cruel handIs hid from me! Yet ever on thy landThe Muse hath smiled; we gave it praise aboveAll cities, yea, fulfilled it with our love.The light of thy great Mysteries was shedBy Orpheus, very cousin of this deadWhom thou hast slain; and thine high citizenMusaeus, wisest of the tribes of men,We and Apollo guided all his way:For which long love behold the gift ye pay!