They call;—if aught in shady dellWe twain have warbled, to remainLong months or years, now breathe, my shell,A Roman strain,Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,Or haply mooring to the strandHis batter'd keel,Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,And Cupid, still at Venus' side,And Lycus, beautiful and young,Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear,Delight of Jove's high festival,Blest balm in trouble, hail and hearWhene'er I call!