O, 'tis all of thy dear graceThat every finger points me out in goingLyrist of the Roman race;Breath, power to charm, if mine, are thy bestowing!

E'en as the lightning's minister,Whom Jove o'er all the feather'd breedMade sovereign, having proved him sureErewhile on auburn Ganymede;Stirr'd by warm youth and inborn power,He quits the nest with timorous wing,For winter's storms have ceased to lower,And zephyrs of returuing springTempt him to launch on unknown skiesNext on the fold he stoops downright;Last on resisting serpents flies,Athirst for foray and for flight:As tender kidling on the grassEspies, uplooking from her food,A lion's whelp, and knows, alas!Those new-set teeth shall drink her blood: