So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair,Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.

Think not those strains can e'er expire,Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roarOf Aufidus, to Latium's lyreI sing with arts unknown before.Though Homer fill the foremost throne,Yet grave Stesichorus still can please,And fierce Alcaeus holds his ownWith Pindar and Simonides.The songs of Teos are not mute,And Sappho's love is breathing still:She told her secret to the lute,And yet its chords with passion thrill.Not Sparta's queen alone was firedBy broider'd robe and braided tress,And all the splendours that attiredHer lover's guilty loveliness:Not only Teucer to the fieldHis arrows brought, nor Ilion