TO HIS LUTE

If ever in the sylvan shade A song immortal we have made, Come now, O lute, I prithee come, Inspire a song of Latium! A Lesbian first thy glories proved; In arms and in repose he loved To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise His voice in Love's and Liber's praise. The Muses, too, and him who clings To Mother Venus' apron-strings, And Lycus beautiful, he sung In those old days when you were young. O shell, that art the ornament Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content To Jove, and soothing troubles all,— Come and requite me, when I call!