Invocation To The Lyre

If once I cut thee with a trembling hand From Latin bough to Phœbus that belongs, So now, O Lyre, shalt thou rehearse the songs Of the Tuscan land.

What consolations fierce to bosoms hard Of bristling warriors thou wast wont to bring, Or else in peace the soothing verse to sing Of the Lesbian bard!

Thou taughtest them of Venus and of Love, And of the immortal son of Semele, The Lycian's hair, the glowing majesty Of deep-browed Jove.

Now, when I strike, comes smiling to my side The spirit of Flaccus, and through choirs divine Of laurelled nymphs that radiant round me shine, Calmly I glide.

O dear to Jove and Phœbus! Sway benignant Which art chief guardian of our cities' peace, Answer our prayers! and bid the discord cease Of souls malignant!

JUVENILIA.