Muses of Sicily, a loftier song
Wake we! Some tire of shrubs and myrtles low.
Are woods our theme? Then princely be the woods.
Come are those last days that the Sibyl sang;
The ages’ mighty march begins anew.
Now comes the virgin, Saturn reigns again;
Now from high heaven descends a wondrous race.
Thou on the new-born babe—who first shall end
That age of iron, bid a golden dawn
Upon the broad world—chaste Lucina, smile: