A rod of marvellous growth, [147]a laurel-bough
Of blooming verdure; and within me breathed
A heavenly voice, that I might utter forth
All past and future things: and bade me praise
The blessed race of ever-living gods:
And ever first and last the Muses sing.
Away then—why [148]this tale of oaks and rocks?
Begin we from the Muses oh my song!
They the great spirit of their father Jove
Delight in heaven: their tongues symphonious breathe