“She sung, and to her harp her voice applied: Then us again to match her they defied: But our poor song, perhaps, for you to hear, Nor leisure serves, nor is it worth your ear.” “That causeless doubt remove, O muse; rehearse,” The goddess cried, “your ever-grateful verse:” Beneath a checker’d shade she takes her seat, And bids the sister her whole song repeat. The sister thus: “Calliope we chose For the performance.” The sweet virgin rose, With ivy crown’d; she tunes her golden strings, And to her harp this composition sings: