Musus Amicus Poem by robert dickerson

Child of the Nine, I give the fierce winds to drown
in the Cretan sound all uncertainties and fears:
Do we care if some upland despot
plots to put Tiridates out a

job and sends him packing? Should we, O Pimplea,
care, who cherish but the patter of fountain waters?
Mild Muse, to whom alone all
honor of renown is due,

weave an intricate chaplet for my Lamia's hair;
Sing him a new mode on harps untried, on lutes
capoed to his worth, as surly it is fit
for you and yours to do.