Sonnet Poem by Angelo di Costanzo

The lyre that on the banks of Mincius sung
Daphnie and Melibceus in such strains,
That never on Arcadia's hills or plains
Have rustic notes with sweeter echoes rung;
When now its chords, more deep and tuneful strung,
Had sung of rural gods to listening swains,
And that great Exile's deeds and pious pains
Who from Anchises and the goddess sprung,
The shepherd hung it on yon spreading oak,
Where, if winds breathe the sacred strings among,
It seems as if some voice in anger spoke:
'Let none dare touch me of the unhallowed throng:
Unless some kindred hand my strains awoke,
To Tityrus alone my chords belong.'