To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call <br />Actæa, daughter of the neighbouring stream, <br />This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine, <br />Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot, <br />Were plac'd by Glycon. He with cowslips pale, <br />Primrose, and purple lychnis, deck'd the green <br />Before my threshold, and my shelving walls <br />With honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon, <br />Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount, <br />I slumber: here my clustering fruits i tend; <br />Or from the humid flowers, at break of day, <br />Fresh garlands weave, and chace from all my bounds <br />Each thing impure or noxious. Enter-in, <br />O stranger, undismay'd. nor bat, nor toad <br />Here lurks: and if thy breast of blameless thoughts <br />Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread <br />My quiet mansion: chiefly, if thy name <br />Wise Pallas and the immortal muses own.<br /><br />Mark Akenside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inscriptions-i-for-a-grotto/
