Whoe'er with hallow'd feet approaches near,
Behold, Callimachus lies buried here,
I drew my breath from fam'd Cyrene's shore,
And the same name my son and father bore.
My warlike fire in arms much glory won,
But brighter trophies grac'd his favour'd son;
Lov'd by the tuneful nine he sweetly sung,
And stopt the venom of th' invidious tongue:
For whom the muse beholds with fav'ring eyes,
In early youth, she'll ne'er in age despise.