TO APOLLO. I-31
What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo?
What is he asking for with lifted hands,
Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon?—
Not fertile crop from rich Sardinian lands,—
Not the fair herds of sultry, damp Calabria,—
Not even Indian ivory and gold;—
Nor meadows that the Liris, silent river,
With sluggish flow has nibbled, as it rolled.
Let those whom Fortune has endowed with vineyards,
With the Calenian knife their grapevines trim,
Let the rich merchant from his golden goblet
Drink wine by Syrian traffic bought for him.
Dear to the very gods he three times yearly,
Yes four times, travels the Atlantic Sea
Unharmed. But I—I feed myself on olives,
Ay, succory and soft mallows are for me.
Let one enjoy sound health and my possessions—
Son of Latona, grant to me, I pray,
With a sane mind an old age all unsullied,
Nor let my gift—my lyre—be taken away.
TO DIANA. III-22
Diana, Protector of mountain and wood,
Who when three times invoked, hast so well understood,
And young mothers in child-birth hast rescued from death,
Goddess, triply endowed!
Let this tree overhanging my house here, this pine
Be for thee, that each year I shall consecrate thine,
Happy still—with the blood of a boar, whose last breath,
Planned a side-long attack.
TO MELPOMENE. IV-3
Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regarded
Melpomene! never an Isthmian game
Shall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer,
Nor shall a swift horse lead him onward to fame.
Though a victor he rides in a chariot Achaian,
Not him shall the fortune of war ever show.
In the Capitol wearing the garland of laurel
Because the proud threatenings of kings he laid low.
But every stream flowing over the country
Fertile Tibur around, and so every grove
With its thick-growing leaves shall ennoble the poet,
In Æolian song he ennobled shall prove.
The offspring of Rome, that is Queen among cities,
Me have deemed as a bard to be worthy a place
In her glorious choir, and less and less keenly
Already the sharp bite of Envy I trace.
Oh—Pieris! oh Muse, who the sweet tone controllest
Of the golden-tongued lyre, able too, to endow
The dumb fishes as well, if it happen to please thee,
With the notes of the swan, 'tis from thee it comes now,
That I by the finger of those who are passing
The Lord of our own Roman lyre am shown,
For all inspiration, for all that is pleasing,
If it happen to please, thou hast made it my own.