Classic Poem

Of battles and of cities' fall the tale
When I would sing, Phoebus a chiding note
Struck on his lyre, and warned me not to sail
Out o'er the Tuscan sea my tiny boat.

Thine age, O Caesar, has again the land
Enriched with plenteous increase, and has borne
Home, in our own Jove's fane once more to stand,
The banners from proud Parthian portals torn,

Has Janus' gate, from warfare freed, shut fast,
Has licence curbed that past due limit strays,
Has into banishment ill-conduct cast,
And to our life brought back the olden ways,

Through which the Latin name and Italy's might
Grew, and our empire's fame and majesty spread
To where the sun at dawn puts forth his light
From where he sinks into his western bed.

Our ease, while Caesar o'er the world keeps ward,
Ne'er shall mad civic strife or violence
Disturb, nor anger, forger of the sword,
That 'twixt unhappy cities breeds offence.

Not they their thirst who in deep Danube slake,
Not Getians, Seres, nor the faithless race
Of Persians will the Julian statutes break,
Nor they who by the Don have their birthplace.

For us, on work-days and on feast-days too,
While we with wives and children quaff our share
Of merry Liber's boons, first, as is due,
For the gods' blessing offering up a prayer,

Of chiefs who rest from noble lives have won
Old songs with Lydian flutes accompanying,
And tales of Troy, Anchises, and the son
That gentle Venus bore him, will we sing.