English

A LCIDES , now as our fair Caesar seen,
Most welcome to the Latin Jove, I ween,
If such had been thy visage in men's sight
What time the monsters yielded to thy might,
They had not seen thee bear thy cruel thrall,
Nor as a slave to Argive monarch fall.
Ne'er hadst thou wool for Omphali unwound,
Or viewed the Styx and the Tartarean hound;
Eurystheus would have bowed to thy behest,
Nor Lichas brought the Centaur's guileful vest;
Unvexed by Oeta thou hadst reached the heaven
Which by the pyre at last to thee was given.

Our Caesar deigns to take Alcides' face
And with new shrine the Latin Road to grace,
Just where the traveller to Diana's home
Sees by the stone he is eight miles from Rome.
Here Hercules with vows and victims' blood
Was worshipped once: now there's a greater god
Whom men beseech for rank and wealth each day,
And from the other only trifles pray.

In far Tartessus stands a house renowned,
Where rich Corduba Baetis woos in peace
And western sheep with living gold are crowned
Whose native ore makes pale the yellow fleece.

Within its midst is mighty Caesar's plane
Which as a shoot by his own hand was given.
It seems to know from whom its life began;
So green it grows, so high it springs to heaven.

Oft drunken fauns have sported in its shade
And with their piping roused the house to fear,
Oft have its boughs concealed a Dryad maid

Bright garland, whether you from Paestum come,
Or Tibur or Praeneste is your home;
Whether rich Tusculum your blossoms yields,
Or you give fame to fair Campanian fields;
That for Sabinus you may have more charm,
Pretend you come from my Nomentan farm.

There is nothing worn smoother than Hedylus' cloak:
Not the neck of a mule that has long known the yoke,
Not the handle of some old Corinthian jar,
Not the ramshackle wheel of a slow-moving car,
Not the leg that for ten years a fetter has borne,
Not the hoe that long usage in vineyards has worn,
Not pebbles nor ruts on our northern highway,
Not a pauper's wan toga who's seen his last day,
Not a bison's posterior scraped by the cage,
Not the tusk of a boar savage in his old age;
Yes, there is just one thing: and he will not deny it:

S PENDOPHORUS must on his lord attend
And soon to Libya his way will wend.
Give him, dear Love, a wand and those soft darts
Wherewith thou woundest eager lovers' hearts.
Cuirass and shield and helm I leave to thee,
He will be safe if naked he shall be,
E'en as Parthenopaeus felt no blow
From foemen's dart while they could see his brow.
But whomsoe'er he pierces straight will die
Of love — how happy in death's agony!
O beauty bright, from Africa come home
And grow to manhood here with us in Rome.

If I lived in Picenum and fattened field-fares,
Or a Sabine laid out in the woods my meshed snares:
If a fowler's long rod gained for me its light prey,
Or if birds on limed twigs were for me forced to stay,
Then, Carus, my kinship would give you your due;
Neither brother nor grandsire should come before you.
As it is, o'er my fields only starlings take wing,
And finches and chattering sparrows in spring,
To the magpie's loud call my rough ploughman replies
And the ravening kite flies aloft to the skies.

That which in his despite you sought from heaven,
To die before your brother, has been given.
But Tullus grudges you the Stygian shade
And in his elder's grave would fain be laid.
You dwell at peace in the Elysian zone,
Now first rejoicing that you are alone;
And if for Pollux Castor comes again,
You'll say — " Seek not high heaven to regain."

This is the gown which my fond readers know,
For oft I've sung its praises. Long ago
It was a poet's gift, Parthenian hight,
And in it clothed I walked a splendid knight.
Then it was new and worthy of its giver,
Its glossy wool as shining as a river.
To-day the meanest pauper would decline,
To wear it, 'tis indeed so " snow-flake fine."
What will not time and length of days destroy?
Your once grand gown is now like you, my boy.

A SOLDIER you have borne the Getic sky,
And watched the sluggish Wain with careful eye.
But now you travel further from us still
Even to Prometheus and his storied hill.
How will you cry when those grim rocks you see,
Whereon he suffered — " Yet more hard was he."
And then will add — " Who could such pains endure,
Was fit to mould the race of man, be sure.