Classic Poem

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
Who felt that Pan was in the darkness near.

The scent of Bacchic revels too it knows,
And thick have grown its leaves from spilth of wine,
While from red garlands fell the scattered rose,
And none could say of any bloom — " 'Twas mine."

O dear to heaven, mighty Caesar's tree,
Fear not the fire, the sacrilegious knife;
It was not Pompey's hand that planted thee,
Thy honours shall enjoy eternal life.