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.