Smile, Phoebus, on the youthful priest
Who seeks thy shrine to-day!
With lyre and song attend our feast,
And with imperious finger play
Thy loudly thrilling chords to anthems high!
Come, with temples laurel-bound,
O'er thine own thrice-hallowed ground,
Where incense from our altars meets the sky!
Come radiant and fair,
In golden garb and glorious, clustering hair,
The famous guise in which thou sang'st so well
Of victor Jove, when Saturn's kingdom fell!
The far-off future all is thine!
Thy hallowed augurs can divine
Whate'er dark song the birds of omen sing;
Of augury thou art the king,
And thy wise haruspex finds meaning fit
For what the gods have in the victims writ.
The hoary Sibyl taught of thee
Never sings of Rome untrue,
Chanting forth in measures due
Her mysterious prophecy.

Once she bade Aeneas look
In her all-revealing book,
What time from Trojan shore
His father and his fallen gods he bore.
Doubtful and dark to him was Rome's bright name,
While yet his mournful eyes
Saw Ilium dying and her gods in flame.
Not yet beneath the skies
Had Romulus upreared the weight
Of our Eternal City's wall,
Denied to Remus by unequal fate.
Then lowly cabins small
Possessed the seat of Capitolian Jove;
And, over Palatine, the rustics drove
Their herds afield, where Pan's similitude
Dripped down with milk beneath an ilex tall,
And Pales' image rude
Hewn out by pruning-hook, for worship stood.
The shepherd hung upon the bough
His babbling pipes in payment of a vow,—
The pipe of reeds in lessening order placed,
Knit well with wax from longest unto last.
Where proud Velabrum lies,
A little skiff across the shallows plies;
And oft, to meet her shepherd lover,
The village lass is ferried over
For a woodland holiday:
At night returning o'er the watery way,
She brings a tribute from the fruitful farms—
A cheese, or white lamb, carried in her arms.

"High-souled Aeneas, brother of light-winged Love,
"Thy pilgrim ships Troy's fallen worship bear.
"To thee the Latin lands are given of Jove,
"And thy far-wandering gods are welcome there.
"Thou thyself shalt have a shrine
"By Numicus' holy wave;
"Be thou its genius strong to bless and save,
"By power divine!

"O'er thy ship's storm-beaten prow
"Victory her wings will spread,
"And, glorious, rest at last above a Trojan head.
"I see Rutulia flaming round me now.
"O barbarous Turnus, I behold thee dead!
"Laurentum rushes on my sight,
"And proud Lavinium's castled height,
"And Alba Longa for thy royal heir.
"Now I see a priestess fair
"Close in Mars' divine embrace.
"Daughter of Ilium, she fled away
"From Vesta's fires, and from her virgin face
"The fillet dropped, and quite unheeded lay;
"Nor shield nor corslet then her hero wore,
"Keeping their stolen tryst by Tiber's sacred shore!
"Browse, ye bulls, along the seven green hills!
"For yet a little while ye may,
"E'er the vast city shall confront the day!
"O Rome! thy destined glory fills
"A wide world subject to thy sway,—
"Wide as all the regions given
"To fruitful Ceres, as she looks from heaven
"O'er her fields of golden corn,
"From the opening gates of morn
"To where the Sun in Ocean's billowy stream
"Cools at eve his spent and panting team.
"Troy herself at last shall praise
"Thee and thy far-wandering ways.
"My song is truth. Thus only I endure
"The bitter laurel-leaf divine,
"And keep me at Apollo's shrine
"A virgin ever pure."

So, Phoebus, in thy name the Sibyl sung,
As o'er her frenzied brow her loosened locks she flung.

In equal song Herophile
Chanted forth the times to be,
From her cold Marpesian glade.
Amalthea, dauntless maid,
In the blessed days gone by,
Bore thy book through Anio's river
And did thy prophecies deliver,
From her mantle, safe and dry.

All prophesied of omens dire,
The comet's monitory fire,
Stones raining down, and tumult in the sky
Of trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry;
The very forests whispered fear,
And through the stormful year
Tears, burning tears, from marble altars ran;
Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man;
The Sun himself in light did fail
As if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale.

Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, now
Of mild, benignant brow,
Let those portents buried be
In the wild, unfathomed sea!
Now let thy laurel loudly flame
On altars to thy gracious name,
And give good omen of a fruitful year
Crackling laurel if the rustic hear,
He knows his granary shall bursting be,
And sweet new wine flow free,
And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod,
Vat and cellar will be too small,
While at the vintage-festival,
With choral song,
The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's god:
"Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!"

Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire,
And as it blazes high and higher,
Lightly leap its lucky crest.
A welcome heir with frolic face
Shall his jovial sire embrace,
And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears;
While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bent
Will babble with the babe in equal merriment,
And feel no more his weight of years.

There in soft shadow of some ancient tree,
Maidens, boys, and wine-cups be,
Scattered on the pleasant grass;
From lip to lip the cups they pass;
Their own mantles garland-bound
Hang o'er-head for canopy,
And every cup with rose is crowned;
Each at banquet buildeth high
Of turf the table, and of turf the bed,—
Such was ancient revelry!
Here too some lover at his darling's head
Flings words of scorn, which by and by
He wildly prays be left unsaid,
And swears that wine-cups lie.

O under Phoebus' ever-peaceful sway,
Away, ye bows, ye arrows fierce, away!
Let Love without a shaft among earth's peoples stray!
A noble weapon! but when Cupid takes
His arrow,—ah! what mortal wound he makes!
Mine is the chief. This whole year have I lain
Wounded to death, yet cherishing the pain,
And counting my delicious anguish gain.
Of Nemesis my song must tell!
Without her name I make no verses well,
My metres limp and all fine words are vain!

Therefore, my darling, since the powers on high
Protect the poets,—O! a little while
On Apollo's servant smile!
So let me sing in words divine
An ode of triumph for young Messaline.
Before his chariot he shall bear
Towns and towers for trophies proud,
And on his brow the laurel-garland wear;
While, with woodland laurel crowned.
His legions follow him acclaiming loud,
"Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound.

Let my Messala of the festive crowd
Receive applause, and joyfully behold
His son's victorious chariot passing by!

Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold!
Thy virgin sister, too, stoop with thee from the sky!