Phoebus condemned my verse, when I tried to sing
of war and conquered cities, lest I unfurled
my tiny sail on Tyrrhenian
seas. Caesar, this age has restored rich crops
to the fields, and brought back the standards, at last,
to Jupiter, those that we’ve now recovered
from insolent Parthian pillars,
and closed the gates of Romulus’ temple,
freed at last from all war, and tightened the rein
on lawlessness, straying beyond just limits,
and has driven out crime, and summoned
the ancient arts again, by which the name
of Rome and Italian power grew great,
and the fame and majesty of our empire,
were spread from the sun’s lair in the west,
to the regions where it rises at dawn.
With Caesar protecting the state, no civil
disturbance will banish the peace, no violence,
no anger that forges swords, and makes
mutual enemies of wretched towns.
The tribes who drink from the depths of the Danube,
will not break the Julian law, the Getae,
nor Seres, nor faithless Persians,
nor those who are born by the Don’s wide stream.
On working days, and the same on holy days,
among laughter-loving Bacchus’ gifts to us,
with our wives and our children we’ll pray,
at first, to the gods, in the rites laid down,
then, in the manner of our fathers, bravely,
in verse, that’s accompanied by Lydian flutes,
we’ll sing past leaders, we’ll sing of Troy,
Anchises, and the people of Venus.
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