ECLOGUE IV.
POLLIO.
Muses of Sicily! on nobler themes
I now will sing. Not all of us admire
Dense woods and groves; if sylvan joys we sing
Let them be fit for a great Consul's ear.
Now dawns the last age of Cumæan song!
Once more the circling centuries beg in—
The Virgin reappears and Saturn reigns:
From heav'n descends a novel progeny;
Now to this child in whom the iron race
Throughout the world shall cease and turn to gold,
Extend thy aid, Lucina, chaste and kind,
For thy Apollo reigns. This glorious age,
Pollio, will dignify thy consulate;
Then shall great months their wondrous course commence
Under thy rule what trace may yet remain
With us of guilt, shall vanish from the earth
Leaving it free for ever from alarm.
He will accept his life as of the gods
With whom the heroes mingle; seen by them
The whole world will he rule, now set at peace
By his great father's power: to him shall bring
Uncultured earth her first small offerings,
Creeping wild ivy, arums, foxgloves too,
Smiling acanthus with bright polished leaf.
The teeming she-goats without call come home,
The flocks by lions shall be scared no more,
No more by serpents and by poison plants;
O'er all the land sweet spicy balsams grow.
When thou shalt learn thy father's glorious deeds,
The pride of heroes and what Virtue means.
Golden the plains will slowly turn with soft
And bearded ears of corn; the blushing grapes
Shall hang from wild-briar boughs; hard oaks shall drip
With sweetest honey. There will linger yet
Some trace of evil; tempted men will be
To cross the sea in ships, gird towns with walls,
And delve deep furrows in the fertile earth.
Tiphys must come again; Argo once more
Shall bear the chosen heroes; wars will rise
And great Achilles go anew to Troy.
When from Time's course thy manhood thou hast gained,
No more shall men in tall ships cross the seas,
Nor merchandise be carried in the same:
All countries then all good things shall produce;
No harrow need the soil, no hook the vine;
The hind shall loose his oxen from the yoke.
No more our wool need dyeing with false hues,
For rams in meadows make their fleeces glow
With lovely purple melting into gold;
The grazing lambs with crimson shall be decked.
The Fates harmonious to their spindles sing—
"Run on, ye happy ages in your course"—
Dear offspring of the Gods—the time is come,
Start on thy road thou mighty fruit of Jove!
Behold the world that sways her orbed mass,
Lands, ocean wide, and the deep heaven above
All things are gladdened by the coming age;
May my last span of life—this failing breath,
Be yet sufficient to recount thy deeds.
Not Thracian Orpheus, though his mother aid,
Not Linus, whom the fair Apollo helps,
Can conquer me in song; if mighty Pan
With me contend, though Arcady be judge;
Arcady judging, he shall own defeat.
Begin, O! child, to greet her with thy smiles,
Whose ten months' burden caused her weary pain:
Begin, young boy; no nurture has been thine
From parents, nor from gods, nor goddess' love.