Septimius, you would go with me to Gades And the Cantabrian land, not taught to carry our yoke And to the savage Syrtes, Where the Moorish wave always seethes
Let the Tiber, founded by the settler from Argos Be the resting place of my old age, Let it be a limit to toil for me, Tired of the sea and journeys and military service
If the unfavourable Fates keep me from there, I shall seek the sweet river of Galaesus With its sheep clothed in skins And the countryside, ruled over by Spartan Phalanthus.
That corner of the earth smiles for me beyond all others, Where the honey does not yield to Mt. Hymettus And the olive berry rivals with green Venefrum,
Where Jupiter gives a long Spring and mild Winters And the Aulon valley, friendly to fertile Bacchus, Envies very little the grapes of Falernum.
This place and the fertile hills claim you along with me, There you will sprinkle with the tear you have held back The warm ashes of your friend the poet.