Odes 1.17 (Martin): Velox Amoenum

My own sweet Lucretillis ofttime can lure
From his native Lycaeus kind Faunus the fleet,
To watch o'er my flocks, and to keep them secure
From summer's fierce winds, and its rains, and its heat.

Then the mates of a lord of too pungent a fragrance
Securely through brake and o'er precipice climb,
And crop, as they wander in happiest vagrance,
The arbutus green, and the sweet-scented thyme.

Nor murderous wolf, nor green snake may assail
My innocent kidlings, dear Tyndaris, when
His pipings resound through Ustica's low vale.
Till each moss'd rock in music makes answer again.

The muse is still dear to the gods, and they shield
Me their dutiful bard; with a bounty divine
They have bless'd me with all that the country can yield,
Then come, and whatever I have shall be thine!

Here screened from the dog-star, in valley retired,
Shalt thou sing that old song thou canst warble so well,
Which tells how one passion Penelope fired,
And charm'd fickle Circe herself by its spell.

Here cups shalt thou sip, 'neath the broad-spreading shade,
Of the innocent vintage of Lesbos at ease,
No fumes of hot ire shall our banquet invade,
Or mar that sweet festival under the trees.

And fear not, lest Cyrus, that jealous young bear,
On thy poor little self his rude fingers should set.
Should pluck from thy bright locks the chaplet, and tear
Thy dress, that ne'er harm'd him nor any one yet.