Odes 2.6 (Martin): Septimi, Gades

Septimius, that wouldst, I know,
With me to distant Gades go,
And visit the Cantabrian fell,
Whom all our triumphs cannot quell,
And even the sands barbarian brave,
Where ceaseless seethes the Moorish wave;

May Tibur, that delightful haunt,
Rear'd by an Argive emigrant.
The tranquil haven be, I pray,
For my old age to wear away,
O, may it be the final bourne
To one with war and travel worn!

But should the cruel Fates decree,
That this, my friend, shall never be,
Then to Galaesus, river sweet
To skin-clad flocks, will I retreat,
And those rich meads, where sway of yore
Laconian Phalanthus bore.

In all the world no spot there is,
That wears for me a smile like this.
The honey of whose thymy fields
May vie with what Hymettus yields,
Where berries clustering every slope
May with Venafrum's greenest cope.

There Jove accords a lengthened spring,
And winters wanting winter's sting,
And sunny Aulon's broad incline
Such mettle puts into the vine,
Its clusters need not envy those,
Which fiery Falernum grows.

Thyself and me that spot invites,
Those pleasant fields, those sunny heights;
And there, to life's last moments true.
Wilt thou with some fond tears bedew —
The last sad tribute love can lend —
The ashes of thy poet friend.