Book IV, Elegy 6

The priest doth sacrifice; be silent all that his sacrifice may prosper, and let the heifer fall smitten before mine altar-hearths. Let the garland of Rome vie with the ivy-clusters of Philetas, and let the urn serve me with water of Cyrene. Give me soft nard and offerings of appeasing incense, and thrice about the hearth be the woollen fillet twined. Sprinkle me with water, and by the new-built altar let the ivory pipe make libation of song from Phrygian vessels. Fly hence afar all guile, and beneath other skies let mischief dwell; new is the path the priest must tread, but the pure laurel-branch doth make it smooth for him.

My Muse, we will tell of the temple of Palatine Apollo; Calliope, the theme is worthy of thy favour. My songs are spun for the glory of Caesar: while Caesar is the theme of song, do thou, Jupiter, even thou, rest from thy labours and give ear.

By the Athamanian shores where Phoebus dwells there lies a haven, whose bay hushes the roar of the Ionian sea, Actium's wide water that guards the memory of the Julian bark, and gives easy entrance to the mariner's prayer. Here met the hosts of all the world: motionless on the deep stood the huge ships of pine, yet smiled not fortune alike on all their oars. There stood one fleet, doomed by Trojan Quirinus, and Roman javelins — ah! shame! — were grasped in a woman's hand. And there stood the ship of Augustus, its sails filled by the blessing of Jove, its standards long since taught to conquer for their country's sake. And now Nereus had bent the lines to twin crescent curves and the water quivered bright with the flash of arms, when Phoebus, leaving Delos, that abides firmly rooted now beneath his protection — for once alone of isles it was the sport of the South Wind's anger — took his stand above Augustus' ship, and thrice a strange flame shone forth, bent like the slant lightning-flash. He came not with hair streaming o'er his neck or with peaceful music of the tortoise lyre; but his face was as when he looked on Agamemnon Pelops' son, and carried forth the warriors of the Dorian camp to the greedy funeral pyre; or as when he slew the serpent Python, the terror of the peaceful Muses, and relaxed its coils in death.

Then he spake: "O saviour of the world, Augustus, sprung from Alba Longa and known for greater than thy Trojan sires, conquer now by sea! Already the land is thine. My bow fights for thee, and every arrow that burdens my shoulders wishes thee well. Free thy country from fear, thy country that, relying on thy protection, hath freighted thy bark with a nation's prayers. If thou defend her not, 'twas in evil hour that Romulus, as he sought omens for the founding of his walls, beheld the birds fly forth from the Palatine. Aye! and too near they venture with their oars! Shame that Latium's waves, while thou art prince, should bear the sails of a queen! Nor let it fright thee that their fleet is winged, each ship, with an hundred oars. The sea whereon it sails will have none of it. And though the prows bear figures threatening to cast rocks such as centaurs throw, thou shalt find them but hollow planks and painted terrors. 'Tis his cause that makes or mars a soldier's strength. If the cause be not just, shame strikes the weapon from his hands. The time is come! Launch thy ships upon the foe! 'Tis I appoint the hour of battle and will guide the Julian prows with laurel-bearing hand."

He spake and gave his quiver's burden to the bow; after his shafts the spear of Caesar was first to fly. Phoebus kept troth and Rome conquered; the woman met her doom, and broken sceptres floated on Ionia's waves. But his sire Caesar gazed marvelling from his Idalian star: "I am a god, and thy victory gives proof that thou art sprung from our blood." Triton hailed the victor with his song, and all the sea-goddesses clapped their hands around the standards of liberty. But she, vainly trusting in her flying sloop, sought the Nile; this only did she win, death at the hour of her own choice. Heaven willed it and 'twas better so; how mean a triumph would one woman make in those streets through which Jugurtha once was led!

Hence Actian Phoebus won his temple. Each arrow sped from his bow vanquished ten vessels of the foe.

I have sung enough of war: victorious Apollo now demands my lyre, and doffs his armour for the dances of peace. Let white-robed banqueters enter the luxuriant grove, and winsome roses stream about my neck. Be wine outpoured crushed in Falernian presses, and thrice let Cilician saffron bathe my locks. Let the Muse stir poets that now are fired with wine; Bacchus, 'tis thy wont to inspire Phoebus whom thou lovest. Let one tell how the Sycambri of the marsh have bowed to slavery, another sing of the dusky realms of Cephean Meroe; let another record how late in time the Parthian hath made truce and owned defeat." Let him return the standards of Remus; soon shall he yield up his own. Or if Augustus spare for a little the quivers of the East, let him put off those trophies that his boys may win them. Rejoice, Crassus, if thou knowest aught in the darkness of the sands where thou liest: now may we cross Euphrates to thy grave." Thus will I pass the night with drink and thus with song, till dawn shall cast its rays upon my wine.