Septimius, ready to go with me to Gades
and the Cantabri untaught to bear our yoke yet,
and the wild Syrtes, where the Moorish ocean
always is tossing –
Ah, Tibur, founded by the Argive settler –
let that be the home and seat of my old age,
my limit when I am tired of seas and journeys,
and tired of war too.
But if the cruel Fates cut me off from that place,
I’ll seek the stream of Galaesus, dear to the skin-clad
sheep, and the country fields that were once ruled over
by Spartan Phalanthus.
That nook of the world smiles for me more than any
other country, where the honey doesn’t yield to
that of Hymettus, and the olive rivals
greeny Venafrum;
where Jupiter gives us nice long springs, and winters
warmly mild, and Aulon dear to fertile
Bacchus, does not envy at all the clustring
grapes of Falernum.
That place and its rich happy heights are calling
both you and me; and when I am warm ashes
it’s there you’ll sprinkle them with a fitting tear for
your friend and your poet.