XXXI.

QUID DEDICATUM.

What blessing shall the bard entreat The god he hallows, as he pours The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat That load Sardinian threshing floors; Not Indian gold or ivory--no, Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray, Nor fields that Liris, still and slow, Is eating, unperceived, away. Let those whose fate allows them train Calenum's vine; let trader bold From golden cups rich liquor drain For wares of Syria bought and sold, Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year He comes and goes across the brine Undamaged. I in plenty here On endives, mallows, succory dine. O grant me, Phoebus, calm content, Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire, Old age without dishonour spent, Nor unbefriended by the lyre!