“Muses of Sicily, lift me for once To higher flight; our humble tamarisk groves Delight not all; and though the fields and woods Still bound my song, give me the skill to make Fit music for a Roman consul’s ear. “Comes the Last Age, of which the Sibyl sang-- A new-born cycle of the rolling years; Justice returns to earth, the rule returns Of good King Saturn;--lo! from the high heavens Comes a new seed of men. Lucina chaste, Speed the fair infant’s birth, with whom shall end Our age of iron, and the golden prime Of earth return; thine own Apollo’s reign In him begins anew. This glorious age Inaugurates, O Pollio, with thee; Thy consulship shall date the happy months; Under thine auspices the Child shall purge Our guilt-stains out, and free the land from dread. He with the gods and heroes like the gods Shall hold familiar converse, and shall rule With his great father’s spirit the peaceful world. For thee, O Child, the earth untilled shall pour Her early gifts,--the winding ivy’s wreath, Smiling acanthus, and all flowers that blow. She-goats undriven shall bring full udders home, The herds no longer fear the lion’s spring; The ground beneath shall cradle thee in flowers, The venomed snake shall die, the poisonous herb Perish from out thy path, and leave the almond there. “But when with growing years the Child shall learn The old heroic glories of his race, And know what Honour means: then shall the plains Glow with the yellow harvest silently, The grape hang blushing from the tangled brier, And the rough oak drip honey like a dew. Yet shall some evil leaven of the old strain Lurk still unpurged; still men shall tempt the deep With restless oar, gird cities with new walls, And cleave the soil with ploughshares; yet again Another Argo bear her hero-crew, Another Tiphys steer: still wars shall be, A new Achilles for a second Troy. “So, when the years shall seal thy manhood’s strength, The busy merchant shall forsake the seas-- Barter there shall not need; the soil shall bear For all men’s use all products of all climes. The glebe shall need no harrow, nor the vine The searching knife, the oxen bear no yoke; The wool no longer shall be schooled to lie, Dyed in false hues; but, colouring as he feeds, The ram himself in the rich pasture-lands Shall wear a fleece now purple and now gold, And the lambs grow in scarlet. So the Fates Who know not change have bid their spindles run, And weave for this blest age the web of doom. “Come, claim thine honours, for the time draws nigh, Babe of immortal race, the wondrous seed of Jove! Lo, at thy coming how the starry spheres Are moved to trembling, and the earth below,