Classic Poem

The Celtiberian tribesmen tell thy praise
And proudly doth our Spain thy fame record,
How glad thy lot on Bilbilis to gaze,
The city famed alike for steed and sword.

Caius the ancient with his locks of snow,
The shattered crags of Vadavevo's peak,
And soft Boterdus' valley shalt thou know,
Whose pleasant groves Pomona loves to seek.

How sweet in genial Congedus to swim,
Or breast the waters of the nymphs' calm pool,
In Salo's brook to brace each weary limb
Where steel is hardened by his waters cool.

Voberca's self — no further need'st thou stray —
Shall bring thee game, and thou shalt hunt at ease;
And cloudless summer's heat canst thou allay
By golden Tagus' bank beneath the trees.

Dercenna shall thy parching thirst assuage,
And Nutha colder than the frozen snow,
But ere the wrath of hoarse December rage
Seek the calm shores of sunny Tarraco.

Thy Laletania shall thy refuge be,
And there shalt thou the boar or hind ensnare,
The while thy verdurer tracks the stag for thee,
Thy sturdy steed may tire the cunning hare.

There unkempt urchins seek the genial glow
Thy forest-girdled heart-stone doth afford,
Where rustic guests a generous welcome know
And many a hungry hunter shares thy board.

The sandal, crescent-decked, the robe of state,
The cloak of purple dye thou shalt not need,
Nor fear the hoarse Liburnian at thy gate;
No clients grumble there, no widows plead;

No pale defendant breaks into thy sleep;
Nay, if thou wilt, turn mornings into nights:
The world's applause let others seek and keep,
Yet feel some pity for those hapless wights.

And while friend Sura goes in quest of praise,
Seek true delight henceforth and pride forswear,
Justly the joys of life demand our days,
For fame already hath her ample share.