Ode to Apollo

As the fresh wine the poet pours,
What asks he, Phoebus, what implores?
Not rich Sardinia with her seas of corn,
Nor herds in grateful prospect laid
In hot Calabria's chestnut shade,
Nor gold nor ivory from the realms of morn,
Nor fields where, kissed by Liris' tide
As still his evening waters glide,
Drops in the quiet stream the crumbling mold;
Let those who for the blessing pine
Prune with Calenian hook the vine
And the rich merchant drain from cups of gold
Wines from Assyrian produce given
Each year the darling care of Heaven
[Thrice?] from the Atlantic safe restored,
But me, a poet, olives feed,
And the light mallows of the mead
And simple endive crowns my frugal board.
Give me, Latona's honied boy,
My little blessings to enjoy,
Unbroken of frame, and oh! with mind entire,
Nor old to totter in a race
Of Shame, forgot by every grace,
Deserted by the Lyre.
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