Odes of Horace - Ode 1.31. To Apollo

What shall the pious poet pray
Upon the dedication day;
What vow prefer to this Phoebean shrine,
While from the bowl he pours the first-fruits of his wine?
Not the rich crop Sardinia yields,
Nor of Calabria's sunny fields
The herds I ask, nor elephants nor gold,
Nor grounds of which still Liris leaves the tale untold.
Let the Calenian grape be press'd
By those whom fortune has possess'd;
Let the rich merchant in gold cups exhaust
The wine, which to replace his Syrian venture cost:
Dear to the Gods, since thrice and more
In one year he can travel o'er
Th' Atlantic sea undamag'd, while with me
Sweet olives, mallows light, and succ'ry best agree.
Grant, God of song, this humble lot,
But to enjoy what I have got,
And I beseech thee keep my mind intire
In age without disgust, and with the chearful lyre.
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