TO SEPTIMUS.
Horace
Septimus, who art ready to go with me, even to Gades, and to the
Cantabrian, still untaught to bear our yoke, and the inhospitable
Syrtes, where the Mauritanian wave perpetually boils. O may Tibur,
founded by a Grecian colony, be the habitation of my old age! There let
there be an end to my fatigues by sea, and land, and war; whence if the
cruel fates debar me, I will seek the river of Galesus, delightful for
sheep covered with skins, and the countries reigned over by
Lacedaemonian Phalantus. That corner of the world smiles in my eye
beyond all others; where the honey yields not to the Hymettian, and the
olive rivals the verdant Venafrian: where the temperature of the air
produces a long spring and mild winters, and Aulon friendly to the
fruitful vine, envies not the Falernian grapes. That place, and those
blest heights, solicit you and me; there you shall bedew the glowing
ashes of your poet friend with a tear due [to his memory].
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