Bki:Ii To Augustus

The Father’s sent enough dread hail and snow to earth already, striking sacred hills with fiery hand, to scare the city, and scare the people, lest again we know Pyrrha’s age of pain when Proteus his sea-herds drove across high mountains, and fishes lodged in all the elms, that used to be the haunt of doves, and the trembling roe-deer swam the whelming waters. We saw the yellow Tiber’s waves hurled backwards from the Tuscan shore, toppling Numa’s Regia and the shrine of Vesta, far too fierce now, the fond river, in his revenge of wronged Ilia, drowning the whole left bank, deep, without permission. Our children, fewer for their father’s vices, will hear metal sharpened that’s better destined for the Persians, and of battles too. Which gods shall the people call on when the Empire falls in ruins? With what prayer shall the virgins tire heedless Vesta? Whom will Jupiter assign to expiate our sins? We pray you, come, cloud veiling your bright shoulders, far-sighted Apollo: or laughing Venus Erycina, if you will, whom Cupid circles, or you, if you see your children neglected, Leader, you sated from the long campaign, who love the war-shouts and the helmets, and the Moor’s cruel face among his blood-stained enemies. Or you, winged son of kindly Maia, changing shape on earth to human form, and ready to be named as Caesar’s avenger: Don’t rush back to the sky, stay long among the people of Quirinus, no swifter breeze take you away, unhappy with our sins: here to delight in triumphs, in being called our prince and father, making sure the Medes are punished, lead us, O Caesar.