What blessing shall the bard entreatThe god he hallows, as he poursThe winecup? Not the mounds of wheatThat load Sardinian threshing floors;Not Indian gold or ivory—no,Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,Is eating, unperceived, away.Let those whose fate allows them trainCalenum's vine; let trader boldFrom golden cups rich liquor drainFor wares of Syria bought and sold,Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a yearHe comes and goes across the brineUndamaged. I in plenty hereOn endives, mallows, succory dine.O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,Strength unimpaird, a mind entire,Old age without dishonour spent,Nor unbefriended by the lyre!