GREAT PALES, goddess of flocks, shepherd of Amphrysus,
Woods and streams of Lycaeus, my poem is yours now.
The stories which might serve to please careless minds
Have grown dull with use. Who needs to tell or be told
How Eurystheus raged or Busiris welcomed his guests,
How Leto gave birth or the boy Hylas drowned
Or Pelops of the ivory shoulder won his race
And his wife together? I must choose another path
To win ascendancy over the tongues of men.
If I live I will be the first to lead the Muses
Captive in triumph from the Aonian mountain,
The first, Mantua, to bring you Idumaean palms.
I will build a marble temple beside the water
Where Mincius winds his course in slow wide curves
Among green fields, and slender reeds edge the banks.
There Caesar shall preside, the god of the temple.
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