Let's sing that song a little higher, Sicilian Muses!
Not everybody praises groves of scrub tamarisks.
If we sing of trees, let the trees be worthy of a consul.

Now the last Cumaean comes with songs of ages.
Through purity is born a great generation.
Now Virgo returns, the kingdoms of Saturn also return;
Now a new race of children descends from high heaven.

Alone you bore this boy, through whom the Iron Age
Sets and the Age of Gold rises over the world.
Smile on him, chaste Lucina: Now your Apollo reigns.

And you, Pollio, through you, consul, the glory of the age
Enters, and magnificent months begin to unfold.
If any traces remain of our useless, age-old pollutions,
Fearing you, leader, they dissolve into the ground.
This child receives life from the gods; he will see
Gods and heroes mingling, and be seen by them,
And guide the peaceful globe with fatherly virtue.

For your birth, boy, Earth sheds treats effortlessly:
Freely wandering ivy and scattered fragrant roots,
Laughing Egyptian lilies mixed with Bear's breech.
On their own, she-goats with swollen breasts will bring
Milk home; nor will oxen fear the great lions.
Even in the cradle, luscious flowers will flourish for you.
Cut down will be the snake, and false, poisoned herbs cut down.
Sweet Assyrian balsam will multiply through the land.

And when you're able to read the glories and know the heroic
Deeds of your family, and through them learn what virtue is,
Gradually the field will yellow with tender ears of corn,
The rosy grape will hang from wild, thorny places,
And honeydew will ooze even from hard oaks.

And yet, small traces of our primitive failings will linger,
Compelling some to try the sea in rafts, surround
Towns with walls, and dig moats around the country.
There will be another Tiphys to sail the Argo
With a few good heroes. There will be other wars;
One more time great Achilles will hurl himself at Troy.

Henceforth, when firm age has made a man of you,
The sailor himself will leave the sea, nor will wooden ships
Exchange treasures; Earth will bear all things everywhere.
The soil shall not be troubled by rakes, nor the plantations by
A scythe. The hearty plowman will loosen the bull's yoke.
Wool will not study to deceive us with varied colors,
But the ram itself in the meadow will put on fleeces of
Burgundy and dyed saffron. Of their own free will,
The grazing lambs will dress themselves in vermillion.

"So run on, peaceful centuries," said the three Parcae,
With a firm nod over their spinning wheels of destinies.

O beloved sprout, new member of our family, the time
Will have arrived to approach the great glories of the gods.
Behold the countries, continents, skies and ocean depths,
Through curving gravity, behold: They all rejoice
That this age is blown by breezes toward the swaying world.

O let my ration of life be long, and enough breath
Remain to tell how vast your highest deeds will be.
Then Thracian Orpheus will not best me in song, nor Linus,
Though Calliope his mother join in the song of Orpheus
And Linus' pretty father Apollo help with his.
Even if Pan vied with me for the Arcadian judge,
Even Pan, before the Arcadian judge, would admit defeat.

Little man, borne in pain by your mother for ten
Long months, begin to know your mother by her smile.
Begin, little man: Whoever doesn't smile for his parents
Is unfit for a god's table or a goddess' bed.