The sources of pleasure, its causes and reasons, and chiefest of all
Its effects, sing Heliconian maiden -- you who have often stopped by
The cool stream of Hebron with dipping pitcher, and gathered
Delight of pansies and fragrant wild-flowers to make a garland
That will crown the fresh faces of youths in contest, sweat dripping
Down ruddy cheeks, eager each after their straining work
For the sweet rewards of marble-eyed victory -- and pour for me too
A refreshing flagon of the gods' honeyed wine; after all it is only right
Since you have favored many youths before me, even when youth
Was only the spark of delight you engendered in the hearts of men
With brows weighted down by old of age, while frail care
Stood in attendance, and, growing from the pores of their faces, white wisdom
Guided their hands against the scratching pen. Perhaps you will object
On account of my boldness, and ask that I pursue you with tender wooing,
Or perhaps I am not endowed, neither through inward grace nor a great line
Of grave ancestors, with the virtue requisite for my beloved task. My answer
Is this: some seek not for the laurel, nor for the glory
That dies and fades away on men's marbled lips,
But they desire only to know. If it is possible in beautiful verse
To set out the causes of things with all the sweetness of honey,
Then instruct one for whom it is a pleasure to learn --
And consider that this is no mean service that you will perform thereby
For the earth's generations. For often man is paralyzed by wonder,
Or struggles, even in his sleep, hoping that there is some way
To cast his net for gladness; but his traps are all awry,
The golden bird escapes him and flies aloft, past the orb of the sun,
Returning into your pale hand. You set him again in his gleaming cage,
Moon-formed, beaming, and he teaches you his rapturous song.
So if you will open the little door and let him aloft, instruct him to perch
On the branches of alders and sing before the awed throng,
Or if you will set out for me, in golden verse, the ways of building traps,
Whether we are to weave them from pliant osier or entice
With delicacies and rarified morsels (for only the smoothest and choicest
Of first beginnings can delight delight himself) -- then yours is the glory, yours the power
That unlocks the receding depths, most hidden away in the hearts of men;
And consider that it is no small thing, by performing a mean service
For your most devoted servant, to once again gain dwelling among men,
To return to an age rendered gold, when the nightingale sings in the valleys,
And the brooks whisper soft and soothing things, a delight for the ears and the heart.