Virgil

Here is our home, here is our fatherland.

And fired his soul with love of fame that was to be.

He, like an unmoved ocean cliff, resists.

Yet love of country shall prevail, and boundless passion for renown.

And here are troops of men

who had suffered wounds, fighting to save their country,

and those who had been pure priests while still alive,

and the faithful poets whose songs were fit for Phoebus;

those who enriched our lives with the newfound arts they forged

and those we remember well for the good they did mankind.

Buried deep in sleep,

peaceful, sweet, like the peace of death itself.

No, my boys, no! Don't accustom your spirits to wars of such huge scope,

Don't use your strength and your vigour to disembowel your country!

Lust of the sword rages in him, the accursed frenzy of war.

Now aged, but a god's old age is hardy and green.

There lies my love, there lies my homeland now.

Now hither, now thither he swiftly throws his mind.

His will stands unmoved. The falling tears are futile.