The universe has nothing without end--

not earth, not realms of men, not golden Rome,

not seas, not land, not stars burn above.

The Father of all things set a fixed time

when final scorching fire will seize the world.

Still, lofty deeds and honor paid to virtue

exalt throughout the ages countless men

whose fame and praise the poets amplify.

The high-flown verse that flows from Smyrna’s spring

lifts some, the charm of Mincian Virgil others.

The poets’ glory ranges just as far,

almost eternal, lasting long as time,

abiding while the spinning axis turns

the starry sky on its determined path.

And yet if poems that weave together lies

with ancient acts have earned such long repute,

my steadfast faith will grant the deathless glow

of endless praise to me, my due reward.

For I will sing of Christ’s life-giving deeds--

a gift to nations, cleared of lies, divine.

Nor do I fear world-wasting flames will seize

my work: this might, in fact, deliver me

when Christ the gleaming judge, his high-throned Father’s

glory, descends within a blazing cloud.

So come! Be near, o sanctifying Spirit,

source of my poem; and you, sweet Jordan, flood

me with pure drafts, to speak, as Christ deserves.