Invocation to Venus

Mother of the Aeneadae, delight of men and gods, nurturing Venus: beneath the gliding signs of heaven you fill the ship-bearing sea and the fruit-bearing lands, since through you every race of living things is conceived, and, born, beholds the light of the sun. Before you, goddess, the winds flee; the clouds of heaven flee before your coming; for you the cunning earth puts up its sweet flowers; for you the levels of the sea laugh, and the sky grows calm and shines with outspread light. For as soon as the face of the spring day is unveiled, and the quickening breeze of the west wind is set free and flourishes, first the birds of the air proclaim you and your coming, stricken to the heart by your power; then the wild beasts and the cattle leap about the glad pastures and swim across the rushing rivers: so seized by your charm they follow you eagerly, wherever you go on, leading each of them onward. Through seas and mountains and rushing rivers, through the leafy homes of birds and the green plains, you breathe a soft love into every breast, and make them eagerly breed their generations, each after its kind.

Since you alone govern the nature of things, and without you nothing rises into the shining shores of light, nothing is made glad, nothing lovable — I long for you as my partner in writing the verses I strive to set out on the nature of things, for our Memmius, whom you, goddess, have willed to be adorned with every excellence at every season. All the more, then, grant, goddess, an everlasting charm to my words, and make the wild works of war lie hushed in sleep through all seas and lands; for you alone can delight mortals with quiet peace, since Mars, mighty in arms, rules the savage works of war — and he often flings himself into your lap, conquered forever by the wound of love, and gazing up, with neck thrown back and supple, feeds his eager eyes with love, gaping on you, goddess, and his breath hangs from your lips as he lies back. Let it pour around him, goddess, as he reclines against your holy body, soft words from your mouth, asking, bright lady, quiet peace for the Romans. For we cannot do this work with an easy mind in an evil season of our country, nor could Memmius' glorious line be wanting to the common weal in such times.

Mother of the Romans, joy of people and gods, good Venus — you who make the sky, the sailing sea, and the fertile earth come alive: every living thing is born through you, and sees the sunlight. You, goddess, are the one the winds and clouds run from; the earth puts out sweet flowers for you; the sea smiles; the sky shines with calm light. When spring shows its face and the warm west wind blows free, the birds in the air feel you first, struck through the heart by your power. Then wild animals and cattle jump through happy fields and swim fast rivers — they love you so much they follow wherever you lead. Through seas and mountains, rivers, bird-filled forests, and green fields you pour sweet love into every heart, and make each kind of creature keep on having babies.

You steer the nature of things. Nothing comes into the light without you — nothing happy, nothing lovable. So I want you as my partner in writing this poem about the nature of things, for our friend Memmius, whom you've always made the best of men. Give my words lasting charm, goddess. And while I write, make war sleep — let the violence of battle rest everywhere, on sea and land. Only you can give humans true peace: Mars, the god of war, often falls into your lap, beaten forever by love's wound. Lying back, he looks up at you, drinks you in with hungry eyes, and his breath hangs on your lips. Goddess, lean over him as he rests on your sacred body. Pour sweet words into his ears. Ask for quiet peace for Rome. We can't do this work with a calm heart while our country is in trouble — and Memmius must be free to serve the common good.