Epic, Lyric, and Elegiac Poems of Andreas Libavius

And not to promise themselves late fruits at last,
But rather mature ones quickly. You, Father from the summit of high Heaven,
Drive the cold far away,
And illustrate the days of Venus and Maia with the kind sun,
And foster the fields with gentle heat.
Thus hopes will proceed, and there will be trust in the year.
Thus you will recreate languid hearts with joyful signs.
When the world collapses, and the axis of the sevenfold heaven
Broken, falls headlong into the abyss, and shakes off the heavy
Weight from its back, and the stars sink into the depths,
And lose the habit of enduring the flames, by which the soil itself and
The food have long been decreed, nor will such a great banquet
Be able to satisfy the belly with an unspeakable abyss,
Without it finally hungering, thirsting, and collapsing itself:
It will not fall without a designated time. The machine of things
Will give signs, and the sea and the greatest ether,
And you, guilty earth, and what the circuit of the world holds.
Not otherwise does the fig tree show its power through emerging knots,
Thus the vine has hope of fruit in its tenth buds.
You also, powerful in war, about to fill the world with victorious eagles,
Place the beginnings of such a great matter.
Perhaps the juice of Caesar drinks in the early spring, and itself
Saturates into leaves with life, and into fruit with liquid.
He strikes at the proper time, for he was the first to reap the harvest,
And Mars was the first to decide to settle in houses.
For the month named after Mars was once said
To have gathered eighteen days in the ancient year,
And had shown Phoebus to the people with a joyful face,
No cloud guarded the poles. From the pure ether
The golden Titan the sun was casting rays onto the lands.
You would have said the omens of great things were rising.
But the Moon seemed to turn pale in her somewhat sad cheeks