Proseuticum for Frederick III for the Apollonian Laurel

The forest that smells of Sabaean smoke incense,
Showing in order.
You teach the fields where the basilisk reigns,
And where rabid lions put nations to flight,
And where the Ethiopian, learned in writing,
Plucks discolored ivory.
You tell of the frosts where they stiffen,
Those who dwell on the white Riphaean mountains of Scythia,
And drink from the Tanais the Don River through an eternal
Falling fountain.
You are powerful, celebrating all the poets
Whom the North covers, fearing the stepmother,
And you brought the learned Latin to conquer
With the lyre-pick.
Or perhaps the son of the earth Apollo, shining for the lands,
Gave you the lyre to possess,
So that you might join together the tuneful nerves of the cithara.
A virgin, or perhaps your own honest heart,
Fashioned it, and the eyes of your mind are on high.
You have been gifted with the kindly care of the gods,
Celtis, in the world.
Why does our poet recall the spirit of the Orpheus of Orcus,
Following his dear companion,
And how his lyre was able to bend
The grim mind of the King?
There is such great glory in your mouth, Celtis,
That you are able to delay rapid tigers,
And the murmur of the swelling sea falls silent
While you sing with your herbs incantations.
The fiery Titan the Sun pauses in the middle of the world,
And holds his chariots, blushing with cinnabar.