7.21 haec est illa dies, quae magni conscia partus
Lucanum populis et tibi, Polla, dedit.
heu! Nero crudelis nullaque inuisior umbra,
debuit hoc saltem non licuisse tibi.
7.22 uatis Apollinei magno memorabilis ortu
lux redit: Aonidum turba, fauete sacris.
haec meruit, cum te terris, Lucane, dedisset,
mixtus Castaliae Baetis ut esset aquae.
7.23 Phoebe, ueni, sed quantus eras cum bella tonanti
ipse dares Latiae plectra secunda lyrae.
quid tanta pro luce precer? tu, Polla, maritum
saepe colas et se sentiat ille coli.
7.21 This is the day that, conscious of a great birth, gave Lucan to the people and to you, Polla. Ah, cruel Nero! For no death was more hated: this crime, at least, you should never have been allowed to commit!
7.22 The day returns that is remembered for the great birth of Apollo’s poet: Aonian throng, be propitious to these rites. This day, when it gave you, Lucan, to the world, deserved to have the Baetis merged with the water of Castalia.
7.23 Come, Phoebus Apollo, but come as the great god you were when you gave away the second quill of the Latin lyre to the poet who thunders wars. What prayer should I make for so great a day? May you, Polla, often cherish your husband and may he know it.