To the illustrious lord, the most magnificent and most exalted Parthenius, master of offices and patrician, Arator the subdeacon. If, great one, I should wish to recount for you the magistracies of your forefathers, scarcely would the page, read even on its reverse, afford room enough. Mighty in forefathers and ancestors, you nevertheless surpass your pedigrees by your character, and your lineage yields to your merits. Most excellent Parthenius, for whom the name bestowed of old is rather the praise of your spirit — by which, O modest one, you are pious. The heralding tongue foretokened the modesty that was to come, and like an ornament to gems, that by which you are called is here present. Many girdles of office are borne, but ones which you yourself make grand, for as each is granted to you, the honor soon grows in itself. Who could sing of goods so great? I speak briefly: all things together with you — the things which one by one make men great — you alone possess.
You, eloquent one, resound to the throngs of the Rhône and the Rhine; the royal court approves you as a sweet-voiced man. Germany, rich indeed in many things, receives you, the learned one, and rejoices in you with a native's love — Germany, upon whom the greatest glory shines from so great a nursling, such glory as the thronging toga gives in the Romulean forum. I myself saw you, I saw you a young man with eloquent speech matching the Hesperian elders, whither you had been sent, having discharged the office of legate, that as an advocate you might demand the help of liberty. You soothed Getic ears with happy words, and the public prayers aided your homeland. That king, the rejoicing listener, could deny nothing, in whose judgment that cause then lay. When flying fame began to scatter these things in swift course, and raised its head with attentive ear;
the rich abundance of your solid eloquence went forth among the peoples, and an anxious crowd thronged your steps, so that, as often as you opened the floods of speech with moving lips, it ran as if to lay aside its summer thirst. Eager to attain these riches of your tongue, by which, like the wave of the Tagus, you flow, O precious one — since we were lodged at these household gods in the city of Ravenna — I, a gaping guest, was at your side night and day. What books, what learned names you sounded forth to me! How great you were, recalling them all at once, like a very library! There first, with you as guide, I read the Histories of Caesar, which he composed for himself as daily journals. You used to sing the poets with placid and sweet charm, in whom the art was deceptive, the pomp proud; yet nonetheless, O excellent one, you would return to the seen prophets, whose meters faith draws unto its own laws.
Such as Ambrose stands eminent in his Hyblaean hymns — you bees whom you marked out when he was laid in the cradle. Such as Decentius flowed forth in this same art, and you, O Sidonian lyre, sing to the Arverni. Long ago, in my boyish years, the care had been mine to celebrate assiduous song in verses. I also wrote those parts which fable feigned, and to be swept along the empty strait in fickleness. When my frail reed-pipe had sung these things to you, and your love, dear one, often favored me, O would that you preferred — you said — to bend the course of this voice more rightly to the praises of the Lord!
And, since you bear the name by which we call you, Arator the Plowman, let the harvest-field be not hidden from you but laid open. I resolved, I confess, that if ever I should chance to deserve to follow the fruits of my talent toward better things, then, wherever it might befall you to be, O greatest of men, the work which I composed should be sent on to you. Now the promised day spurs me, that at last, O learned one, I may wish to pay my debts and discharge my contracts. Take the song which we have drawn as a libation from the bright sea, and, though scant, receive these waters gratefully. The deep Ocean of things remains in that space, from which we have scarcely drawn a brief drop with the mouth. For I, mingled with the pleasant folds of the Roman Church, made a sheep with shorn crown, seeing the glad pastures and the sunlit volumes of Christ, was seeking to touch all things with my own taste.
And now, accustomed to the Davidic flowers, my greedy mind longed to chew upon odes, now upon Genesis. And when I preferred to pluck violets and lilies together, which the old and the new fragrance had doubled, there fell to me that book which the canon names the Acts, the book full of the apostolic harvest throughout the world. In it the Lord, with Peter fishing, raised us up from the bosom of the salt and dark-blue sea. And by a heavenly image He gave us the ship shown forth, that, the gentiles being taken aboard, it might fully satisfy hunger. From the history of this book I, a raw recruit, brought forth my songs, and zealously gave my lips to my Shepherd. He more generously brings new words to the singer by His aid, without whom no one can speak things worthy of Him. These songs lay open, handed over to the excellent Father the Pope, and the archives of the Church duly keep them stored. Come, then!
Let the assembly celebrate the books once received. The heavenly cause will give the price of the reward. Since there are bishops, masters in religion, whom studious Gaul gives in goodly number, there is the place where Firminus is, that venerable priest, who can feed the people with the mouth of doctrine. The praise of this man reaches to the borders of Italy, and beyond his homeland his glory holds a name. Doubt not that these testimonies, which pleased the man of the apostolic see, would be welcome to the approved. Nor indeed should you think yourself about to lack the gift of fame, because you publish these writings there, set before the work. We shall both go together, wherever that page shall come, and it will ever bear the glory of Parthenius upon its lips.