Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain,
At the full mo6n, with suppliant hands bestow,
O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know
Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,
And hale the nurselings of thy flock remain
Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow
’Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,
Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain
The pontiff's axe: to thee can ill avail
Thy little gods wfith much slain to assail, —
And rosemary, and myrtle chapletries.
Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;
More than rich gifts the powers it shall appease,
Though pious but with meal and sparkling salt.
