Classic Poem

If at new moon with upturned palms you prayed
To heaven, my farm-bred Phidyle, if their due
Of incense and the season's corn you paid
For Lares' favour, and fat porker slew,

Be sure your fertile vine will not be caught
By noxious Afric, nor the sprouting ear
By blight, nor need your pretty yearlings aught
From the sick season of fruit-harvest fear.

For the doomed victim that, where fall the snows
On Algidus, browses in the groves of oak
And ilex, or on Alban pasture grows,
Shall pour from severed throat its blood to soak

The Pontiffs' axe. With flocks of slaughtered sheep
To ply the gods you are in no way bound,
So but their little images you keep
With rosemary and sprigs of myrtle crowned.

Though you the altar touched with hand that held
No gift, your votive meal and crackling salt,
No less than costly sacrifice, dispelled
The hearth-gods' anger that awaits default.