If, Phidyle, your hands you liftTo heaven, as each new moon is born,Soothing your Lares with the giftOf slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assailYour vines, nor mildew blast your wheat.Ne'er shall your tender younglings failIn autumn, when the fruits are sweet.The destined victim 'mid the snowsOf Algidus in oakwoods fed,Or where the Alban herbage grows,Shall dye the pontiff's axes red;No need of butcher'd sheep for youTo make your homely prayers prevail;Give but your little gods their due,The rosemary twined with myrtle frail.The sprinkled salt, the votive meal,As soon their favour will regain,Let but the hand be pure and leal,As all the pomp of heifers slain.