No guilty lusts the shrine of home defile:Cleansed is the hand without, the heart within:The father's features in his children smileSwift vengeance follows sin.Who fears the Parthian or the Scythian horde,Or the rank growth that German forests yield,While Caesar lives? who trembles at the swordThe fierce Iberians wield?In his own hills each labours down the day,Teaching the vine to clasp the widow'd tree:Then to his cups again, where, feasting gay,He hails his god in thee.A household power, adored with prayers and wine,Thou reign'st auspicious o'er his hour of ease:Thus grateful Greece her Castor made divine,And her great Hercules.Ah! be it thine long holydays to giveTo thy Hesperia! thus, dear chief, we prayAt sober sunrise; thus at mellow eve,When ocean hides the day.