Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • If, Phidyle, your hands you lift
  • To heaven, as each new moon is born,
  • Soothing your Lares with the gift
  • Of slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,
  • Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assail
  • Your vines, nor mildew blast your wheat.
  • Ne'er shall your tender younglings fail
  • In autumn, when the fruits are sweet.
  • The destined victim 'mid the snows
  • Of Algidus in oakwoods fed,
  • Or where the Alban herbage grows,
  • Shall dye the pontiff's axes red;
  • No need of butcher'd sheep for you
  • To 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.