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.Though your buried wealth surpassThe unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby,Though with many a ponderous massYou crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea,Let Necessity but driveHer wedge of adamant into that proud head,Vainly battling will you striveTo 'scape Death's noose, or rid your soul of dread.