TO PHIDYLE.
Horace
My rustic Phidyle, if you raise your suppliant hands to heaven at the
new moon, and appease the household gods with frankincense, and this
year's fruits, and a ravening swine; the fertile vine shall neither
feel the pestilential south-west, nor the corn the barren blight, or
your dear brood the sickly season in the fruit-bearing autumn. For the
destined victim, which is pastured in the snowy Algidus among the oaks
and holm trees, or thrives in the Albanian meadows, with its throat
shall stain the axes of the priests. It is not required of you, who are
crowning our little gods with rosemary and the brittle myrtle, to
propitiate them with a great slaughter of sheep. If an innocent hand
touches a clear, a magnificent victim does not pacify the offended
Penates more acceptably, than a consecrated cake and crackling salt.
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