Ode 23.
If the New Moon thy hands but see1
Rear’d heavenward, rustic Phidyle ;2
And incense, and fresh fruits appease,3
And a fierce sow thy deities :4
No blight thy fertile vines shall feel,5
On thy corn-field no mildew steal ;6
Nor thy sweet charge the season fear,7
When Autumn’s orchards load the year.8
The victim, which ’mid woodlands green9
On snow-capp’d Algidus is seen,10
Or crops in Alban meads its food,11
May stain the pontift’s axe with blood—12
Befits not thee to steep the ground13
In gore of slaughter’d offerings : crown’d14
With rosemary’s and myrtle’s pride,15
Thy little gods are satisfied.16
Press but from hand that’s pure their
shrine17
shrine17
A simple cake, the Powers Divine18
Costlier oblation less will win,19
When tender’d by a heart unclean.20