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