Book III.23 of The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace

XXIII.

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.

Coelo Supinas.

Caelo supinas si tuleris manus
nascente luna, rustica Phidyle,
si ture placaris et horna
fruge Lares auidaque porca

nec pestilentem sentiet Africum 5
fecunda uitis nec sterilem seges
robiginem aut dulces alumni
pomifero graue tempus anno.

Nam quae niuali pascitur Algido
deuota quercus inter et ilices 10
aut crescit Albanis in herbis
uictima, pontificum securis

ceruice tinguet; te nihil attinet
temptare multa caede bidentium
paruos coronantem marino 15
rore deos fragilique myrto.

Inmunis aram si tetigit manus,
non sumptuosa blandior hostia
molliuit auersos Penatis
farre pio et saliente mica. 20

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