Full tenderly upon my breast I bear
A lamb or small kid gone astray;
And yearly worship with my swains prepare,
The shepherd's ancient way.
I love those rude shrines in a lonely field
Where rustic faith the god reveres,
Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed
By gifts of travellers.
Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show,
Due tribute to our gods I pour;
O'er Ceres' brows the tasseled wheat I throw,
Or wreathe her temple door.
My plenteous orchards fear no pelf or harm,
By red Priapus sentinelled;
By his huge sickle's formidable charm
The bird thieves are dispelled.
With offerings at my hearth, and faithful fires,
My Lares I revere: not now
As when with greater gifts my wealthier sires
Performed the hallowing vow.
No herds have I like theirs: I only bring
One white lamb from my little fold,
While my few bondmen at the altar sing
Our harvest anthems old.
Gods of my hearth! ye never learned to slight
A poor man's gift. My bowls of clay
To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite,
The best, most ancient way.
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