TO PHIDYLE.

By Austin Henry Dobson

Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain,

At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,

O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know

Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,

And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain

Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow

‘ Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,

Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain

The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail

Thy modest gods with much slain to assail,

Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.

Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;

More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,

Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.