POETRY.
T WO TRANSLATIONS.
"CAELO SUPINAS."—Honace, Odes, III. xxiii.
IP', Phidyle, in country-wise Thy hands thou raisest to the skies, If beneath the crescent moon Thou cravest of the gods a boon, Bringing, as thy sacrifice,
Snouting porker, grain, and spice,
Never shall thy fruitful vine 'Neath the Afric blast decline, Nor the cornfields, thy delight, Sicken with the barren blight, Nor heavy airs of apple-tide Hurt the yearling flock, thy pride; For snowy oak and ilex groves. Of Algidus supply the droves Of victims vowed to powers divine; While Alban pastures breed the king Whose dedicated necks must feel The stroke of sacerdotal steel,
There's hardly need for thee to heap A holocaust of slaughtered sheep To tempt thy little gods to grant The boon for which thou'rt suppliant; Let but their modest chaplets be - Of myrtle mixed with rosemary.
If all unsullied be the hands Of him who at the altar stands, No offerings of costlier price Can be more meet for sacrifice To deprecate celestial ire Than flour and salt flung on the fire.
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