Give us good omen, friends! To-day we bless
With hallowed rites this dear, ancestral seat.
Let Bacchus his twin horns with clusters dress,
And Ceres clasp her brows with bursting wheat!

To-day no furrows! Both for field and man
Be sacred rest from delving toil and care!
With necks yoke-free, at mangers full of bran,
The tranquil steers shall nought but garlands bear.

Our tasks to-day are heaven's. No maid shall dare
Upon a distaff her deft hands employ.
Let none, too rash, our simple worship share,
Who wrought last eve at Venus' fleeting joy!

The gods claim chastity. Come clad in white,
And lave your palms at some clear fountain's brim!
Then watch the mild lamb at the altar bright,
Yon olive-cinctured choir close-following him!

"Ye Guardian Powers, who bless our native soil,
Far from these acres keep ill luck away!
No withered ears the reaper's task to spoil!
Nor swift wolf on our laggard lambs to prey!"

So shall the master of this happy house
Pile the huge logs upon his blazing floor;
While with kind mirth and neighborly carouse,
His bondsmen build their huts beside his door.

The bliss I pray for has been granted me!
With reverent art observing things divine,
I have explored the omens,—and I see
The Guardian Powers are good to me and mine.

Bring old Falernian from the shadows gray,
And burst my Chian seal! He is disgraced,
Who gets home sober from this festive day,
Or finds his door without a step retraced.

Health to Messala now from all our band!
Drink to each letter of his noble name!
Messala! laurelled from the Gallic land,
Of his grim-bearded sires the last, best fame!

Be with me, thou! inspire a song for me
To sing those gods of woodland, hill and glade,
Without whose arts man's hunger still would be
Only on mast and gathered acorns stayed.

They taught us rough-hewn rafters to prepare,
And clothe low cabins with a roof of green;
They bade fierce bulls the servile yoke to bear;
And wheels to move a wain were theirs, I ween.

Our wild fruit was forgot, when apple-boughs
Bore grafts, and thirsty orchards (art divine!)
Were freshed by ditching; while with sweet carouse
The wine-press flowed, and water wed with wine.

Our fields bore harvests, when the dog-star flame
Bade Summer of her tawny tress be shorn;
From fields of Spring the bees, with busy game,
Stored well their frugal combs the live-long morn.

'Twas some field-tiller from his plough at rest,
First hummed his homely words to numbers true,
Or trilled his pipe of straw in songs addressed
To his blithe woodland gods, with worship due.

Some rustic ruddied with vermilion clay
First led, O Bacchus, thy swift choric throng,
And won for record of thy festal day
Some fold's chief goat, fit meed of frolic song!

It was our rustic boys whose virgin band
New coronals of Spring's sweet flowrets made
For offering to the gods who bless our land,
Which on the Lares' hallowed heads were laid.

Our country-lasses find a pleasing care
In soft, warm wool their snowy flocks have bred;
The distaff, skein and spindle they prepare,
And reel, with firm-set thumb, the faultless thread.

Then following Minerva's heavenly art,
They weave with patient toil some fabric proud;
While at her loom the lass with cheerful heart
Sings songs the sounding shuttle answers loud.

Cupid himself with flocks and herds did pass
His boyhood, and on sheep and horses drew
His erring infant bow; but now, alas!
He is an archer far too swift and true.

Not now dull beasts, but luckless maids engage
His enmity; brave men are brave no more;
Youth's strength he wastes, and drives fond, foolish age
To blush and sigh at scornful beauty's door.

Love-lured, the virgin, guarded and discreet,
Slips by the night-watch at her lover's call,
Feels the dark path-way with her trembling feet,
And gropes with out-spread hands along the wall.

Oh! wretched are the wights this god would harm!
But blest as gods whom Love with smiles will sway!
Come, boy divine! and these dear revels charm—
But fling thy burning brands, far, far away!

Sing to this god, sweet shepherds! Ask aloud
Your flocks' good health; then each, discreetly mute,
His love's!—Nay, scream her name! Yon madcap crowd
Screams louder, to its wry-necked Phrygian flute.

On with the sport! Night's chariot appears:
The stars, her children, follow through the sky:
Dark Sleep comes soon, on wings no mortal hears,
With strange, dim dreams that know not where they fly.