Gold makes our crime. No need for plundering war, When bowls of beech-wood held the frugal feast. No citadel was seen nor moated wall; The shepherd chief led home his motley flock, And slumbered free from care. Would I had lived In that good, golden time; nor e'er had known A mob in arms arrayed; nor felt my heart Throb to the trumpet's call! Now to the wars I must away, where haply some chance foe Bears now the blade my naked side shall feel. Save me, dear Lares of my hearth and home! Ye oft my childish steps did guard and bless, As timidly beneath your seat they strayed. Deem it no shame that hewn of ancient oak Your simple emblems in my dwelling stand! For so the pious generations gone Revered your powers, and with offerings rude To rough-hewn gods in narrow-built abodes, Lived beautiful and honorable lives. Did they not bring to crown your hallowed brows Garlands of ripest corn, or pour new wine In pure libation on the thirsty ground? Oft on some votive day the father brought The consecrated loaf, and close behind His little daughter in her virgin palm Bore honey bright as gold. O powers benign! To ye once more a faithful servant prays For safety! Let the deadly brazen spear Pass harmless o'er my head! and I will slay For sacrifice, with many a thankful song, A swine and all her brood, while I, the priest, Bearing the votive basket myrtle-bound, Walk clothed in white, with myrtle in my hair. Grant me but this! and he who can may prove Mighty in arms and by the grace of Mars Lay chieftains low; and let him tell the tale To me who drink his health, while on the board His wine-dipped finger draws, line after line, Just how his trenches ranged! What madness dire Bids men go foraging for death in war? Our death is always near, and hour by hour, With soundless step a little nearer draws.