"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.