(Hor. Iii., 23.) 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.