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,