Chanted forth the times to be,
From her cold Marpesian glade.
Amalthea, dauntless maid,
In the blessed days gone by,
Bore thy book through Anio's river
And did thy prophecies deliver,
From her mantle, safe and dry.

All prophesied of omens dire,
The comet's monitory fire,
Stones raining down, and tumult in the sky
Of trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry;
The very forests whispered fear,
And through the stormful year
Tears, burning tears, from marble altars ran;
Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man;
The Sun himself in light did fail
As if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale.

Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, now
Of mild, benignant brow,
Let those portents buried be
In the wild, unfathomed sea!
Now let thy laurel loudly flame
On altars to thy gracious name,
And give good omen of a fruitful year
Crackling laurel if the rustic hear,
He knows his granary shall bursting be,
And sweet new wine flow free,
And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod,