'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal;Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn;Inspired by you, the soldier's steel,The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn,Liber and Venus, wills she so,And sister Graces, ne'er unknit,And living lamps shall see you flowTill stars before the sunrise flit.Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid,Who to young wives in childbirth's hourThrice call'd, vouchsafest sovereign aid,O three-form'd power!This pine that shades my cot be thine;Here will I slay, as years come round,A youngling boar, whose tusks designThe side-long wound.If, Phidyle, your hands you liftTo heaven, as each new moon is born,Soothing your Lares with the giftOf slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,