The bird thieves are dispelled.

With offerings at my hearth, and faithful fires,
My Lares I revere: not now
As when with greater gifts my wealthier sires
Performed the hallowing vow.

No herds have I like theirs: I only bring
One white lamb from my little fold,
While my few bondmen at the altar sing
Our harvest anthems old.

Gods of my hearth! ye never learned to slight
A poor man's gift. My bowls of clay
To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite,
The best, most ancient way.

If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven,
If fatter flocks allure them more,
To me the riches to my fathers given
Kind Heaven need not restore.

My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm
That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest,
While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form
Of her it loves the best.

My simple cot brings such secure repose,
When so companioned I can lie,
That winds of winter and the whirling snows