The tribute that I dedicate; and what
Could worthy be the greatness of thy name?
The gift is humble, the desire is rich;
And not sufficing more my sterile vein,
What I can give I offer. Prostrate thus,
On the rude altars he has raised, is wont
The husbandman to heap the simple fruits
Of his fields gather’d round; and offering them
To the high tutelar deity he adores,
Spreads them forth grateful, incenses and flowers.