Of Ceres, all alone, a cypress tree
Of ancient stock, preserved with reverent care
For many generations, overhangs
The temple walls. Be this our meeting place
To which by devious ways in many bands
We all shall come.
Do thou, my father, carry in thy hands
The sacred emblems and our household gods;
For me, late come from strife, and stained with blood,
‘Twere sacrilege to touch the holy things,