Şiir 13
My wife, a native of Phaliscan plains,
Where the rich soils enrich the lab'ring swains,
Where purple grapes and golden apples grow,
A conquest we to great Camillus owe.
When once to Juno's feast she thither went,
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My mind to know the secret rites was bent:
The pious priests the solemn sports prepare,
And purify the fane with holy care.
A heifer of the place they sacrifice,
But ne'er to men expose their mysteries,
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I mark'd the hidden way my consort went,
And follow'd down the deep and dark descent.
To an old wood at last I came, whose shade
Impress'd a horror on the gloom it made,
And ev'ry step with trembling feet I trod,
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Profan'd, I thought, the dwelling of a god.
An altar there was rais'd by hands divine,
And fragrant incense flam'd around the shrine.
Chaste matrons there their vow'd oblations pay,
And celebrate with joyful hymns the day.
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