The Sacrifice: An Epistle to Celia*
If you, dear Celia, cannot bear,
The low delights that others share:
If nothing will your palate fit
But learning, eloquence and wit,
Why, you may sit alone (I ween)
Till you’re devoured with the spleen:
But if variety can please
With humble scenes and careless ease;
If smiles can banish melancholy,
Or whimsy with its parent folly; [10]
If any joy in these there be,
I dare invite you down to me.
You know these little roofs of mine
Are always sacred to the Nine;
This day we make a sacrifice
To the Parnassian deities,
Which I am ordered by Apollo,
To show you in the words that follow.
As first we purge the hallowed room
With soft utensil called a broom; [20]
And next for you a throne prepare,
Which vulgar mortals call a chair,
While zephyrs from an engine blow,
And bid the sparkling cinders glow;
Then gather round the mounting flames,
The priestess and assembled dames,
While some inferior maid shall bring
Clear water from the bubbling spring:
Shut up in vase of sable dye,
Secure from each unhallowed eye, [30]
Fine wheaten bread you next behold,
Like that which Homer sings of old,
And by some unpolluted fair
It must be scorched with wond’rous care:
So far ’tis done: And now behold
The sacred vessels – not of gold:
Of polished earth must they be formed,
With painting curiously adorned;
These rites are past: And now must follow
The grand libation to Apollo, [40]
Of juices drawn from magic weeds,
And pith of certain Indian reeds.
For flow’r of milk the priestess calls,
Her voice re-echoes from the walls;
With hers the sister voices blend,
And with the od’rous steam ascend:
Each fair one now a sibyl grows,
And ev’ry cheek with ardour glows.
And (though not quite beside their wits)
Are seized with deep prophetic fits: [50]
Some by mysterious figures show
That Celia loves a shallow Beau;
And some by signs and hints declare
That Damon will not wed Ziphair:
Their neighbours’ fortunes each can tell,
So potent is the mighty spell.
This is the feast and this, my friend,
Are you commanded to attend:
Yes at your peril: But adieu,
I’ve tired both myself and you. [60]