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Pour we libations to the father, Jove,
  And bid him watch propitious o'er our way;
  Pile on the household altar fragrant wreaths,
  And to th' auspicious Lares bid farewell,
  Beneath whose guardianship we have abode.
  Blest be the threshold over which we pass,
  Turning again, with hands devout uplifted;
  Blest be the roof-tree, and the hearth it shelters;
  Blest be the going forth and coming home
  Of those who dwell here; blest their rising up,
  And blest their lying down to holy slumber;
  Blest be the married love, sacred and chaste;
  Blest be the children's head, the mother's heart,
  The father's hope. Reach down the wanderer's staff,—
  Tie on the sandals on the traveller's feet :
  The wan-eyed morn weeps in the watery east;
  Gird up the loins, and let us now depart.

© Frances Anne Kemble