BOOK III, OD. XIII .

Y E waves, that gushing fall with purest stream,
Blandusian fount; to whom the products sweet
Of richest vines belong,
And fairest flow'rs of Spring;

To thee a chosen victim will I kill,
A Goat, who, wanton in lascivious youth,
Just blooms with budding horn,
And destines future war,

Elate in vainest thought: but ah! too soon
His reeking blood with crimson shall pollute
Thy icy-flowing flood,
And tinge thy crystal clear.

Thy sweet recess the sun in mid-day hour
Can ne'er invade: thy streams the labour'd ox
Refresh with cooling draught,
And glad the wandering herds.

Thy name shall shine with endless honour grac'd,
While on my shell I sing the hanging oak,
That o'er thy cavern deep
Waves his imbowering head.