HORACE. BOOK III. ODE XIII.

Blandusia! more than crystal clear!

Whose soothing murmurs charm the ear!

Whose margin soft with flowerets crown'd

Invites the festive band around,

Their careless limbs diffus'd supine,

To quaff the soul-enlivening wine.

To thee a tender kid I vow,

That aims for fight his budding brow;

In thought, the wrathful combat proves,

Or wantons with his little loves:

But vain are all his purpos'd schemes,

Delusive all his flattering dreams,

To-morrow shall his fervent blood

Stain the pure silver of thy flood.

When fiery Sirius blasts the plain,

Untouch'd thy gelid streams remain.

To thee the fainting flocks repair,

To taste thy cool reviving air;

To thee the ox with toil opprest,

And lays his languid limbs to rest.

As springs of old renown'd, thy name,

Blest fountain! I devote to fame;

Thus while I sing in deathless lays

The verdant holm, whose waving sprays,

Thy sweet retirement to defend,

High o'er the moss-grown rock impend,

Whence prattling in loquacious play

Thy sprightly waters leap away.