O Fons Bandusae

O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear,  
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,  
 To-morrow shall a kid be thine  
 With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,—  
Sure sign!—of loves and battles near.
 
Child of the race that butt and rear!  
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear  
 Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,  
 O babbling Spring!  
 
Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—  
 The wandering flock. This verse of mine  
 Will rank thee one with founts divine;  
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,  
 O babbling Spring!