Classic Poem

Hail, clear as crystal to the eyes,
Blandusia's fav'rite spring;
O worthy to receive the prize
Of wine and flow'rs we bring;
To-morrow we shall give thy flood
A kid, whose horns begin to bud,
And fight and wantonness portend:
In vain — his pranks must be no more —
For shortly with his sacred gore
He thy cool stream shall blend.
Thee scorching Sirius cannot touch —
You yield a pleasing shade,
Which for the steers, when work'd too much,
And wand'ring flock's display'd.
Thou shalt be register'd by fame,
A fountain of illustrious name,
Whilst I thy useful beauties book;
The oak so happy on the spot,
To overhang thine hollow grot,
Whence spouts thy prattling brook.