O Bandusian Spring, clearer than clearest glass,
Worthy the sweetest of wine and garlands of fragrant flowers,
To-morrow I will bring thee
A kid, whose forehead,

Swollen with budding horns, doth love and battle foretell,—
Vainly, alas!—the youngling, pride of the wanton flock,
With crimson must ensanguine
Thy clear cold ripples.

The fiery midsummer noon never can pierce thy shade,
Grateful coolness thou hast to glad the wandering kine,
And the slow-stepping oxen
With ploughshare wearied.

Among the fountains of fame I will make room for thee,
Singing thine ilex-trees that spread their sheltering boughs
Over thy rocky hollows
And babbling runnels.