To A Faun. - Translations From Horace.

OD. iii. 18. WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee, Lightly o’er my sunlit lawn Trip, and go, nor injured by thee Be my weanling herds, O Faun: If the kid his doomed head bows, and Brims with wine the loving cup, When the year is full; and thousand Scents from altars hoar go up. Each flock in the rich grass gambols When the month comes which is thine; And the happy village rambles Fieldward with the idle kine: Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour: Wild woods deck thee with their spoil; And with glee the sons of labour Stamp thrice on their foe, the soil.