ODE VIII. (Ye waves, that gushing fall with purest…)

Ye waves, that gushing fall with purest stream, Blandusian Fount! to whom the products sweet Of richest vines belong, And fairest flowers of spring; To thee, a chosen victim will I slay, A kid, who glowing in lascivious youth Just blooms with budding horn, And with vain thought elate Yet destines future war: but ah! too soon His reeking blood with crimson shall enrich Thy pure translucent flood, And tinge thy crystal clear. Thy sweet recess the sun in mid-day hour Can ne'er invade, thy streams the labour'd ox Refresh with cooling draught, And glad the wand'ring herds. Thy name shall shine with endless honors grac'd, While on my shell I sing the nodding oak, That o'er thy cavern deep Waves his embowering head.