O babbling spring! than glass more clear,
Worthy of wine, and wreath not sere,
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
Shall 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
Shall rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling spring!