HIRD, ODE THE THIRTEENTH.

Nymph of the stream, whose source perpetual pours
The living waters thro' the sparkling sand,
Cups of bright wine, enwreath'd with summer flowers,
For rich libation, round thy brink shall stand,
When on the morrow, at thy Bard's decree,
A young and spotless Kid is sacrificed to thee.

He, while his brows the primal antlers swell,
Conscious of strength, and gay of heart prepares
To meet the female, and the foe repel.--
In vain he wishes, and in vain he dares!
His ardent blood thy pebbly bed shall stain,
Till each translucent wave flows crimson to the plain.

In vain shall Sirius shake his fiery hairs
O'er thy pure flood, with waving poplars veil'd,
For thou, when most his sultry influence glares,
Refreshing shade, and cooling draughts shalt yield
To all the flocks, that thro' the valley stray,
And to the wearied steers, unyok'd at closing day.

Now dear to Fame, sweet Fountain, shalt thou flow,
Since to my lyre those breathing shades I sing
That crown the hollow rock's incumbent brow,
From which thy soft, loquacious waters spring.
To vie with streams Aonian be thy pride,
As thro' Blandusia's Vale thy silver currents glide!

1: It was common with the Ancients to consecrate Fountains by a
sacrifice, and vinous libations, poured from goblets crowned with
flowers. Lively imaginations glow over the idea of such a beautiful
ceremony.

[1]TO TELEPHUS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE NINETEENTH.

The number of the vanish'd years
That mark each famous Grecian reign,
This night, my Telephus, appears
Thy solemn pleasure to explain;

Or else assiduously to dwell,
In conscious eloquence elate,
On those who conquer'd, those who fell
At sacred Troy's devoted gate.

But at what price the cask, so rare,
Of luscious chian may be ours,
Who shall the tepid baths prepare,
And who shall strew the blooming flowers;

Beneath what roof we next salute,
And when shall smile these gloomy skies,
Thy wondrous eloquence is mute,
Nor here may graver topics rise.--

Fill a bright bumper,--to the Moon!
She's new!--auspicious be her birth!
One to the Midnight!--'t is our noon
Of jocund thought, and festal mirth!

And one to him, for whom the feasts
This night are held with poignant [2]gust,
MURENA, whom his Rome invests
With solemn honors, sacred trust!

Kind