"Bandusia, stainless mirror of the sky! Thine is the flower-crown'd bowl, for thee shall die, When dawns again yon sun, the kid; Whose budding horns, half-seen, half-hid,Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain! Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain, And those cold springs of thine With blood incarnadine.Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream To labour-wearied ox, Or wanderer from the flocks:And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain: My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain, Topt by the brown oak-tree, Thou breakest babblingly."