The Poetry Corner

To A Faun. - Translations From Horace.

By Charles Stuart Calverley

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.