Thee the fierce Sirian star, to madness fired,Forbears to touch: sweet cool thy waters yieldTo ox with ploughing tired,And lazy sheep afield.Thou too one day shalt win proud eminence'Mid honour'd founts, while I the ilex singCrowning the cavern, whenceThy babbling wavelets spring.

Our Hercules, they told us, Rome,Had sought the laurel Death bestows:Now Glory brings him conqueror homeFrom Spaniard foes.Proud of her spouse, the imperial fairMust thank the gods that shield from death;His sister too:—let matrons wearThe suppliant wreath