Friday, May 29, 2015

Blood and Water: To the Spring of Bandusia

Horace III.xiii

O Bandusian spring, gleaming brighter than glass,
fit for unwatered wine, not without blooming wreaths,
you’ll get a goat in the morning
whose head, bulging with coming horns,

makes him ready for love and for a lustful fight
vainly. Slaughtered, he’ll bleed into your icy stream,
staining water with red blood;
once the son of the playful herd.

Summer’s savagest heat, though it might scorch the earth
cannot touch you. You give oxen a soothing drink
as they kneel under plowshares,
and to wandering, thirsty sheep.

You’ll be numbered among all of the noble springs,
as I sing to the oak up on its lofty perch
on the hollowed-out boulders
from whom surges your speaking flood.

Anyone have a spare goat for a Sunday in Central Park?

O fons Bandusiæ, splendidior vitro,
dulci digne mero non sine floribus,
cras donaberis hædo
cui frons turgida cornibus

primis et venerem et prœlia destinat
frustra: nam gelidos inficiet tibi
rubro sanguine rivos
lascivi suboles gregis.

Te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculæ
nescit tangere, tu frigus amabile
fessis vomere tauris
præbes et pecori vago.

Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium,
me dicente cavis impositam ilicem
saxis, unde loquaces
lymphæ desiliunt tuæ.

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