that old prophetess of rain, the raven, deceives me. Pile up the dry
wood, while you may; to-morrow you shall indulge your genius with wine,
and with a pig of two months old, with your slaves dismissed from their
labors.

* * * * *



ODE XVIII.

TO FAUNUS.

A HYMN.


O Faunus, thou lover of the flying nymphs, benignly traverse my borders
and sunny fields, and depart propitious to the young offspring of my
flocks; if a tender kid fall [a victim] to thee at the completion of the
year, and plenty of wines be not wanting to the goblet, the companion of
Venus, and the ancient altar smoke with liberal perfume. All the cattle
sport in the grassy plain, when the nones of December return to thee;
the village keeping holiday enjoys leisure in the fields, together with
the oxen free from toil. The wolf wanders among the fearless lambs; the
wood scatters its rural leaves for thee, and the laborer rejoices to
have beaten the hated ground in triple dance.

* * * * *