O, fountain of Bandusia, out-glittering
glass,
deserving sweet wine and flowers,
tomorrow you’ll be given a kid,
whose forehead, its first horns swelling,
divines wishes and strife. To no purpose,
this offshoot of the wanton herd
will stain your ice cold streams
with its red blood.
The blazing dog-star’s brutal season
will not touch you as you spread a welcome
coolness to bulls tired of ploughshares,
to straying herds.
You will be praised among famed fountains
when I call up the oak-gripped rocks
above the hollow
from which your laughing waters leap.
O fons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro,
dulci digne mero non sine floribus,
cras donaberis haedo,
cui frons turgida cornibus
primis, et venerem et proelia destinat.
Frustra nam gelidos inficiet tibi
rubro sanguine rivos
lascivi suboles gregis.
Te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculae
nescit tangere, tu frigus amabile
fessis vomere tauris
praebes et pecori vago;
fies nobilium tu quoque fontium
me dicente cavis impositam ilicem
saxis, unde loquaces
lymphae desiliunt tuae.
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