A kid to-morrow shall be thine,
Whose swelling brows, just budding, bear
“The horns that presage love and strife;
How vainly! For his crimson blood
Shall stain the silver of thy flood
With all the herd’s most wanton life.
“The burning Dogstar’s noontide beam
Knows not thy secret nook; the ox
Parched from the plough, the fielding flocks,
Lap grateful coolness from thy stream.