Classic Poem

Faun, wooer of the Nymphs that fly from thee,
When to and fro across my sunny farm
Thou comest and goest, kind to my younglings be,
And void of harm,

If a young kid to thee the year's end dooms,
While full of wine stands Venus' mate, the bowl,
And from the ancient altar copious fumes
Of incense roll.

O'er grassy fields the herd are all at play
When come December's nones, and in the mead
The hamlet with the ox keeps holiday,
From labour freed.

The wolf 'mong lambs that fear not wanders round.
The wood for thee a leafy carpet spreads.
In gleeful dance upon his foe, the ground
The ditcher treads.