ODE 18
T O A F AUN
Wooer of young Nymphs who fly thee,
Lightly o'er my sunlit lawn,
Trip, and go, nor injured by thee
Be my weanling herds, O Faun:
If the kid his doomed head bows, and
Brims with wine the loving cup,
When the year is full; and thousand
Scents from altars hoar go up.
Each flock in the rich grass gambols
When the month comes which is thine;
And the happy village rambles
Fieldward with the idle kine:
Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour:
Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;
And with glee the sons of labour
Stamp upon their foe the soil.
T O A F AUN
Wooer of young Nymphs who fly thee,
Lightly o'er my sunlit lawn,
Trip, and go, nor injured by thee
Be my weanling herds, O Faun:
If the kid his doomed head bows, and
Brims with wine the loving cup,
When the year is full; and thousand
Scents from altars hoar go up.
Each flock in the rich grass gambols
When the month comes which is thine;
And the happy village rambles
Fieldward with the idle kine:
Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour:
Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;
And with glee the sons of labour
Stamp upon their foe the soil.
Sat, 2015-12-05 11:15
#1
Many translations achieve poetic completion at the end with an incomplete statement of the dance, but this one meets the need well. He worker in the soil does not merely dance in celebration of the seasonal transition; he stomps on the ground that is his sustenance—and his enemy. The implication shows a man enjoying momentary triumph over the soil of which he must someday become a part.