Your sallying streams [O]
Fresh vigour to their weary wings impart. 50
Again they fly, disporting; from the mead
Half-ripen'd and the tender blades of corn,
To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel
Contagious steams, which oft the parched earth
Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve.
Along the river and the paved brook,
Ascend the cheerful breezes: hail'd of bards
Who, fast by learned Cam, the AEolian lyre
Solicit; nor unwelcome to the youth
Who on the heights of Tibur, all inclined 60
O'er rushing Arno, with a pious hand
The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes,
Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp
Of ancient Time; and haply, while he scans
The ruins, with a silent tear revolves
The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.
You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid
The rural powers confess, and still prepare
For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands,
Oft as the Delian king [P] with Sirius holds 70
The central heavens, the father of the grove
Commands his Dryads over your abodes
To spread their deepest umbrage.
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