Lord of broad realms), an eastern galeWill blow to-morrow, and bestrewThe shore with weeds, with leaves the vale,If rain's old prophet tell me true,The raven. Gather, while 'tis fine,Your wood; tomorrow shall be gayWith smoking pig and streaming wine,And lord and slave keep holyday.O wont the flying Nymphs to woo,Good Faunus, through my sunny farmPass gently, gently pass, nor doMy younglings harm.Each year, thou know'st, a kid must dieFor thee; nor lacks the wine's full streamTo Venus' mate, the bowl; and highThe altars steam.Sure as December's Nones appear,All o'er the grass the cattle play;The village, with the lazy steer,Keeps holyday.