LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave* 43 ing hid them, thou dost rear unprofaned by slaughtersBeauty's youngest daughters! XVII. → a Temple still, f hill, neath it sweeps oft from out it leaps wave still tells its bubbling III. ius of the place! yr more serene ; and if ye trace from the dry dust vaptism,―'tis to him ye must ray orisons for this suspension of disgust. |