In scanty waves among the rocks to flow.
Fling not abroad thy spray,
Nor fiercely lash the green turf at thy side!
What though indulgent May
With liquid snows hath swol’n thy foaming tide;—
August will follow soon
To still thy boastings with his scorching noon.
Lo! calmly through the vale
The Po, the king of rivers, sweeps along;
Yet many a mighty sail