Already it has inclined its brow upon the water that has undermined the steep bank; already it looks into the gloomy depth,—and soon, in stormy weather, it will fall with upturned roots into the water.
Thus in the world all is carried away by the stream of time amidst an eternal strife; thus ancient altars have fallen; thus kingdoms and kings have fallen, with the pillars of their thrones.
But to disperse painful thoughts, let us walk the path to the forest-covered hill where Phœbus with brilliant beam reflects from the zenith a mighty shade.
I see a modest plain with a hedge of crimson bushes: there Flora, the tender mother of the gardens, has scattered her basket full of fragrant flowers.
Farther off, in the realm of Pomona, fruit burdens the trees; beyond is the vineyard of Bacchus, where, filled with nectar juice, gleam amber clusters.
Is it possible to picture all the beauties of nature, and all its charm? To weld there the distance with the horizon, to adorn here the vales with flocks, and nap it with the golden harvest?
No, no! Abandon the vain endeavour! Already the sun has disappeared behind the mountain; already above the ethereal azure, ’twixt clouds, twinkle bright stars and glisten on the waves of the river.
I ascend the hill. The golden moon has swum out on a gentle cloud, and, glinting through the bluish cirrus, leaves behind it a gleaming path above the liquid glass.
Oh, how dear that place is to me when the satellite of the night comes, in all her beauty, to weld with the dream of a pining soul the remembrance of bright days!