III.

’Twas a delicious, soft autumnal eve; Salustian through his lovely garden strayed, By Isabel supported. Mountains heave Their giant forms to Heaven, Pyrene’s shade Thrown to the Frenchward side. His bulwarks made A fence the westering sunbeam to reflect, And balmy gales from many an opening glade Came soft the old man’s forehead to protect From fiercer rays, while moved his form no more erect.