DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.785#0291
CHAPTER XL
MONTE CIMINO.—MONS CIMINUS.
Cimini cum monte lacum.—Virgil.
How soon the tale of ages may be told !
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame.
The wreck of centuries—we gaze on you
O cities, once the glorious and the free !—
The lofty tales that charmed our youth renew,
And wondering ask if these their scenes can be.
Hemans,
Who that has seen has not hailed with delight the
exquisite little lake of Vico, which lies in the lap of the
Ciminian Mount, just above Ronciglione 1 Its own
singular beauty is charm enough, but in English eyes it
possesses the additional interest of similarity to some of
our own island lakes. The first time I saw it was one
evening when I had strolled up from Ronciglione, and
had come upon it unexpectedly, not aware of its close
proximity. The sun was sinking behind the hills, which
reared their broad, purple masses into the clear sky, and
shaded half the bosom of the calm lake with their hues—
while the other half reflected the orange and golden
glories of an Italian sunset. Not a sound broke the
stillness, save the chirping of the cicala from the trees,
whose song served but to make the silence heard—and
not a sign of human life was there beyond a high column
of smoke wreathing up whitely in front of the dark
mountains. When I next visited the lake, it was under
the glare of a noonday sun—its calm surface deepening
MONTE CIMINO.—MONS CIMINUS.
Cimini cum monte lacum.—Virgil.
How soon the tale of ages may be told !
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame.
The wreck of centuries—we gaze on you
O cities, once the glorious and the free !—
The lofty tales that charmed our youth renew,
And wondering ask if these their scenes can be.
Hemans,
Who that has seen has not hailed with delight the
exquisite little lake of Vico, which lies in the lap of the
Ciminian Mount, just above Ronciglione 1 Its own
singular beauty is charm enough, but in English eyes it
possesses the additional interest of similarity to some of
our own island lakes. The first time I saw it was one
evening when I had strolled up from Ronciglione, and
had come upon it unexpectedly, not aware of its close
proximity. The sun was sinking behind the hills, which
reared their broad, purple masses into the clear sky, and
shaded half the bosom of the calm lake with their hues—
while the other half reflected the orange and golden
glories of an Italian sunset. Not a sound broke the
stillness, save the chirping of the cicala from the trees,
whose song served but to make the silence heard—and
not a sign of human life was there beyond a high column
of smoke wreathing up whitely in front of the dark
mountains. When I next visited the lake, it was under
the glare of a noonday sun—its calm surface deepening