34 
THE END OF A DREAM. 
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choly, and so steeped, as yet, in pestiferous damps and 
protracted rains; but they thought of future genera¬ 
tions, and reverenced posterity. 
Alas, I am much afraid that the sanguine dream 
is ended! It is not that a child’s stick, held by a 
young and womanly hand, has penetrated to the very 
bottom of the structure carried so deeply into the 
earth ; but that the exterior defences, which protected 
and closed up the whole, and kept off the rains, have 
been removed and scattered abroad. And lo! the great 
autumnal floods pouring down from the Rhigi, Mont 
Pilate, and the St. Gothard, the father of rivers,— 
floating above the forests in heavy mists or descend¬ 
ing in torrents,—will swamp for ever the internal 
recesses. And what flame, or what burning life, can 
the inhabitants oppose to these repeated invasions of 
the waters, to rebuild their palace and purify it again ? 
Seated on a fir, I eyed it steadfastly, and as I 
gazed I dreamed. Though accustomed to the fall of 
empires and republics, its ruins flung me into an ocean 
of thought. A wave, and then another wave rose, 
and throbbed in my heart. The verse of Homer hung 
upon my lips,— 
“ And even Troy shall see its day of doom.” 
What could I do for this ravaged world, this half- 
ruined city ? What for this great laborious insect 
race, which all living tribes pursue, or devour, or 
despise, and which nevertheless reveals to us the strongest images of 
unselfish love, of public devotion, and the social sense in its keenest 
