And from that alp there sloped a verdant plain Where happiness and fruitfulness abode. XLII THE MONARCH SPRING FLEES ALSO FROM THE PEAK OF THE MOUNTAIN AND DISAPPEARS, AND THE MONARCH AUGUST, IN HIS FURY, BURNS UP THE CITY OF ROSE GARDEN Meanwhile the sun, field marshal of the fray, Had to surrender brought the rose garden. Then comes the monarch August with great joy, To take his seat on the vacated throne. The garden dwellers mourned in anxious care, For still the flame of fury burnt its way, And all the noblest houses were consumed, For the fierce glow of fire had drunk their blood. Its fury hastily the tulips parched, And burnt to blindness the narcissus’ eyes, The Rose parterre is wrapt in dazzling flame, And fire amid the thickets reigns supreme. And soon as he had blasted every bower, He sallied forth to find the monarch Spring. And said to each, “Where is the monarch Spring? And whither has retired the Princess Rose?” They told him they had fled to mountain heights, Where cool fresh alps looked down upon the scene. And when the King of Summer learnt of this, He sent his army in pursuit of him, He said: “Despatch and lay the monster waste, Let the fire burn it like a living heart. Seize and bring hither monarch Spring to me, And drag the Rose into the mire for me.” As soon as he this firman had pronounced, The sun his way directed to the alps. And with his army devastation wrought, As if he would the world in ruin lay, And when the monarch Spring appeared in sight, The tyrant would him fain assassinate. In a short time he held the king at bay, Seized on the Rose, and straight forsook the land. Where’er he went was nothing left behind. Nothing appeared where once his path had been. No trace was left of monarch Spring’s domain, The Rose was nowhere seen upon the mead. Both from the mountain side had disappeared, And no one knew to what point they had fled. The sun triumphant had a victory Complete o’er every remnant of the foe. He said, “The monarch Spring is banished quite, And not a foot-track can be found of him, And no one seems to know where he is gone, And where to seek the glory of the Rose.” And when the monarch August pondered this, No longer was a care left in his breast, And in one day he made the rose garden Naught other but a revel place of fire. And yet he blent advantages with waste, Pouring a thousand graces on the spot. What was unripe he mellowed and made sweet, To what was crude maturity he brought. Into the landscape sent tranquillity, And mingled a bland sweetness with his rage. At last he quite forsook his camping ground, And made his homeward journey to the East. He glided lightly forth on ether’s wing, And reached at last his station permanent.