The violin, with a deep song of sadness,
Fills the sweet night, mingles with the sounds of the horns,
The sylphs go weeping like a distressed soul,
And the hearts of the trees wail like the dead.
The breath of the Watchman animates each leaf;
To bitter memories the woods open their bosoms;
The birds are dreamy; and under the opal eye
Of the summer moon my Sorrow collects…
Slowly, in the concert that the elves make under the boughs
The wild sprites like this ancient Faust,
The lute in all my heart awakens in parnassian
The great majesty of the night that whispers
In the languid skies a distant song,
Prolonged till dawn, and dying in the morning.
