the tree, are well drawn; whereas the sickly sweet Rococo verse in
imitation of the French, and reminding one more of Longos than
Theocritus, is lifeless. His rhapsody about Nature is uncongenial to
modern readers, but his love was real.

The introduction 'to the Reader'[8] is characteristic:

These Idylls are the fruits of some of my happiest hours; of
those hours when imagination and tranquillity shed their sweetest
influence over me, and, excluding all which belongs to the period
in which we live, recalled all the charms and delights of the
Golden Age. A noble and well-regulated mind dwells with pleasure
on these images of calm tranquillity and uninterrupted happiness,
and the scenes in which the poet delineates the simple beauties
of uncorrupted nature are endeared to us by the resemblance we
fancy we perceive in them to the most blissful moments that we
nave ourselves enjoyed. Often do I fly from the city and seek the
deepest solitudes; there, the beauties of the landscape soothe
and console my heart, and gradually disperse those impressions of
solicitude and disgust which accompanied me from the town;
enraptured, I give up my whole soul to the contemplation of
Nature, and feel, at such moments, richer than an Utopian
monarch, and happier than a shepherd of the Golden Age.

This is a true picture of the time! Man knew that he was sick, and
fled from town and his fellows into solitude, there to dream himself
back to a happier past, and revel in the purity and innocence, the
healing breath, of forest and field.

The magic of moonlight began to be felt. Mirtilla