The roar of the river is surpassed by the sound of the wind, and
the waters seem to flow silently into the ocean. There the storm rages.
Twice, thrice, flashes of pale blue lightning traverse the clouds in
rapid succession: as often does the thunder roll in loud and prolonged
claps through the firmament. Drops of rain fall. The plants begin to
recover their natural freshness; it thunders again, and the thunder
is followed, not by rain, but by torrents, which pour down from the
convulsed sky. The forest groans; the whizzing rustle of the waving
leaves becomes a hollow murmuring sound, which at length resembles
the distant roll of muffled drums. Flowers are scatterd to and fro,
leaves are stripped from the boughs, branches are torn from the stems,
and massy trees are overthrown; the terrible hurricane ravishes all
the remaining virgin charms of the levelled and devastated plants.
But wherefore regret their fate? Have they not lived and bloomed?
Has not the _Inga_ twisted together its already emptied stamens?
Have not the golden petals fallen from the fractified blossoms of the
Baniser_ia_, and has not the fruit-loaded _A_rum yielded its
faded spathe to the storm? The terrors of this eventful hour fall
heavily even on the animal world.
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