ridge of renown,
Hast thou on my head called witchcraft down
For my love-sick and dreamy talking?
A cloud of dust whirls up to the sky,
A herd of oxen now passing by
Blocks up the way I am walking.

XII.

(_Monte testaccio._)

I do not know what the end will be;
O'er the low ground spreads the gloaming,
The ominous bat already I see
As she starts on her nightly roaming.
On Ponte Molle all is still,
I think the good old hostess will
Very soon the inn be closing.

A little owl I hear there screech
In the cypress grove 'tis hiding;
Campagna fogs up there now reach,
Over gate and city gliding.
They roll and float like ghostly troops
Round Cestius' Pyramid in groups;
What are the dead there wanting?

Now bursts a light around the hill,
The leaden gray clouds are fast going;
The full moon's face rises slow and still,
With envy's yellow hue glowing.
She shines so pale, she shines so cold,
Right into the goblet which I hold;
That cannot be a good omen.

He who from his sweetheart is torn away,
Will love her more dearly than ever;
And who doth long in the night-air stay,
Will catch most surely a fever.
And now the hostess the light puts out,
Felice notte! I back to her shout;
The bill I'll settle to-morrow.

XIII.

Awaking from my slumber
I hear the skylark sing;
The rosy morning greets me,
The fresh young day of Spring.

In the garden waves the palm-tree
Mysteriously its crown,
And on the distant sea-shore
The surf rolls up and down;

And azure-blue the heavens,
The golden sun so bright;
My heart, what more is wanting?
Chime in with all thy might!

And now pour out thy praises
To God, who oft gave proof,
He never would forsake thee--
'Tis thou who kept aloof.

XIV.

To serve, to serve! an evil ring,
Has this word so harsh and frigid;
My love is gone, my life's sweet Spring;
My heart, become not rigid.

My trumpet looks so sad to-day,
With crape around it winding;
In a cage they put the player gay,
Lay on him