Werner went to distant countries,

Margaretta's heart was blighted;

Some few years will now pass over

Ere the two are reunited.

But, meanwhile, abrupt transitions

Are not to my taste, I own;

So with songs, like wreaths of flowers,

Shall this gap be overstrewn.

The moment when I saw thee first,

Struck dumb, I stood there dreaming,

My thoughts ran into harmonies,

Which through my heart were streaming.

So here I stand, poor trumpeter,

And on the sward am blowing;

In words I cannot tell my love,

In music it is flowing.

The moment when I saw thee first,

The sixth of March, like lightning,

Came quickly from the azure sky

A flash, my heart igniting.

It burn'd up all that dwelt therein,

A dire destruction bringing,

But from the ruins, ivy-like,

My loved one's name was springing.

Turn not thy timid glance away,

To hide what there doth glisten;

Come to the terrace, while I play,

And to my music listen.

In vain your efforts to escape,

I still continue blowing;

With magic speed my tunes take shape

Into a ladder growing.

On these sweet tones' melodious rounds

Love gently is ascending;

Through bolt and lock still pierce the sounds

Which I to thee am sending.

Turn not thy timid glance away,

To hide what there doth glisten;

Come to the terrace while I play,

And to my music listen.

A merry piece I blew on the shore,

How clear my trumpet was pealing!

Above the storm the tones did soar

Up to the castle stealing.

The water-nymph on her crystal couch

Hears music through the wild roaring;

She rises up to listen well

To a human heart's outpouring.

And when she dives to her home below,

With laughter the fishes she's telling,

"O River-children, one doth see

Strange things where mortals are dwelling.

"There stands someone on shore, in the storm:

What do you think he's doing?

Blows evermore the same old tune--

The tune of Love's soft wooing."

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks,

Be praise to thee forever,

For teaching me thy Art divine,

That Art which faileth never.

Though language is a noble thing,

There are limits to what it expresses;

No speech has uttered yet what lives

In the soul's most hidden recesses.

It matters not that there are times,

When words to us are wanting;

For then, within, mysterious sounds

Our spell-bound hearts are haunting.

It murmurs, hums, it swells and rings,

Our hearts seem well-nigh breaking,

Till music's glorious hosts burst forth,

To forms of life awaking.

Oft I should stand before my love

A stupid bashful fellow,

Were not my trumpet there at hand,

And love-songs sweet and mellow.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks,

Be praise to thee forever,

For teaching me thy Art divine,

That Art which faileth never.

The skylark and the raven

Are of a different tribe;

I feel as if in heaven!

That I am not a scribe.

The world is not so prosy,

The woods with mirth o'erflow,

To me life seems all rosy,

My trumpet rings hallo.

And merry tunes 'tis sending

Forth in a constant flow;

Who finds these sounds offending

May to the cloister go.

When ink it shall be raining,

Sand fall instead of snow,

Then, from my sin abstaining,

I nevermore will blow.

Where 'neath the bridge the waters foam,

Dame Trout was swimming downward,

And met her cousin Salmon there:

"How are you, river-comrade?"

"I'm well," quoth he, "but thought just now:

If only lightning flashing,

Down there, would strike that stripling dead,

Him and his trumpet smashing!

The live-long day my fine young sir

On shore is promenading;

Rhine up, Rhine down, and never stops

His hateful serenading."

Dame Trout, then smiling, answered him;

"Dear cousin, you are spiteful,

I, on the contrary, do find

The Trumpeter delightful.

"If you, like him, could but enjoy

Fair Margaretta's favour,

To learn the trumpet even now,

You would not deem much labour."

I pray that no fair rose for me,

By thy dear hands, be broken;

A slip of holly evergreen,

Be of our love the token.

The chaplet green with glossy sheen

O'er the fruit good watch is keeping;

And all will prick who try to pick

What's for another's reaping.

The gaudy rose, when Autumn comes,

Finds that her beauty waneth;

The holly leaf her modest green

Through cold and snow retaineth.

Her fragrant balm the sweet May night

O'er hill and vale is breathing,

When through the shrubs with footsteps light

To the castle I am stealing.

In the garden waves the linden-tree,

I climb to its green bower,

And from the leafy canopy

My song soars to the tower:

"Young Werner is the happiest youth

In the German Empire dwelling,

But who bewitched him thus, forsooth,

In words he won't be telling.

Hurrah! is all that he will say,

How lovely is the month of May,

Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

With joyous trills the nightingale

On the topmost bough is singing,

While far o'er mountain and o'er vale

The thrilling notes are ringing.

The birds are looking all about,

Awaking from their slumber;

From branch, and bush, and hedge burst out

Glad voices without number:

"Young Werner is the happiest youth

In the German Empire dwelling,

But who bewitched him thus, forsooth,

In words he won't be telling.

Hurrah! is all that he will say,

How lovely is the month of May,

Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

The sounds are heard, are borne along

By the river downward flowing;

And from afar echoes the song,

Fainter and fainter growing.

And through the air of rosy morn

I see two angels winging,

Like a harp's sweet tones, from Heaven borne,

I hear their voices singing:

"Young Werner is the happiest youth

In the German Empire dwelling,

But who bewitched him thus, forsooth,

In words he won't be telling.

Hurrah! is all that he will say,

How lovely is the month of May,

Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

Who's clattering from the tower

To me a greeting queer?

'Tis, in his nest so cosy,

My friend the stork I hear.

He's preparing for a journey,

O'er sea and land will hie;

The Autumn is coming quickly,

So now he says good-bye.

Art right, that thou dost travel

Where warmer skies do smile;

From me greet fair Italia,

And also Father Nile.

There in the south are waiting

Far better meals for thee,

Than German frogs and paddocks,

Poor chafers and ennui!

Old fellow, God preserve thee,

My blessing take along;

For thou, at peaceful night-time,

Hast often heard my song.

And if perchance thou wert not

Asleep within thy nest,

Thou must have seen how often

With kisses I was blest.

But be not, pray, a tell-tale,

Be still, old comrade mine,

What business have the Moors there

With lovers on the Rhine?

A settled life I did despise,

And so to wandering took;

When soon I found, to my surprise,

A comfortable nook.

But as I lay in rest's soft lap,

And hoped for long repose,

There broke o'er me a thunder-clap,

My stay came to a close.

Each year a different plant I see

Spring up, with beauty clad;

A fool's mad dance this world would be,

If 'twere not quite so sad.

To life belongs a most unpleasant feature:

That not a rose without sharp thorns doth grow,

Much as love's yearning stirs our human nature,

Through pangs of parting we at last must go.

From thy dear eyes, when I my fate was trying,

A gleam of love and joy streamed forth to me:

Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying,

Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be.

I've suffered much from envy, hatred, sorrow,

A weather-beaten wanderer sad and worn;

I dreamt of peace and of a happy morrow,

When I to thee by angel-guides was borne.

To thy dear arms for comfort I was flying,

In grateful thanks I vowed my life to thee:

Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying,

Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be.

The clouds fly fast, the wind the leaves is sweeping,

A heavy shower falls o'er woods and meads:

The weather with my parting is in keeping,

Gray as the sky my path before me leads.

Whatever may come, joy's smile or bitter sighing,

Thou lovely maid! I'll think of naught but thee!

Preserve thee God! my joy seemed once undying,

Preserve thee God! such joy was not for me.

Honest folks are turning lately

Their attention to the Muses,

And with ease compose their own songs

For their daily household uses.

Therefore I shall also try it,

On light pinions freely winging;

For, who dares deny our talent,

Takes from cats the right of singing?

If I always run to book-stores

I shall find it too expensive;

And their gaudy books contain oft

Naught but trash, weak and offensive.

When through vales and on the mountains

Roars the storm at midnight drear,

Clambering over ridge and chimney

Hiddigeigei doth appear.

Like a spirit he stands up there,

Never looked he half so fair;

Fire from his eyes is streaming,

Fire from his bristling hair.

And he howls in fierce wild measure,

An old war-cry caterwauling,

Which is borne off by the storm-wind,

Like the distant thunder rolling.

Not a soul then ever sees him,

Each is sleeping in his house;

But far down, deep in the cellar,

Listens the poor trembling mouse.

For his voice she recognises,

And she knows that, when in rage,

Most ferocious is the aspect

Of this valiant feline sage.

From the tower's highest summit

Gaze I at the world below;

From my lofty seat I'm able

To observe life's ceaseless flow.

And the cat's green eyes are staring,

And he laughs within his sleeve,

That those pygmies there are trying

Such great follies to achieve.

What's the use? Up to my level

Never can I raise mankind.

Let them follow their devices,

Small their loss is, to my mind.

For perverted are men's actions,

And their work is woe and crash.

Conscious of his own great value,

Grins the cat down on this trash!

O the world does us injustice,

And for thanks I look quite vainly;

For the finest chords of feline

Nature, it mistakes so plainly.

Thus, if some one falls down drunken,

And a throbbing like a hammer

Racks his heavy head on waking,

Germans call it Katzenjammer.

Katzenjammer, oh great insult!

Gentle is our caterwauling;

Only men I hear too often

Through the streets at night-time bawling.

Yes! they do us great injustice,

Never can be comprehending

All the deep and morbid sorrow

Which a poor cat's heart is rending.

Hiddigeigei often has raved with delight,

The true, good, and beautiful seeking;

Hiddigeigei often felt grief's deadly blight,

And with tender sad yearnings was weeping.

Hiddigeigei once has felt his heart glow,

When the fairest of cats he was wooing;

And just as a troubadour's love-songs flow,

Rang nightly his spirited mewing.

Hiddigeigei many a valiant fight,

Like the Paladin Roland, was waging;

But men have often belaboured his hide,

And with dropping hot pitch made him raging.

Hiddigeigei to his sorrow found out,

That his fair one was false and deceiving

That from a poor insignificant lout

She was secretly visits receiving.

Hiddigeigei then did open his eyes,

Left off his pining and yearning;

The world henceforth he learned to despise,

To his inner self earnestly turning.

Lovely month of May, how hateful

To a cat you are, and dreary

Ne'er I thought such din of music

Could a cat's heart make so weary.

From the branches, from the bushes

Birds their warbling notes are ringing;

Far and wide, as if for money,

Men I hear forever singing.

There the cook sings in the kitchen--

Is love also her head turning?

In falsetto she now screameth,

That with rage my soul is burning.

Farther upward will I clamber,

To the terrace slowly wending.

Woe to me, for from the garden

Are my neighbour's songs ascending.

Even next the roof I cannot

Find the rest for which I'm pining;

Near me dwells a crazy poet,

His own verses ever whining.

When despairing to the cellar

Down I rush the noise escaping;

Ah, above me they are dancing,

To the pipes, and fiddles' scraping.

Harmless tribe! Your lyric madness

You'll continue, while there yonder,

In the East, the clouds are gathering,

Soon to burst in tragic thunder.

May has come now. To the thinker,

Who the causes of phenomena

Searches, 'tis a natural sequence:

In the centre of creation

Are two aged white cats standing,

Who the world turn on its axis;

And their labour there produces

The recurring change of seasons.

But why is it in the May month

That my eyes are ever ogling,

That my heart is so impassioned?

And why is it that I daily

Must be leering sixteen hours

From the terrace, as if nailed there,

At the fair cat Apollonia,

At the black-haired Jewess Rachel?

A strong bulwark 'gainst enticements

I have built on good foundations;

But to the most virtuous even

Sometimes come unsought temptations.

And more ardent than in youth's time,

The old dream comes o'er me stealing;

I on memory's pinions soar up,

Filled with burning amorous feeling.

Oh fair Naples, land of beauty,

With thy nectar-cup thou cheerest!

To Sorrento I'd be flying.

To a roof to me the dearest.

Old Vesuvius and the white sails

On the bay are greeting bringing,

And the olive-woods are gladdened

By the spring-birds' joyous singing.

To the Loggia slinks Carmela,

Strokes my beard with soft caresses;

Of all cats by far the fairest,

Lovingly my paw she presses.

And she looks on me with longing,

But now hark! there is a howling;

Is the surf thus loudly roaring?

Or is old Vesuvius growling?

'Tis not old Vesuvius growling,

For he holds now his vacation.

In the yard, destruction vowing,

Barks the worst dog in creation--

Barks the worst dog in creation--

Barks Francesco, loudly yelling;

And my lovely dream's enchantment

He thus rudely is dispelling.

Hiddigeigei strictly shunneth

What his conscience might be hurting;

But he oft connives benignly

At his fellow-cats' gay flirting.

Hiddigeigei with great ardour

Makes the mice-hunt his chief duty;

And he frets not if another

With sweet music worships beauty.

Quoth the wise cat Hiddigeigei:

Ere it rots, the fruit be plucking;

So, if years should come of famine,

Memory's paws remain for sucking.

Even a God-fearing conduct,

Cannot keep us from declining;

With despair I see already

In my fur some gray hairs shining.

Yes, unpitying Time destroyeth

All for which we've boldly striven;

For against the sharp-toothed tyrant

Nature has no weapons given.

Unadmired and forgotten

We fall victims to this power.

Wish I could, with fury raging,

Eat both clock-hands of the tower.

Long past is the time, ere man in his might

O'er the earth his dominion was spreading;

When the mammoth roamed in his ancient right

Through the forests which crashed 'neath his

treading.

In vain may'st thou search now far and near

For the Lion, the desert's great ruler;

But we must remember, that we live here

In a climate decidedly cooler.

In life and in fiction is given no praise

To the great and the highly gifted;

And ever weaker is growing the race

Till genius to nothing is sifted.

When cats disappear the mice raise their voice,

Till they like the others skedaddle;

At last in mad frolic we hear them rejoice--

The infusoria rabble.

Hiddigeigei sees with sorrow

To a close his days are drawing;

Death may come at any moment,

So deep grief his heart is gnawing.

O how gladly I the riches

Of my wisdom would be preaching,

That in joy as well as sorrow

Cats might profit from my teaching.

Ah! the road of life is rugged;

On it rough sharp stones are lying.

Stumbling o'er this path so dreary,

Sprained and bruised we limp on crying.

Life oft useless wounds is giving.

For 'tis full of brawls and knavery;

Vainly many cats have fallen

Victims to an empty bravery.

But for what this constant fretting?

The young cats are laughing ever,

No advice from me accepting--

Only suffering makes them clever.

Let us see what they'll accomplish;

History's teachings are derided:

His sage maxims ne'er to publish,

Hiddigeigei has decided.

Growing weaker, breathing harder,

Soon I'll feel Death's shadow o'er me:

Make my grave there in the store-house,

In my former field of glory.

Valiantly all round me slaying

Fought I like a raging lion:

In his armour clad then bury

Of his race the last brave scion.

Yes the last, because the offspring

Win their parents equal never!

They are good but wooden people,

Not so witty nor as clever.

Wooden are they, thinking solely

Of the moment, hollow hearted;

Only few still hold as sacred

The bequests of the departed.

But sometime, when years have passed by,

In my grave I've long been sleeping,

Then will come the angry cat's howl

Nightly down upon you sweeping.

Hiddigeigei's solemn warning

Will you from your slumber waken:

Ever fear the coils of dulness!

Save yourselves, ye God-forsaken!

Quiet heart! O ponder lonely,

Valiant, by no fears assailed;

Only in calm meditation

Lofty secrets are unveiled.

While the storms of life are raging,

While mean souls for trifles fight.

Thou on wings of song art soaring

O'er the mob in purer light.

Leave the dusty road to others,

And thy soul unsullied keep,

A clear mirror, like the ocean,

Where the sun has sunk to sleep.

O'er the world's loud bustle rising,

Soars the eagle lone on high;

Cranes and storks, they flock together,

But close to the earth do fly.

Quiet heart! O ponder lonely,

Valiant, by no fears assailed;

Only in calm meditation

Lofty secrets are unveiled.

Leave all commonplace forever,

Digging deeply, upward soaring;

For rich Nibelungen-treasures

Lie all ready for exploring.

From the mountains we see shining

Distant seas and shores of beauty;

While beneath we hear the booming

Of the gnomes hard at their duty.

Manna-like is spread around us

Spiritual food abundant;

And before our vision rises

The old truth with light redundant--

As coarse threads and fine together

In one net are intertwisting,

So the same laws are forever

For the small and great existing.

But a point comes,--sad confession?--

Where to pause, our thoughts restraining;

At the limit of perception

Is mysterious silence reigning.

Past me wander beings pallid,

Fill the air with words of anguish:

All our doings are invalid,

Sick and old, we slowly languish.

Have you ne'er the wondrous story

Found in ancient books related,

Of the spring, wherein the hoary

Plunged, then rose rejuvenated?

And this fountain is no fiction,

Within reach of all 'tis flowing;

But you've lost the true direction,

Farther from its traces going.

In the forests' verdant bowers,

Where deep calm the soul entrances,

Where on graceful ferns and flowers

Elves sweep through their nightly dances:

There by stones and moss well hidden,

Rush the waters from the mountain;

From Earth's bosom springs unbidden,

Ever fresh, this magic fountain.

There with peace the soul is ravished;

There the mind regains its powers;

And the wealth of Spring is lavished

O'er old wounds in blossom-showers.

Wilt thou know the world more clearly,

See then what before thee lies;

How from matter and from forces

The whole fabric doth arise.

Of the fixed forms of creation

Thou the moving cause must see;

In the changes of phenomena

Find what lasts eternally.

In presumptuous opinions

Fresh pure seeds ne'er germinate;

By deep meditation only

Human minds explore, create.

With the eagle's piercing sight endowed,

And the heart with hope o'erflowing,

I found myself with a mounted crowd

To thought's fierce battle going.

The banners high, the lance in rest,

The enemy's ranks were broken.

On their broad backs, O what a jest,

To mark a nice blue token!

We came at last to the end of our course,

O'er our failure in knowledge repining;

Then slowly I turned my gallant horse,

Myself to silence resigning;

Too proud to believe--my thoughts all free,--

To the cave as a refuge flying.

The world is far too shallow for me,

The core is deeper lying.

I for my weapons no longer care,

In the corner there they lie rusting.

No priggish fool to provoke me shall dare,

To my valour alone I am trusting.

These owls and bats a look alone

Suffices to abolish;

Still serveth well an ass's bone,

The Philistines to demolish.

Be proud, and thy lot nobly bear,

From tears and sighs desisting;

Like thee will many others fare,

While thinkers are existing.

There are many problems left unsolved

By former speculations;

But when thou art to dust resolved,

Come other generations.

The wrinkles on thy lofty brow

Let them go on increasing,

They are the scars which show us how

Thought's struggle was unceasing.

And if no laurel-crown to thee

To deck thy brow be given;

Still be thou proud; thy soul so free

For thought alone has striven.

How proud he is and stately!

How noble is his air!

A trumpeter he's only,

Yet I for him do care.

And owned he castles seven,

He could not look more fair.

O would to him were given

Another name to bear!

Ah, were he but a noble,

A knight of the Golden Fleece!

Love, thou art full of trouble,

Love, thou art full of peace.

Two days now have passed already,

Since I gave him that first kiss;

Ever since that fatal hour

All with me has gone amiss.

My dear little room, so pretty,

Where so nice a life I led,

Is now in such dire confusion.

That it almost turns my head.

My sweet roses and carnations,

Withered now, for care ye pine!

Oh, I think, instead of water,

I have deluged you with wine.

My dear lovely snow-white pigeon

Has no water and no bread;

And the goldfinch in his cage there

Looks as if he were half dead.

I am putting blue and red yarn

In my white net as I knit;

And I work in my embroidery

White wool where it doth not fit.

Where are Parcival and Theuerdank?

If I only, only knew!

I believe that I those poets

In the kitchen-pantry threw.

And the kitchen plates are standing

On the book-case--what a shame!

Ah, for all these many blunders

I my love, my love must blame!

Away he is gone in the wide wide world;

No word of farewell has he spoken.

Thou fresh young player in wood and mead,

Thou sun whose light is my daily need,

When wilt thou send me a token?

I hardly had time in his eyes to gaze,

When the dream already had vanished;

Oh Love, why dost thou two lovers unite,

With thy burning torch their hearts ignite,

When their bliss so soon must be banished?

And where does he go? The world is so large,

So full of deep snares for a rover.

He even may go to Italia, where

The women, I hear, are so false and so fair!

May Heaven protect my dear lover.

Too well were all things going,

Therefore it could not last;

My cheeks my grief are showing,

Misfortune came too fast.

The violet and clover,

The flowers all are gone.

'Mid frost and snow, a rover

I wander sad alone.

Good luck will never favour

The man who nothing dares;

But he who does not waver

The smile of fortune shares.

A lonely rock juts upward

Just by the craggy strand;

The angry foaming waters

Have torn it from the land.

Now in green waves half sunken

Defiantly it lies;

The snow-white gulls are flying

Around it with shrill cries.

There on the heaving billows

Is dancing a light boat;

The sounds of plaintive singing

Up to the lone rock float:

"O that I to my country,

And to my love were borne;

O home in dear old Rhine-land,

For thee my heart is torn!"

Bewitched I am by the summer night,

In silent thought I am riding;

Bright glow-worms through the thicket fly

Like happy dreams, which in times gone by

My longing heart were delighting.

Bewitched I am by the summer night.

In silent thought I am riding;

The golden stars shine so far and bright,

In the water's fair bosom is mirrored their light,

As, in Time's deep sea, love abiding.

Bewitched I am by the summer night,

In silent thought I am riding;

The nightingale sings from the myrtle tree,

He warbles so meltingly, tenderly,

As if Fate his heart had been blighting.

Bewitched I am by the summer night,

In silent thought I am riding;

The sea rises high, the waves do frown;

Wherefore these useless tears which down

The rider's wan cheeks are gliding?

'Neath the waves the sun is going,

With bright hues the sky is glowing,

Twilight o'er the earth is stealing,

Far-off evening bells are pealing:

Thee I think of, Margaretta.

On the rocky crag I'm lying,

Stranger in a strange land sighing;

Round my feet the waves are dancing,

Through my soul float dreams entrancing:

Thee I think of, Margaretta.

Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou

At me with burning glances?

Thine eye, though beautiful it be,

The stranger ne'er entrances.

Beyond the Alps there is a grave,

The Rhine watch o'er it keepeth;

And three wild roses bloom thereon;

Therein my love-dream sleepeth.

Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou

At me with burning glances?

Thine eye, though beautiful it be,

The stranger ne'er entrances.

Outside the gates when walking,

I see of life no trace;

There is the wide-spread graveyard

Of the ancient Roman race.

They rest from love and hatred,

From pleasure, strife, and guilt;

There in the Appian Way are

Their tombs of marble built

A tower greets me, gilded

By the setting sun's last rays--

Cæcilia Metella,

At thy proud tomb I gaze.

My eyes are turning northward,

As 'mid this pile I stand;

My thoughts are swiftly flying

Far from this southern land,

On to another tower,

With stones of smaller size;

By the shady vine-clad window

I see my love's sweet eyes.

The world lies now encircled

By the frosty winter night.

No use that by the hearth-stone

I think of love's sad flight.

The logs will soon be burnt out,

To ashes all will fall;

The embers will cease glowing,

That is the end of all.

It is the same old story,

I think of nothing more

But silence and forgetting--

Forget what I adore?

The crowd it frolics, shouts and sings,

Disturbs Rome's usual quiet;

Mad folly high her banner swings,

And thronging masks run riot.

Now up and down the Corso pace

Gay coaches 'mid wild showers;

The Carnival's great sport takes place,

The fight with chalk and flowers.

Confetti and fair roses fly,

Bouquets are thickly raining.

That hit--good luck! how glows her eye!

Thou art the victory gaining.

And thou, my heart, mirth also show,

Forget what thou hast suffered;

Let bygone times and bygone woe

With flowers sweet be covered.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi

An old maple-tree doth grow;

Through its lofty leafy summit

The breezes sadly blow.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi

A young musician lies,

He hums a song, while many

Tears glisten in his eyes.

On the clear green Lake of Nemi

The waves so gently flow;

The maple and musician

Their own minds do not know.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi

Is the best inn of the land;

Praiseworthy macaroni,

And wine of famous brand.

The maple and musician

Are crazy both, I think;

Else they would go there yonder,

Grow sane by honest drink.

My heart is filled with rancour,

The storm howls all around;

Thou art the man I want now,

Thou false Italian hound.

Thy dagger's thrust I parried;

Now, worthy friend, beware

How from a German sword's stroke

Thy Italian skull will fare.

The sun's last rays had vanished

Far from the Vatican;

It rose to shine next morning

Upon a lifeless man.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown,

Near thee many draughts have I swallowed down,

From bottles in wicker-work braided.

Oh Ponte Molle, what is the cause

That I between my glasses now pause,

Can hardly to drink be persuaded?

Oh Ponte Molle, 'tis strange in truth,

That the lovely days of my vanished youth

And love's old dream are recurring.

Through the land the hot sirocco blows,

And within my heart the old flame glows,

Sweet music within me is stirring.

Oh Tiber-stream, oh St. Peter's dome,

Oh thou all-powerful ancient Rome,

Naught care I for all thou containest.

Where'er in my restless wanderings I rove,

My gentle and lovely Schwarzwald-love,

The fairest on earth thou remainest!

Oh Ponte Molle, how lovely was she!

And if I thousands of girls should see,

To love but the one I am willing.

And if ever thy solid pile should bear

The weight of her footsteps, I will swear,

Even thy cold frame would be thrilling.

But useless the longing and useless the woe,

The sun is too ardent so far to go,

And flying is not yet invented.

Padrone, another bottle of wine!

This Orvieto so pearly and fine

Makes even a sad heart contented.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge 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.

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.

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.

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 fetters binding.

Deep grief and pain infest his way,

His heart with arrows stinging;

For his daily bread he has to play,

He can no more be singing.

Who on the Rhine sang to his lyre.

Of all save joy unheeding,

Is now--sad fate--the Pope's great choir

In the Sistine Chapel leading.