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? VIII. 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. IX. 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. X. 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. XI. 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!