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. 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 fetters binding.