The Trumpeter of Sakkingen - LightNovelsOnl.com
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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 s.h.i.+ne 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 gla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+nes so pale, she s.h.i.+nes 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-sh.o.r.e 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 G.o.d, 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.
