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.

FIFTEENTH PART.

THE MEETING IN ROME.

Scorching lay the heat of summer
Over Rome, th' Eternal City;
Sluggishly his yellow waters
Rolls the Tiber, rolls them seaward,
Through the sultry air; however,
Not so much from choice, but rather
From a sense of duty, knowing
That it is a river's business.
Deep down at the river's bottom,
Sat old Tiber, and he muttered:

"Oh how slowly time is dragging!
I am weary! Would the end were
Of this dull monotonous motion!
Will no storm ere raise a flood-tide,
To engulf this little country,
And drag all the brooks and rivers,
Also me--the river veteran--
And embrace us all together
In the ocean's mighty bosom?
E'en to wash the walls forever
Of old Rome I find most tedious.
And what matter that this region
And myself are held as classic?
Vanished, turned to dust and ashes,
Are those genial Roman poets,
Who, their brows adorned with laurel,
And their hearts imbued with rhythm,
Formerly have sung my praises.
Then came others, long since vanished,
Others followed in their stead, like
Pictures in a magic lantern.
Well! to me 'tis all the same, if
Only they would not disturb me.
Oh what have these busy mortals
Thrown into my quiet waters,
Quite regardless of my comfort!
Where my nymphs with sacred rushes
Had arranged for me a pillow,
For my usual siesta,
There now lie great heaps of rubbish,
Roman helmets, Gaulish weapons,
Old utensils of Etruria,
And the lovely marble statues
Which once from the tomb of Hadrian
Down upon thick-headed Goths fell;
And the bones all mixed together
Of defenders and aggressors;
Just as if my river-bed were
An historic lumber chamber.
Oh how sick I am and weary!
Worn-out world, when wilt thou die?"

Whilst now thus the worthy Tiber
Gave full