scorching or kind it fall.

There where the leaves are turning,
I harken with reverent ear;
All that is growing or dying,
Fading or blooming, I hear.

Blissful I learn my lesson--
How through the world's wide sweep
Matter and spirit together
Their concord eternal keep.

What blows in the rustling forest,
Takes life from the sun and rain,
Is a symbol of truth immortal
To the soul that can read it plain.

Each tiniest plant that blossoms
With the perfume of its birth
Holds in its cup the secret
Of the whole mysterious earth.

It looks down from the cliffs in silence,
Speaks in the waves' long swell--
But all its wonderful meaning
The poet alone can tell.

* * * * *

[Illustration: LUDWIG RICHTER JOURNEYING]

THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS[53] (1856?)

On Cape Misenum shone a palace fair
Among the laurels by the summer sea;
Long colonnades, and wondrous artistry,
And all that should a gorgeous feast prepare.
Oft saw it scenes of midnight revelry
Where moved soft boys, their brows with ivy crowned,
And silver-footed damsels, capering round,
The thyrsus swung; with merry shouts of glee
And rippling laughter, and the lyre's soft tone,
It rang till fell the dew, and night was gone.

Tonight, how still! But here and there is traced
A lighted window; in the shadowy space
About the doors, slaves throng with awestruck face.
Litters draw nigh, and men spring out in haste;
And as each comes, a question runs its round
Through all the quivering circle of the spies
"What says the leech? How goes it?" Hush--no sound!
The end is near--the fierce old tiger dies!
Up there on purple cushion, in the light
Of flickering lamps, pale Caesar waits for morn;
His sallow face, by hideous ulcers torn,
Looks ghastlier than was e'er its wont tonight;
Hollow the eyes; the fire of fell disease
And burning fever runs through every limb;
None but the aged leech abides with him,
And Macro, trusted bearer of the keys.

And now, with stifled cry, by fears oppressed,
The sick man feebly throws his coverings off
"Let me, O Greek, a cooling potion quaff!
Ice--ice! Vesuvius burns within my breast.
Gods! how it flames! Yet in my anguished brain
The torturing thoughts burn fiercer far, and worse ...
A thousand times their tireless strength I curse,
Yet cannot find refreshment. 'Tis i