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 vent unto his anger By this discontented grumbling, There above gay life was surging, And arrayed in festal garments Crowds went toward the Vatican. On St. Angelo's Bridge was hardly Room enough for all the passers. Crowding came in Spanish mantles, Wigs and swords, the grand Signori; Then some black Franciscan friars, Also Capuchins, and common Roman burghers. Here and there a Sun-burnt and wild-looking shepherd Of the near Campagna wore with Classic grace his tattered garment; And among them, with light footsteps, Walked the lovely Roman maidens, With black veils, although this covering Did not hide their fervent glances. (O how can the glowing sunshine, Even when its rays are gathered By adepts in their reflectors, E'er compare with Roman glances? Heart which felt their flames, be silent!) From the castle of St. Angelo Flutter gaily many banners, Bearing all the Pope's insignia, Both the mitre and the crossed keys, Giving notice of the feast-day Kept in honour of St. Peter. There before the proud cathedral Were the sparkling fountains playing; Through the spray the vivid rainbow Glitters o'er the granite basins. And the obelisk gigantic Of Rameses, King of Egypt, Looked upon the crowd of people, In his native tongue lamenting: "Most perplexing are these Romans! In the time of Nero hardly Did I comprehend their doings; Now still less I understand them. But this much I have discovered, That the climate here is chilly. Amun-Rè, thou god of sunlight, Take me home to my old friends there, To the Sphinx, and let me once more Hear the prayer of Memnon's column Through the glowing desert ringing!" On the broad steps of the Vatican And beneath the marble columns Tall Swiss halberdiers are walking To and fro in keeping watch there. Clanging through the hall the echo Of their heavy tread is ringing. To the gray old corporal turning Speaks a youthful soldier sadly: "Fine, indeed, and proud we Swiss are, And I see no other soldiers In the streets of Rome as jaunty As we look with our cuirasses, In the black, red, yellow doublet. Many burning glances shyly From the windows fall upon us; But the heart is wildly yearning Homeward, homeward for the mountains, As at Strasburg on the bulwarks When the Alpine horn was blowing. Willingly would I give up all, Earnest money, silver scudi, E'en the Holy Father's blessing, E'en the wine of Orvieto Which pearls sweetly in the goblet, Could I once again be chasing Boldly on their tracks the chamois O'er the rocks, near avalanches, On the craggy steep Pilatus; Or steal gently in the moonlight Over fragrant Alpine meadows To the faintly-lighted cottage, To the dairy-maid, the light-haired Kunigund of Appenzell; And then greet the golden sunrise With a joyful heartfelt jodel. Oh Saint Peter, thy fine music I should miss without regretting, Could I hear again the well-known Sharp shrill whistle of the marmot In its lonely Alpine cave!" On the steps of the cathedral Stood in crowds close packed together Elegant and idle dandies, Holding muster over all the Carriages and great state coaches Which came quickly driving up there. "Do you see the Eminenza With that round face like the full moon, With the double chin, he's leaning On the servant in rich livery? 'Tis the Cardinal Borghese. He would rather now be sitting Quiet in the Sabine mountains In the airy villa by the Rural beauty Donna Baldi. He's a man of taste, a scholar, Loves the classics, and especially Doth he love the true Bucolic." "Who is that?" now asked another, "That imposing-looking person? Don't you see there what a splendid Chain of honour he is wearing; How he shakes his periwig now Like th' Olympian Jupiter?" "What, you do not known him?" answered Then loquaciously another, "Him, the Chevalier Bernini? Who has just restored the Pantheon, Who upon St. Peter's also Has bestowed such rich adornments, And the golden tabernacle Built o'er Peter's grave, which cost more Than a hundred thousand scudi. Take your hat off! Since the world was, Has she seen no greater master, Nor--" He was then interrupted By a man with gray moustaches, Who his shoulder tapped and scornful Said: "You are mistaken; never Saw the world a greater bungler! I say this, Salvator Rosa." Coaches come, in front postilions; Splendid uniforms are glittering And with retinue attended Steps an aged lady onward To the portal of the Dome. "How she's fading," said then someone, "The illustrious Queen of Sweden! Do you still recall her lovely Looks when first she made her entrance? Then the Gate del Popolo looked Just as if built out of flowers; And as far as Ponte Molle Came the Romans out to greet her. Down the long street of the Corso Unto the Venetian Palace Were the shouts of joy unending. Do you see that little hunchback Standing there, who now is sneezing? He stands high in grace and favour As one of the queen's attendants. He's a scholar of deep learning, The philologist Naudaeus. He knows everything that happened, And sometime ago he even, Over there at Prince Corsini's, Danced an ancient Saltarello To instruct the royal party, Whose loud laughter was heard plainly Even far off by the Tiber." In the throng now quite unnoticed Came a heavy lumbering carriage; In it were two black-robed ladies; On the box sat worthy Anton As their coachman, calling loudly: "Room ye people for the gracious Lady Abbess and my mistress!" Called in German, which roused laughter. With bewildered eyes he looked round At the foreign scene, and just then Passing by the queen's attendants, He beheld a gray old coachman, And he muttered from his coach-box: "Don't I know thee, Swedish rascal? Didst thou not belong once to the Regiment of Sudermanland? Do you now expect my thanks here For the cut you had the kindness To bestow upon my arm once In the fight at Nuremberg? A most marvellous place is truly This old Rome, for long-forgotten Friends and foes meet here again!" On the classic soil of Italy Now my song greets Margaretta. Gladly would it strew its fairest Blossoms on the path to welcome And to cheer this pallid maiden, So that smiles might light her features; For, since Werner left the castle, Pleasure had become a stranger. Only once they saw her laughing, When the Suabian younker came there; But it was a bitter laughter, Harsh, discordant as a string sounds On a mandolin when snapping; And the younker then returned thence Single, as from home he started. Silently the maiden sorrowed As the months and years sped onward; Till at last the Princess Abbess, Filled with pity, told the Baron: "On our soil your child no longer Thrives as heretofore, but slowly Her poor heart from grief is withering. Change of air oft worketh wonders. Let me take then Margaretta With me to the Holy City, Where in spite of age I'm going; For, in Chur the wicked bishop Threatens to deprive our convent Of our fairest Swiss possessions, And I shall complain of him there, Saying to the Holy Father: 'Show me mercy, justly punish The harsh bishop of the Grisons.'" Said the Baron: "Take her with you; And may Heaven grant its blessing, That you may bring back my daughter Rosy-cheeked and happy-hearted." Thus to Italy they travelled With old Anton as their coachman. Now the carriage-door he opened, And alighting, the old Abbess, Followed by fair Margaretta, Walked up to the church and entered. Margaretta gazed in wonder At the vastness of the building, Where man seems reduced to nothing; At the giant marble columns, And the dome with gold overladen. In the niche of the great nave stands The bronze statue of St. Peter, Which this day in papal vestments Was arrayed, the gold brocade robe Hanging stiffly on the statue; On the head the Bishop's mitre. And they saw how many people Kissed the foot of this bronze statue. Then a papal chamberlain led Both the German ladies forward To a seat close by the altar, Place of honour kept for strangers. Now was heard the sound of music; And the Holy Father coming Through the side-door from the Vatican Made his entrance to St. Peter's. Stout Swiss halberdiers were marching At the head of the procession, Followed by the celebrated Singers of the papal choir. Heavy music-books were carried By the choristers, some hardly Strong enough to bear the folios. Then there came in motley order Monsignori robed in violet; Abbots followed then and prelates, And the canons of St. Peter's, Heavy looking, their fat figures Corresponding to their livings. Leaning on his staff the General Of the Capuchins walked slowly For a load of more than ninety Years was resting on his shoulders; But his brain was working out still Many plans with youthful vigour. With Franciscans from the cloister Ara c[oe]li also came the Prior of Pallazuola. By the shores of Lake Albano, 'Neath the shade of Monte Cavo, Stands his little monastery, Peaceful spot for idle dreamers. On he walked in deep thought buried; And who knows wherefore his mutterings Did not sound like prayer, but more like "Fare-thee-well, Amalia." After them the choicest portion, All the cardinals, were walking, Their long robes of scarlet colour On the marble pavement trailing. "Heart, be patient," so was thinking Cardinal di Ottoboni; "Now I'm second to the Pope yet, But in seven years most likely I shall mount St Peter's chair." Then a train of cavaliers came With their shining swords, and followed In strict military order; 'Twas the Pope's own guard of honour. And at last the Holy Father Made his entrance, being carried On a throne by eight strong bearers. O'er his head were held by pages The great fans of peacock-feathers. Snow-white were his festal garments; And his right hand, raised in blessing, Wore the signet-ring of Peter. Low the crowd knelt down in silence. At the foot of the High Altar The procession had arrived now, And the Pope held solemn service Over the Apostle's grave. Solemnly and gravely sounded The peculiar choral measures Which old Master Palestrina Had in his strict style composed. And the aged Lady Abbess Prayed with fervent deep devotion. But fair Margaretta's glances Were directed up to heaven, Whence these solemn strains of music Seemed to her to be descending. But her eye was then attracted To the singers' box--she trembled: For, amid the group of singers, Though half hidden by a column, Stood a stately light-haired figure. And again she looked now upward; From her sight the Pope had vanished, All the Cardinals had vanished, Likewise all the nine-and-eighty Burning lamps o'er Peter's grave. "My old dream, dost thou return then? My old dream, why dost thou haunt me Even in these sacred precincts?" The last notes had died out softly, And the Holy Mass was ended. "Oh how pale you look, dear lady!" Said the aged Lady Abbess. "Take my vial, it will help you, It contains the finest essence Which I bought myself in Florence At the cloister of San Marco." The procession of the singers Passed just then before the ladies. "God in heaven! oh have mercy! Yes, 'tis he! I know the scar there On his brow--it is my Werner!" Dark before her eyes it grew now, And her heart was beating wildly. No more could her feet support her, And the maiden sank down fainting On the hard cold floor of marble.