Chapter 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.