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[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 in vain
  I cry for Lethe; where the frankincense
  Sends up its smoke, from all the ancient wars
  The victims lift their faces, seamed with scars,
  In grim reproachful gaze to call me hence. 
  Germanicus—­Sejanus—­Drusus rise ... 
  Who brought you hither?  Has the grave no bars? 
  Ah, ’tis past bearing, how with corpse-cold eyes
  Ye suck the life-blood from me pitilessly! 
  I know I slew you—­but it had to be. 
  Was it my fault ye threw the losing dice? 
  Away!  Alas—­when ends my misery?”

  The grave physician held the cup; he drank
  Its cooling at a draught, then feebly sank
  Among the pillows, still with wandering eye
  About the chamber, from his forehead dank
  Wiping the dews:  “They’re gone?  No more they try
  To fright me?  Ah, perchance ’twas but the mist ... 
  Yet often have they come, by night—­in what dread guise
  None knows but I ...  Come, sit thee near me ... hist! 
  And let me tell of dim old memories.