Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort; Draw them to the Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

Those graceful groves that shade the plain, Where Tiber rolls majestic to the main, And flattens, as he runs, the fair campagne.

Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dread. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien:-- Rome, Rome, thou art no more As thou hast been.

It would be great to have water from Tiber reservoir,

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will. Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still.

Dip him in the river who loves water.