the mighty sword,--
Into whose hands may they confide the sword?
One day, and yet another flowed away
In council; many heroes there contend.
And all alike of noble race, and all
Alike deserving in the Order's cause.
But hitherto the brethren's general voice
Placed Wallenrod the highest over all

A stranger he, in Prussia all unknown,
But foreign houses of his fame were full2
Following the Moors upon Castilian sierras,
The Ottoman through ocean's troubled waves,
In battle at the front, first on the wall,
To grapple vessels of the infidel
The first; and in the tourney, soon as he
Entered the lists and deigned his visor raise,
None dared with him the strife of keen-edged swords,3
By one accord the victor's garland yielding.
But not alone amid Crusading hosts
He with the sword had glorified his youth;
For many Christian graces him adorn,
Poverty, humbleness, of earth disdain.

But Konrad shone not in the courtly crowd
By polished speech, by well-turned reverence;
Nor e'er his sword for vile advantage sold
To service of disputing barons. He
Had consecrated to the cloister walls
His youthful years; all plaudits he disdained,
And ruler's place, even higher, sweeter meeds.
Nor minstrel's hymn, nor beauty's fair regard
Could speak to his cold spirit. Wallenrod
Listens unmoved to praise, and looks afar
On lovely cheeks, enchanting discourse flies.

Had Nature made him thus unfeeling, proud?
Or age? For albeit young in years, his locks
Were grey already, withered were his looks,
And sufferings sealed by age.--Twere hard to guess.
He would at times divide the sports of youth,
Or listen, pleased, to sound of female tongues,
To courtiers' jests reply with other jests;
Or scatter unto ladies courteous words
With chilly smile, as dainties cast to children--
These were rare moments of forgetfulness;--
And speedily some light, unmeaning word,
That had no sense for others, woke in him
Passionate stirrings. These words: Fatherland,
Duty, Beloved,--the mention of Crusades,
And Litwa, all the mirth of Wallenrod
Instantly poisoned. Hearing them, again
He turned away his countenance, again
Became to all around insensible,
And buried him in thoughts mysterious.
Maybe, remembering his holy call,
He would forbid himself the sweets of earth;
The sweets of friendship only did he know,
One only friend had chosen to himself,
A saint by virtue and by holy state.
This was a hoary monk; men called him Halban.
He shared the lonel