, and heard with scorn the unseemly noise.
The uproar ceased; scarcely low-spoken jests
Alternate here and there the cup's light clash.

"Let us rejoice," he says. "How now, my brethren!
Beseems it valiant knights to thus rejoice?
One time a drunken clamour, now low murmurs?
Must we then feast like bandits or like monks?

"There were far other customs in my time,
When on the battlefield with corpses piled,
On Castile's mountains or in Finland's woods,
We drank beside the camp-fire.

"Those were songs!
Is there no bard, no minstrel in the crowd?
Wine maketh glad indeed the heart of man,
But song it is that forms the spirit's wine."

Then various singers all at once arose;
A fat Italian here, with birdlike tones,
Sings Konrad's valour and great piety;
And there a troubadour from the Garonne,
The stories of enamoured shepherds sings,
Of maids enchanted and of wandering knights.

Wallenrod slept;--meanwhile the songs are o'er.
Awakened sudden by the loss of sound,
He to the Italian cast a purse of gold.
"To me alone," he said, "thou didst sing praise.
Another may not give thee recompense;
Take and depart. Let that young troubadour,
Who serveth youth and beauty, pardon us
That in the knightly throng we have no damsel,
To fasten a vain rosebud to his breast

The roses here are faded. I would have
Another bard,--the cloister knight desires
Another song; but be it wild and harsh,
Like to the voice of horns, the clash of swords.
And be it gloomy as the cloister walls,
And fiery as a solitary drunkard.

"Of us, who sanctify and murder men,
Let song of murderous tone proclaim the saintship,
And melt our heart, and rouse to rage,--and weary;
And let it then again affright the weary.
Such is our life, and such our song should be;
Who then will sing it?"

"I," replied an old
And venerable man, who near the door
Sat 'mid the squires and pages, by his robe
Prussian or Litwin. Thick his beard, by age
Whitened; the last grey hairs wave on his head;
His brow and eyes are covered by a veil;
Sufferings and years are graven on his face.

He bore in his right hand a Prussian lute,
But towards the table stretched his left hand forth,
And by this sign entreated audience.
All then were silent.
"I will sing," he cried.
"Once sang I to the Prussians and to Litwa;
Some now have perished in their land's defence;
Others will not outlive their country's loss,
But rather slay themselves upon her corse;