e honey bee's dull drone
Where other roses shall have blown.

These mountains then will still be lifting
Their ice-crowned summits to the sky;
The fleecy clouds will still be drifting
Above their peaks and pastures high;
But they will heed not where I lie.

Even thou wilt never miss thy master!
Thy vines and flowers will bloom the same,
The season's round will move no faster,
No bud will quench its torch of flame,
And naught will change here but a name.

Yet all who shall with joy succeed me
In their turn must thy charms resign,
When, as to all who now precede me,
Death shall have made the fatal sign
To join the ever-lengthening line.

We "owners," then, are but thy tenants
Despite our purchase and our pride;
To thee what is our transient presence?
Thou carest not if we abide
Among thy roses, or have died.

Hence, let me drain in fullest measure
Thy cup of pure Tyrolean wine!
To-day at least I hold thy treasure;
To-day with truth I call thee mine;
To-morrow's sun may never shine.

THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN AT SUNRISE

Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms
Indent the western sky:
The jewelled gifts of countless storms
Upon their summits lie.

The sinking moon, with fading scars,
Hath touched their frosty spires;
Around them pale the wearied stars,
Like waning bivouac fires.

Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one,
Like rose leaves half unfurled,
Announce the coming of the sun
To an awakening world.

The chief peak now hath caught the glow,
And, soft, o'er sloping walls
And buttresses of dazzling snow,
The flood of splendor falls;

While miles of tender pink and gold
Incrust the blue of space,
And bands of amethyst enfold
Each mountain's massive base.

Gone are the tents that pierced the skies;
But in their place, more fair,
Transfigured flowers of Paradise
Bloom in the crystal air.

OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER

A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran

PROLOGUE

Oswald von Wolkenstein, the Last of the Minnesingers, loved a beautiful
woman, named Sabina, who proved faithless to him, thereby causing the
poet great mental suffering. He avenged his wrongs by writing poems on
her coquetry and cruelty. Years later, Sabina, who had never forgiven
him his satirical verses, became the favorite of the Tyrolese prince,
"Frederick, of the Empty Purse", who also hated Oswald for opposing his
political plans. Accordingly, Sabina plotted with her lover to induce
t