, Suesskind von Trimberg was at once a Jew and a minnesinger. Who can
fathom a poet's soul? Who can follow his thoughts as they fly hither and
thither, like the thread in a weaver's shuttle, fashioning themselves
into a golden web? The minnesingers enlisted in love's cause, yet none
the less in war and the defense of truth, and for the last Suesskind von
Trimberg did valiant service. The poems of his earliest period, the
blithesome days of youth, have not survived. Those that we have bear the
stamp of sorrow and trouble, the gifts of advanced years. With
self-contemptuous bitterness, he bewails his sad lot:

"I seek and nothing find,--
That makes me sigh and sigh.
Lord Lackfood presses me,
Of hunger sure I'll die;
My wife, my child go supperless,
My butler is Sir Meagreness."

Suesskind von Trimberg's poems also breathe the spirit of Hebrew
literature, and have drawn material from the legend world of the
Haggada. For the praise of his faithful wife he borrows the words of
Solomon, and the psalm-like rhythm of his best songs recalls the
familiar strains of our evening-prayer:

"Almighty God! That shinest with the sun,
That slumb'rest not when day grows into night!
Thou Source of all, of tranquil peace and joy!
Thou King of glory and majestic light!
Thou allgood Father! Golden rays of day
And starry hosts thy praise to sing unite,
Creator of heav'n and earth, Eternal One,
That watchest ev'ry creature from Thy height!"

Like Santob, Suesskind was poor; like him, he denounced the rich, was
proud and generous. With intrepid candor, he taught knights the meaning
of true nobility--of the nobility of soul transcending nobility of
birth--and of freedom of thought--freedom fettered by neither stone, nor
steel, nor iron; and in the midst of their rioting and feasting, he
ventured to put before them the solemn thought of death. His last
production as a minnesinger was a prescription for a "virtue-electuary."
Then he went to dwell among his brethren, whom, indeed, he had not
deserted in the pride of his youth:

"Why should I wander sadly,
My harp within my hand,
O'er mountain, hill, and valley?
What praise do I command?

Full well they know the singer
Belongs to race accursed;
Sweet _Minne_ doth no longer
Reward me as at first.

Be silent, then, my lyre,
We sing 'fore lords in vain.
I'll leave the minstrels'