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| IN olden times a castle stood towering high and free: | |
| It gleamed far over the country, unto the deep blue sea; | |
| The gardens round were fragrant, in glowing bloom arrayed, | |
| And glistening like the rainbow, the limpid fountains played. | |
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| There sat a mighty monarch with many lands his own, | 5 |
| He sat so pale and threatening upon his mighty throne. | |
| For what he thinks is terror and what he sees is rage | |
| And what he speaks is torture and blood his written page. | |
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| There travelled to this castle a noble minstrel pair, | |
| The one with locks of gold and the other grey of hair; | 10 |
| And with his harp the old man a comely charger rode. | |
| While merrily beside him his young companion strode. | |
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| The old man to the young said: “My son, take ample care! | |
| Our deepest songs remember, and strike thy note most rare. | |
| With all thy might put sorrow and joy into thy tone! | 15 |
| To-day we both must conquer this monarch’s heart of stone.” | |
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| Before the lofty pillars the minstrel pair is seen; | |
| Upon the throne are sitting the monarch and his queen. | |
| The king is fiercely splendid, like bloody northern light, | |
| The queen is mild and lovely, like full moon in the night. | 20 |
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| The old man touched his harp strings, and—wonderful to hear!— | |
| Chords fuller, ever fuller, were rising to the ear; | |
| Then high the young man’s singing most heavenly limpid streamed, | |
| The old man’s voice sonorous a ghostly chorus seemed. | |
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| They sing of love and springtime, of golden days to bless, | 25 |
| Of freedom, manly honour, of faith and holiness. | |
| They sing of all the sweetness that trembles through the breast, | |
| They sing of all that’s lofty and fills the heart with zest. | |
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| The courtiers round about them forget to mock and sneer; | |
| Stern warriors before heaven all bow their knees in fear. | 30 |
| The queen in wistful gladness is overcome and throws | |
| Down to the magic minstrels from her own breast a rose. | |
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| “You have beguiled my people, beguile you now my queen?” | |
| The king is shouting fiercely, and trembling in his spleen. | |
| He throws his sword that flashing has pierced the young man’s heart: | 35 |
| Thence no more golden ballads, but sprays of lifeblood start. | |
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| And scattered as by tempest is all the listening swarm. | |
| The youth in throes is dying right in his master’s arm. | |
| He wraps the mantle round him, then upright on his steed | |
| Binds fast the youth and with him he leaves the hall in speed. | 40 |
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| Before the lofty gateway the minstrel old and wise | |
| Stands still and there he seizes his harp, of harps the prize. | |
| Against a marble pillar this noble harp he flings. | |
| He calls; through halls and gardens his voice uncanny rings: | |
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| “Woe, castle, no more music shall sweep thy halls along, | 45 |
| No harp-strings shall resound there, and no more golden song. | |
| Nay! Only sighs and groaning and sneaking of the slave, | |
| Till crushed by spirit of vengeance thou art a mouldy grave. | |
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| “Woe, fragrant gardens blooming so fair in springtime’s grace! | |
| To you I show this dead boy’s white and distorted face, | 50 |
| That you henceforth shall wither, that every spring be dry, | |
| That you all sere and barren in days to come shall lie. | |
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| “Woe, thou unholy murderer! Thou curse of minstrelsy! | |
| Thy strife for bloodstained glory all times in vain shall be; | |
| Thy name shall be forgotten, steeped in eternal night, | 55 |
| And, like a dying rattle, in empty air take flight!” | |
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| Thus cried the ancient minstrel, and heaven heard his call: | |
| The pompous halls are ruins, low lies each mighty wall. | |
| One lofty pillar only recalls the splendours past; | |
| This pillar, cracked already, may fall to-night at last. | 60 |
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| Where once were scented gardens is now a barren land, | |
| No branches shade to scatter, no spring to pierce the sand; | |
| No songs, no book of heroes the monarch’s name rehearse; | |
| Dissolved in night, forgotten! That is the minstrel’s curse. | |
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