’MONGST the roses Staudenfuss trod with mickle pride; | |
| With rage and with impatience, his foe he did abide; | |
| Much he feared no Longobard would dare to meet his blade: | |
| But a bearded monk lay ready for the fight arrayed. | |
| |
| “Brother Ilsan, raise thine eyes,” spake Sir Hildebrand, | 5 |
| “Where, ’mongst the blooming roses, our threatening foe does stand: | |
| Staudenfuss, the giant hight, born upon the Rhine, | |
| Up, and shrive him of his sins, holy brother mine!” | |
| |
| “It ’s I will fight him,” cried the monk; “my blessing shall he gain; | |
| Never ’mongst the roses shall he wage the fight again.” | 10 |
| Straight above his coat of mail his friar’s cowl he cast, | |
| Hid his sword and buckler, and to the garden passed. | |
| |
| Among the blooming roses leaped the grisly monk: | |
| With laughter ladies viewed his beard, and his visage brown and shrunk; | |
| As he trod with angry step o’er the flowery green, | 15 |
| Many a maiden laughed aloud, and many a knight, I ween. | |
| |
| Up spake Lady Chrimhild, “Father, leave thine ire! | |
| Go and chant thy matins with thy brothers in the choir.” | |
| “Gentle lady,” cried the monk, “roses must I have, | |
| To deck my dusky cowl in guise right gay and brave.” | 20 |
| |
| Loudly laughed the giant, when he saw his beard so rough: | |
| “Should I laughing die to-morrow, I had not laughed enough: | |
| Has the kemp of Bern sent his fool to fight?” | |
| “Giant, straight thy hide shall feel that I have my wits aright.” | |
| |
| Up heaved the monk his heavy fist, and he struck a weighty blow, | 25 |
| Down among the roses he felled his laughing foe. | |
| Fiercely cried Sir Staudenfuss, “Thou art the devil’s priest! | |
| Heavy penance dost thou deal with thy wrinkled fist.” | |
| |
| Together rushed the uncouth kemps; each drew his trusty blade; | |
| With heavy tread below their feet they crushed the roses red; | 30 |
| All the garden flowed with their purple blood; | |
| Each did strike full sorry blows with their falchions good. | |
| |
| Cruel looks their eyes did cast, and fearful was their war, | |
| But the friar cut his enemy o’er the head a bloody scar; | |
| Deeply carved his trusty sword through the helmet bright: | 35 |
| Joyful was the hoary monk, for he had won the fight. | |
| |
| They parted the two champions speedily asunder: | |
| The friar’s heavy interdict lay the giant under. | |
| Up arose Queen Chrimhild, to Sir Ilsan has she sped, | |
| On his bald head did she lay a crown of roses red. | 40 |
| |
| Through the garden roved he, as in the merry dance; | |
| A kiss the lady gave him, while madly did he prance. | |
| “Hear, thou lady fair: more roses must I have; | |
| To my two-and-fifty brothers I promised chaplets brave. | |
| |
| “If ye have not kemps to fight, I must rob thy garden fair, | 45 |
| And right sorry should I be to work thee so much care.” | |
| “Fear not, the battle shalt thou wage with champions bold and true: | |
| Crowns and kisses mayst thou gain for thy brothers fifty-two.” * * * * * | |
| Up spake the queen, “Monk Ilsan, see your chaplets ready dight; | |
| Champions two-and-fifty stand waiting for the fight.” | 50 |
| Ilsan rose, and donned his cowl, and run against them all; | |
| There the monk has given them many a heavy fall. | |
| |
| To the ground he felled them, and gave them his benison; | |
| Beneath the old monk’s falchion lay twelve champions of renown: | |
| And full of fear and sorrow the other forty were; | 55 |
| Their right hand held they forth, begged him their lives to spare. | |
| |
| Rathly ran the monk, to the Queen Chrimhild he hied: | |
| “Lay thy champions in the grave, and leave thy mickle pride: | |
| I have dight them for their death; I did shrive them and anoint them: | |
| Never will they thrive or speed in the task thou didst appoint them. | 60 |
| |
| “When again thy roses blow, to the feast the monk invite.” | |
| The Lady Chrimhild gave him two-and-fifty chaplets bright. | |
| “Nay, Lady Queen, remind thee! By the holy order mine, | |
| I claim two-and-fifty kisses from your lips so red and fine.” | |
| |
| And when Chrimhild, the queen, gave him kisses fifty-two, | 65 |
| With his rough and grisly beard full sore he made her rue, | |
| That from her lovely cheek ’gan flow the rosy blood: | |
| The queen was full of sorrow, but the monk it thought him good. | |
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