“And that blue eye, that so sweetly fell, As clear as the ocean even, It proved to be the portal of hell, Though I thought it the gateway of heaven.”
In the wood still farther Sir Ulrich doth ride, The leaves make a rustling dreary, A second figure afar he spied, That seem’d so sad and weary.
The youth then said: “O mother dear, Who lov’dst me to distraction, But to whom in life I caused many a tear, By evil word and action!
“O would that to dry thine eyes could avail My sorrow so fiercely glowing! O could I but redden thy cheeks so pale With the blood from my own heart flowing!”
And farther rides Sir Ulrich there, The night o’er the forest is falling; Many singular voices fill the air, The evening breezes are calling.
The youth then hears his sorrowing words Full often near him ringing; ’Tis the notes of the mocking forest birds All twittering loudly and singing:
“Sir Ulrich sings a pretty song, We call it the song of repentance: And when he has reach’d the end of his song, He’ll repeat it sentence by sentence.”
16. TO A SINGER, ON HER SINGING AN OLD ROMANCE.
Still think I of the magic fair one, How on her first my glances fell! How her dear tones resounded sweetly, How they my heart enthrall’d completely, How down my cheeks the tears coursed fleetly But how it chanced, I could not tell.
There over me had crept a vision: Methought I was again a child, And in my mother’s chamber sitting In silence, by the lamp-light flitting, And reading fairy tales befitting, Whilst outside roar’d the tempest wild.
The tales began with life to glimmer, The knights arise from out the grave; By Roncesvall the battle rages, Sir Roland in the fight engages, And with him many a valiant page is,-- And also Ganelon, the knave.
By him is Roland ill entreated, He swims in blood, fast ebbs his breath; Scarce can his horn, at such far distance, Call Charlemagne to his assistance: So passed away the knight’s existence, And, with him, sank my dream in death.
It was a loud confusèd echo That from my vision wakened me. The legend that she sang was ended, The people heartily commended, And ofttimes shouted: “Bravo! splendid!” Low bow’d the singer gracefully.
O my golden ducats dear, Tell me why ye are not here?