A Street in Strasburg

Still is the night. The sound of feetHas died away from the empty street,And like an artisan, bending downHis head on his anvil, the dark townSleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet.Sleepless and restless, I alone,In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone,Wander and weep in my remorse!

CRIER OF THE DEAD, ringing a bell.Wake! wake!All ye that sleep!Pray for the Dead!Pray for the Dead!

Hark! with what accents loud and hoarseThis warder on the walls of deathSends forth the challenge of his breath!I see the dead that sleep in the grave!They rise up and their garments wave,Dimly and spectral, as they rise,With the light of another world in their eyes!

Wake! wake!All ye that sleep!Pray for the Dead!Pray for the Dead!

Why for the dead, who are at rest?Pray for the living, in whose breastThe struggle between right and wrongIs raging terrible and strong,As when good angels war with devils!This is the Master of the Revels,Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposesThe health of absent friends, and pledges,Not in bright goblets crowned with roses,And tinkling as we touch their edges,But with his dismal, tinkling bell.That mocks and mimics their funeral knell.

Wake! wake!All ye that sleep!Pray for the Dead!Pray for the Dead!

Wake not, beloved! be thy sleepSilent as night is, and as deep!There walks a sentinel at thy gateWhose heart is heavy and desolate,And the heavings of whose bosom numberThe respirations of thy slumber,As if some strange, mysterious fateHad linked two hearts in one, and mineWent madly wheeling about thine,Only with wider and wilder sweep!

CRIER OP THE DEAD, at a distance.Wake! wake!All ye that sleep!Pray for the Dead!Pray for the Dead!

Lo! with what depth of blackness thrownAgainst the clouds, far up the skiesThe walls of the cathedral rise,Like a mysterious grove of stone,With fitful lights and shadows blending,As from behind, the moon ascending,Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown!The wind is rising; but the boughsRise not and fall not with the wind,That through their foliage sobs and soughs;Only the cloudy rack behind,Drifting onward, wild and ragged,Gives to each spire and buttress jaggedA seeming motion undefined.Below on the square, an armed knight,Still as a statue and as white,Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiverUpon the points of his armor brightAs on the ripples of a river.He lifts the visor from his cheek,And beckons, and makes as he would speak.

WALTER the Minnesinger.Friend! can you tell me where alightThuringia's horsemen for the night?For I have lingered in the rear,And wander vainly up and down.

I am a stranger in the town.As thou art; but the voice I hearIs not a stranger to mine ear.Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid!

WALTER.Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy nameIs Henry of Hoheneck!

Ay, the same.

WALTER, embracing him.Come closer, closer to my side!What brings thee hither? What potent charmHas drawn thee from thy German farmInto the old Alsatian city?

A tale of wonder and of pity!A wretched man, almost by stealthDragging my body to Salem,In the vain hope and search for health,And destined never to return.Already thou hast heard the rest.But what brings thee, thus armed and dightIn the equipments of a knight?

WALTER.Dost thou not see upon my breastThe cross of the Crusaders shine?My pathway leads to Palestine.

Ah, would that way were also mine!O noble poet! thou whose heartIs like a nest of singing-birdsRocked on the topmost bough of life,Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart,And in the clangor of the strifeMingle the music of thy words?

WALTER.My hopes are high, my heart is proud,And like a trumpet long and loud,Thither my thoughts all clang and ring!My life is in my hand, and lo!I grasp and bend it as a bow,And shoot forth from its trembling stringAn arrow, that shall be, perchance,Like the arrow of the Israelite kingShot from the window towards the east.That of the Lord's deliverance!

My life, alas! is what thou seest!O enviable fate! to beStrong, beautiful, and armed like theeWith lyre and sword, with song and steel;A hand to smite, a heart to feel!Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword,Thou givest all unto thy Lord;While I, so mean and abject grown,Am thinking of myself alone,

WALTER.Be patient; Time will reinstateThy health and fortunes.

'T is too late!I cannot strive against my fate!

WALTER.Come with me; for my steed is weary;Our journey has been long and dreary,And, dreaming of his stall, he dintsWith his impatient hoofs the flints.

PRINCE HENRY, aside.I am ashamed, in my disgrace,To look into that noble face!To-morrow, Walter, let it be.

WALTER.To-morrow, at the dawn of day,I shall again be on my way.Come with me to the hostelry,For I have many things to say.Our journey into ItalyPerchance together we may make;Wilt thou not do it for my sake?

A sick man's pace would but impedeThine eager and impatient speed.Besides, my pathway leads me roundTo Hirsehau, in the forest's bound,Where I assemble man and steed,And all things for my journey's need.

LUCIFER, flying over the city.Sleep, sleep, O city! till the lightWake you to sin and crime again,Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain,I scatter downward through the nightMy maledictions dark and deep.I have more martyrs in your wallsThan God has; and they cannot sleep;They are my bondsmen and my thralls;Their wretched lives are full of pain,Wild agonies of nerve and brain;And every heart-beat, every breath,Is a convulsion worse than death!Sleep, sleep, O city! though withinThe circuit of your walls there beNo habitation free from sin,And all its nameless misery;The aching heart, the aching head,Grief for the living and the dead,And foul corruption of the time,Disease, distress, and want, and woe,And crimes, and passions that may growUntil they ripen into crime!