The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine

We are alone. The wedding guestsRide down the hill, with plumes and cloaks,And the descending dark investsThe Niederwald, and all the nestsAmong its hoar and haunted oaks.

ELSIE.What bells are those, that ring so slow,So mellow, musical, and low?

They are the bells of Geisenheim,That with their melancholy chimeRing out the curfew of the sun.

ELSIE.Listen, beloved.

They are done!Dear Elsie! many years agoThose same soft bells at eventideRang in the ears of Charlemagne,As, seated by Fastrada's sideAt Ingelheim, in all his prideHe heard their sound with secret pain.

ELSIE.Their voices only speak to meOf peace and deep tranquillity,And endless confidence in thee!

Thou knowest the story of her ring,How, when the court went back to Aix,Fastrada died; and how the kingSat watching by her night and day,Till into one of the blue lakes,Which water that delicious land,They cast the ring, drawn from her hand:And the great monarch sat sereneAnd sad beside the fated shore,Nor left the land forevermore.

ELSIE.That was true love.

For him the queenNe'er did what thou hast done for me.

ELSIE.Wilt thou as fond and faithful be?Wilt thou so love me after death?

In life's delight, in death's dismay,In storm and sunshine, night and day,In health, in sickness, in decay,Here and hereafter, I am thine!Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneaththe calm, blue waters of thine eyes,Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies,And, undisturbed by this world's breath,With magic light its jewels shine!This golden ring, which thou hast wornUpon thy finger since the morn,Is but a symbol and a semblance,An outward fashion, a remembrance,Of what thou wearest within unseen,O my Fastrada, O my queen!Behold! the hill-trips all aglowWith purple and with amethyst;While the whole valley deep belowIs filled, and seems to overflow,With a fast-rising tide of mist.The evening air grows damp and chill;Let us go in.

ELSIE.Ah, not so soon.See yonder fire! It is the moonSlow rising o'er the eastern hill.It glimmers on the forest tipsAnd through the dewy foliage dripsIn little rivulets of light,And makes the heart in love with night.

Oft on this terrace, when the dayWas closing, have I stood and gazed,And seen the landscape fade away,And the white vapors rise and drownHamlet and vineyard, tower and town,While far above the hill-tops blazed.But then another hand than thineWas gently held and clasped in mine;Another head upon my breastWas laid, as thine is now, at rest.Why dost thou lift those tender eyesWith so much sorrow and surprise?A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand,Was that which in my own was pressed,A manly form usurped thy place,A beautiful, but bearded face,That now is in the Holy Land,Yet in my memory from afarIs shining on us like a star.But linger not. For while I speak,A sheeted spectre white and tall,The cold mist climbs the castle wall,And lays his hand upon thy cheek!