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Saying, “ From these wandering minstrels

I have learned the art of song ; Let me now repay the lessons

They have taught so well and long,"

Thus the bard of love departed ;

And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted

By the children of the choir.

Day by day, o'er tower and turret,

In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers,

Flocked the poets of the air.

On the tree whose heavy branches

Overshadowed all the place,
On the pavement, on the tombstone,

On the poet's sculptured face,

On the cross-bars of each window,

On the lintel of each door,
They renewed the War of Wartburg,

Which the bard had fought before. .

There they sang their merry carols,

Sang their lauds on every side ; And the name their voices uttered

Was the name of Vogelweid.

Till at length the portly abbot

Murmured, “Why this waste of food ? Be it changed to loaves henceforward

For our fasting brotherhood."

Then in vain o'er tower and turret,

From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide,

Gathered the unwelcome guests.

Then in vain, with cries discordant,

Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers

For the children of the choir.

Time has long effaced the inscriptions

On the cloister's funeral stones,
And tradition only tells us

repose the poet's bones.

But around the vast cathedral,

By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend,

And the name of Vogelweid.



COME, old friend! sit down and listen!

From the pitcher, placed between us, How the waters laugh and glisten

In the head of old Silenus !

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken,

Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; On his breast his head is sunken,

Vacantly he leers and chatters.

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;

Ivy crowns that brow supernal As the forehead of Apollo,

And possessing youth eternal.

Round about him, fair Bacchantes,

Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's

Vineyards, sing delirious verses.

Thus he won, through all the nations,

Bloodless victories, and the farmer Bore, as trophies and oblations,

Vines for banners, ploughs for armour.

Judged by no o'erzealous rigour,

Much this mystic throng expresses : Bacchus was the type of vigour,

And Silenus of excesses.

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