THE TEUTONIC MINSTREL’S TOMB.
Far north they say there lies a wizard land,
Which has above it all the changeless year,
A silver-shining, milk-warm atmosphere,
Amid whose windless calm the forests stand
As still as clustered obelisks. A bland
Delight is shed o’er all who enter here;
And by a lonely path their way they steer
Through dreamy hollows, under forests grand
Of larch and fir, round many a placid mere,
O’er silver streams and level barrens drear.
At length they come unto a mossy gate,
And find within a city desolate;
Its streets knee-deep with yellow leaves are strown,
And stiller than the Ephesian Sleeper’s cave.
The watchman’s horn at midnight lies unblown,—
The ivy-muffled bells hang dumb, and save
The noise of summer flies, sound there is none.
Wide open stands the Kaiser’s palace door,
And here and there, upon the dusty floor,
Swords, helms, and spears, and empty wine-cups lie
Between whose golden lips black spiders ply
Their filmy looms in bright security.
Within this city, reared by Elfin hands,
A huge and mouldering mausoleum stands.
These words are graved upon its portals gray,—
The Singer of the Nibelungen Lay.