The stories of enamoured shepherds sings,
Of maids enchanted and of wandering knights.
Wallenrod slept;—meanwhile the songs are o’er.
Awakened sudden by the loss of sound,
He to the Italian cast a purse of gold.
“To me alone,” he said, “thou didst sing praise.
Another may not give thee recompense;
Take and depart. Let that young troubadour,
Who serveth youth and beauty, pardon us
That in the knightly throng we have no damsel,