The murderers foul, who murder’d erst
Her whose beauty such awe did inspire,
The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,—
O Sun, thou accusing fire!
Full many who deem’d themselves safely hid,
And sat in their castles cheerful,
Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath,
And the cord of vengeance fearful.
My old nurse’s tales, how sweetly they ring,
How dear are the thoughts they inspire!
My heart superstitiously shouts with joy:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
CAPUT XV.
A fine and prickly rain now descends,
Like needle-tops cold, and wetting;
The horses mournfully waggle their tails,
And wade through the mud with sweating.
Upon his horn the postilion blows
The old tune loved so dearly:
“Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”—
Its memory crosses me clearly.
I sleepy grew, and at length went to sleep,
And as for my dream, this is it:
To the Emperor Barbarossa I
In the wondrous mount paid a visit.
On his stony seat by the table of stone
Like an image no longer I saw him,
Nor had he that very respectable look
With which for the most part they draw him.
He waddled about with me round the halls
Discoursing with much affection,
Like an antiquarian pointing out
The gems of his precious collection.
In the hall of armour he show’d with a club
How the strength of a blow to determine,
And rubb’d off the dust from a few of the swords
With his own imperial ermine.