HUBERT. How sad the grand old castle looks! O'erhead, the unmolested rooks Upon the turret's windy top Sit, talking of the farmer's crop Here in the court-yard springs the grass, So few are now the feet that pass; The stately peacocks, bolder grown, Come hopping down the steps of stone, As if the castle were their own; And I, the poor old seneschal, Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. Alas! the merry guests no more Crowd through the hospitable door; No eyes with youth and passion shine, No cheeks glow redder than the wine; No song, no laugh, no jovial din Of drinking wassail to the pin; But all is silent, sad, and drear, And now the only sounds I hear Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, And horses stamping in their stalls!
A horn sounds.
What ho! that merry, sudden blast Reminds me of the days long past! And, as of old resounding, grate The heavy hinges of the gate, And, clattering loud, with iron clank, Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, As if it were in haste to greet The pressure of a traveller's feet!
Enter WALTER the Minnesinger.
WALTER. How now, my friend! This looks quite lonely! No banner flying from the walls, No pages and no seneschals, No warders, and one porter only! Is it you, Hubert?
HUBERT.
Ah! Master Walter!
WALTER. Alas! how forms and faces alter! I did not know you. You look older! Your hair has grown much grayer and thinner, And you stoop a little in the shoulder!
HUBERT. Alack! I am a poor old sinner, And, like these towers, begin to moulder; And you have been absent many a year!
WALTER. How is the Prince?
HUBERT.
He is not here;
He has been ill: and now has fled.