Thou art but a peasant maiden, empty-handed, lowly born; All the ladies of my castle would look down on thee with scorn.
Even he will weary of thee when his passion once is spent, Vainly cursing her who doomed him to an endless discontent!’
Then I, trembling, rose up slowly, and I looked him in the face, Though the dreadful frown it wore seemed to darken all the place.
‘Sir, I thank you for this warning,’ said I, speaking low and clear, ‘But the laughter of your ladies I must teach my heart to bear.
For the rest—your son is noble—and my simple womanhood He will hold in loving honor, as a saint the holy rood!’
Oh! then his stern face whitened, and a bitter laugh laughed he: ‘Truly this my son is noble, and he shall not wed with thee.
Hear my words now, and remember! for by this good sword I swear, And by Michael standing yonder, watching us from upper air,
If he dares to place a wedding-ring upon your dowerless hand, On his head shall fall a father’s curse—the curse of Hildebrand!’
O, my Volmar! Then the earth rocked, and I fell down in a swoon; When I woke the room was silent; it was past the hour of noon;
And I waited for thy coming, as the captive waits for death, With a mingled dread and longing, and a half-abated breath!”