The wavering flash of the torch’s light,
And they sent their echoes forth no more
To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore,
For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone,
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone;
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still,
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill,
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan,
For life, and power, and beauty gone.
The warrior turn’d from that silent scene,