He smiled, and then looked downward
As he answered, glass in hand,
“Nay, nay; but, if I pledge her,
Ye will not understand.”
“Where dwells she, then?” cried Otto,
“This peerless love of thine?
Mayhap some fabled Lurline
That sings beneath the Rhine?
“Thou’rt smiling—haste, then, pledge her!”
And the brimming glasses rung
As Ludwig dropped the music
That trembled on his tongue.
“This is the holiest hour
Of all the twenty-four,
For the rush of day hath passed us,
And the tide returns no more.
“And the waves of toil and traffic,
By dark argosies trod,
Are lost through circling eddies
In the mightiness of God.
“This is the holiest hour
When purest thoughts have birth,
And I drink to the holiest maiden
That ever dwelt on earth.
“Her vesture falleth around her
In folds of changeless white,
And her holiness outshineth
The jewels of the night.
“She weareth a mantle of sadness,
Her sorrows are her fame:
She long hath been my chosen,
But I will not name her name.
“Ah! not with wine I pledge thee,
All spotless as thou art,
But with my life’s devotion,
With the fulness of my heart.
“Ah! not with wine I pledge thee,
Nor one libation pour;
Thou hold’st the bond that seals me,
Thine own for evermore.”