He has won the proudest maiden
In all that German-land,
And countless hosts of yeomen
Obey his high command.
But the haughty brow is clouded,
And his eye is full of care,
For the trace of many a heart-storm
Hath left its impress there.
Love had sought Adelbert,
Young Beauty’s flow’ret blown,
And the tendrils of its blossoms
About his heart had grown.
And joy had wrapped them softly
In robes of radiant sheen,
Till Death bent down, relentless,
And sapped their living green.
Hush! a mourner sits in silence
Within a darkened room,
Where the fairest flower of summer
Lies withered in her bloom.
While those who move about him
With footsteps sad and slow,
Whisper to each other,
But leave him to his woe.
And down in the quiet churchyard,
Where nodding grasses wave,
The children gather, silent,
And the sexton digs a grave.
Solemnly tolls the church-bell,
It counteth twenty-five—
O God! the flowers wither,
And the old, old branches thrive.
Solemnly tolls the church-bell,
Slowly winds the train
Adown the rocky hillside,
Along the grassy plain;
Sadly pass the bearers
Into the churchyard old,
Brightly falls the sunlight
In glittering lines of gold;