The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell ; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK ELCOME, my old friend, WELC Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art ; Yellow are thy time-worn pages, As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine As the leaves with the libations Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns Thou recallest bards, Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings. Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks; Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, VOGELW When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg's minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song ; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted Day by day, o'er tower and turret, On the tree whose heavy branches On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the cross-bars of each window, There they sang their merry carols, Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood." Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests. |