IT was the Patron’s day, a solemn feast;
Komturs and brethren to the city ride;
White banners wave upon the castle towers:
Konrad invites the knights to festival.
A hundred white cloaks wave around the board,
On every mantle is the long black cross,—These
are the brethren, and behind them stand
The young esquires to serve them, in a ring.
Konrad sat at the top; upon his left
The place was Witold’s,8 with his leaders brave,—
One time their foe, to-day the Order’s guest,
Leagued against Litwa as their firm ally.
The Master, rising, gives the festal word,
“Rejoice we in the Lord!” The goblets gleamed.
“Rejoice we in the Lord!” cried thousand voices.
The silver shone, the wine poured forth in streams.
Silent sat Wallenrod, upon his elbow
Leaning, and heard with scorn the unseemly noise.
The uproar ceased; scarcely low-spoken jests
Alternate here and there the cup’s light clash.
“Let us rejoice,” he says. “How now, my brethren!
Beseems it valiant knights to thus rejoice?
One time a drunken clamour, now low murmurs?
Must we then feast like bandits or like monks?
“There were far other customs in my time,
When on the battlefield with corpses piled,
On Castile’s mountains or in Finland’s woods,
We drank beside the camp-fire.
“Those were songs!
Is there no bard, no minstrel in the crowd?
Wine maketh glad indeed the heart of man,
But song it is that forms the spirit’s wine.”
Then various singers all at once arose;
A fat Italian here, with birdlike tones,
Sings Konrad’s valour and great piety;
And there a troubadour from the Garonne,
The stories of enamoured shepherds sings,
Of maids enchanted and of wandering knights.
Wallenrod slept;—meanwhile the songs are o’er.
Awakened sudden by the loss of sound,
He to the Italian cast a purse of gold.
“To me alone,” he said, “thou didst sing praise.
Another may not give thee recompense;
Take and depart. Let that young troubadour,
Who serveth youth and beauty, pardon us
That in the knightly throng we have no damsel,
To fasten a vain rosebud to his breast
The roses here are faded. I would have
Another bard,—the cloister knight desires
Another song; but be it wild and harsh,
Like to the voice of horns, the clash of swords.
And be it gloomy as the cloister walls,
And fiery as a solitary drunkard.
“Of us, who sanctify and murder men,
Let song of murderous tone proclaim the saintship,
And melt our heart, and rouse to rage,—and weary;
And let it then again affright the weary.
Such is our life, and such our song should be;
Who then will sing it?”
“I,” replied an old
And venerable man, who near the door
Sat ’mid the squires and pages, by his robe
Prussian or Litwin. Thick his beard, by age
Whitened; the last grey hairs wave on his head;
His brow and eyes are covered by a veil;
Sufferings and years are graven on his face.
He bore in his right hand a Prussian lute,
But towards the table stretched his left hand forth,
And by this sign entreated audience.
All then were silent.
“I will sing,” he cried.
“Once sang I to the Prussians and to Litwa;
Some now have perished in their land’s defence;
Others will not outlive their country’s loss,
But rather slay themselves upon her corse;
As servants true, in good and evil lot,
Will perish on their benefactor’s pile.
Others more shamefully in forests hide;
Others, like Witold, dwell among you here.
“But after death?—Germans! ye know full well.
Ask of the wicked traitors to their land
What, they shall do when, in that further world,
Condemned to burning of eternal fires,
They would their ancestors invoke from paradise?
What language shall entreat them for their aid?
If in their German, their barbaric speech,
The forefathers will know their children’s voice.
“O children! what a foul disgrace for Litwa,
That none of you, aye, none, defended me,
When from the shrine, the hoary Wajdelote,(4)
Away they dragged me into German chains!
Alone in foreign lands have I grown old.
A singer!—alas! to no one can I sing!
On Litwa looking, I wept out mine eyes.
To-day, if I would sigh towards my home,
I know not where that home beloved lies,
If here, or there, or in another place.
“Here only, in my heart, have I preserved
That in my Fatherland my best possession;
And these poor remnants of my former treasure
You Germans take from me,—take memory from me!
“As a defeated knight in tournament
Escapes with life though honour has been lost;
And, dragging out despisèd days in scorn,
Returns once more unto his conqueror;
And for the last time straining forth his arm,
Breaketh his sword beneath the victor’s feet,—
So my last failing courage me inspires;
Yet once more to the lute my hand is bold;
Let the last Wajdelote of Litwa sing
Litwa’s last song!”
He ended, and awaited
The Master’s answer. All in silence deep
Await. With mockery and with curious eye
Konrad tracks Witold’s every look and motion.
They noted all how when the Wajdelote
Of traitors spoke, a change o’er Witold came.
Livid he grew and pale again he blushed,
Alike tormented by his rage and shame.
At last, his sabre casting from his side,
He goes, dividing all the astonished crowd.
He looked upon the old man, stayed his steps;
The clouds of anger hanging o’er his brow
Fell sudden in a rapid flood of tears;
He turned, sat down, with cloak he veiled his face,
And into secret meditation plunged
The Germans whispered, “Shall we to our feasts
Admit old beggars? Who will hear the song,
And who will understand?” Such voices were
Among the crowd of revellers, and broken
By constant peals of ever-growing laughter.
The pages cry, whistling on nuts, “Behold!
This is the tune of the Litvanian song.”
Upon that Konrad rose. “Ye valiant knights!
To-day the Order, by a solemn custom,
Receiveth gifts from princes and from towns,
As homage from a conquered country due.
The beggar brings a song as offering
To you: forbid we not the old man’s homage.
Take we the song; ’twill be the widow’s mite.
“Among us we behold the Litwin prince;
His captains are the Order’s guests: to him
Sweet will it be to list the memory
Of ancient deeds, recalled in native speech.
Who understands not, let him go from hence.
I love betimes to hear the gloomy groans
Of those Litvanian songs, not understood,
Even as I love the noise of warring waves,
Or the soft murmur of the rain in spring;—
Sweetly they charm to sleep. Sing, ancient bard!”