’T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, | |
| When woods and fields put off all sadness, | |
| Thus began the King and spake: | |
| “So from the halls | |
| Of ancient Hofburg’s walls, | 5 |
| A luxuriant Spring shall break.” | |
| |
| Drums and trumpets echo loudly, | |
| Wave the crimson banners proudly, | |
| From balcony the King looked on; | |
| In the play of spears, | 10 |
| Fell all the cavaliers, | |
| Before the monarch’s stalwart son. | |
| |
| To the barrier of the fight | |
| Rode at last a sable Knight. | |
| “Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon, say!” | 15 |
| “Should I speak it here, | |
| Ye would stand aghast with fear; | |
| I am a Prince of mighty sway!” | |
| |
| When he rode into the lists, | |
| The arch of heaven grew black with mists, | 20 |
| And the castle’ gan to rock; | |
| At the first blow, | |
| Fell the youth from saddle-bow, | |
| Hardly rises from the shock. | |
| |
| Pipe and viol call the dances, | 25 |
| Torch-light through the high halls glances; | |
| Waves a mighty shadow in; | |
| With manner bland | |
| Doth ask the maiden’s hand, | |
| Doth with her the dance begin. | 30 |
| |
| Danced in sable iron sark, | |
| Danced a measure weird and dark, | |
| Coldly clasped her limbs around; | |
| From breast and hair | |
| Down fall from her the fair | 35 |
| Flowerets, faded, to the ground. | |
| |
| To the sumptuous banquet came | |
| Every Knight and every Dame; | |
| ’Twixt son and daughter all distraught, | |
| With mournful mind | 40 |
| The ancient King reclined, | |
| Gazed at them in silent thought. | |
| |
| Pale the children both did look, | |
| But the guest a beaker took: | |
| “Golden wine will make you whole!” | 45 |
| The children drank, | |
| Gave many a courteous thank: | |
| “Oh, that draught was very cool!” | |
| |
| Each the father’s breast embraces, | |
| Son and daughter; and their faces | 50 |
| Colorless grow utterly; | |
| Whichever way | |
| Looks the fear-struck father gray, | |
| He beholds his children die. | |
| |
| “Woe! the blessed children both | 55 |
| Takest thou in the joy of youth; | |
| Take me, too, the joyless father!” | |
| Spake the grim Guest, | |
| From his hollow, cavernous breast: | |
| “Roses in the spring I gather!” | 60 |
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