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76
THE KING AND THE POET.
FROM THE GERMAN.
In the old Cathedral resting,
Two coffins press the stones;
One holds the great King Ottmar,
And one the poet's bones.
Two coffins press the stones;
One holds the great King Ottmar,
And one the poet's bones.
High in his power, the monarch
Ancestral glories led;
The sword lies in his right hand,
And the crown upon his head.
Ancestral glories led;
The sword lies in his right hand,
And the crown upon his head.
The minstrel near the proud king
Is laid in quiet sleep,—
His lifeless hands enfolded,
His gentle harp to keep.
Is laid in quiet sleep,—
His lifeless hands enfolded,
His gentle harp to keep.
Castles and towers are falling,—
A war-cry thrills the land,—
But the sword it moveth never
In the dead king's hand.
A war-cry thrills the land,—
77
In the dead king's hand.
Through valleys, sweet with blossoms,
Mild breezes float along,
And the poet's harp is sounding
In never-dying song.
Mild breezes float along,
And the poet's harp is sounding
In never-dying song.
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