could not help but see.
As royal a Rhenish, I will vouch to say,
As that, old legends tell, which Necromance
And Magic keep, gnome-guarded, in huge casks
Of antique make deep in the Kyffhaeuser,
The Cellar of the Knights near Sittendorf.--
So solaced of that wine we sat an hour.
He told me his intent in coming here.
His name was Rudolf; and his native home,
Franconia; but no word of parentage:
Only his mind to don the buff and green
And live a forester with us and be
Enfellowed in the Duke of Brunswick's train,
And for the Duke's estate even now was bound.
Tall was he for his age and strong and brown,
And lithe of limb; and with a face that seemed
Hope's counterpart--but with the eyes of doubt;
Deep restless disks, instinct with gleaming night,
That seemed to say, "We're sure of earth, at least
For some short space, my friend; but afterward--
Nay! ransack not to-morrow till to-day,
Lest it engulf thy joy before it is!"--
And when he spoke, the fire in his eyes
Worked stealthy as a hunted animal's;
Or like the Count von Hackelnburg's that turn,
Feeling the unseen presence of a fiend.
Then, as it chanced, old Kurt had come that morn
With some six of his jerkined foresters
From the Thuringian forest; wet with dew,
And fresh as morn with early travel; bound
For Brunswick, Dummburg and the Hakel passed.
Chief huntsman he then to our lord the Duke,
And father of the loveliest maiden here
In Ammendorf, the sunny Ilsabe:
Her mother dead, the gray-haired father prized
His daughter more than all that men hold dear;
His only happiness, who was beloved
Of all as Lora of Thuringia was,
For gentle ways that spoke a noble soul,
Winning all hearts to love her and to praise,
As might a great and beautiful thought that holds
Us by the simplest words.--Her eyes were blue
As the high influence of a summer day.
Her hair,--serene and braided over brows
White as a Harz dove's wing,--was auburn brown,
And deep as mists the sun has drenched with gold.
And her young presence--well, 't was like a song,
A far Tyrolean melody of love,
Heard on an Alpine path at close of day
When shepherds homeward lead their tinkling flocks.
And when she left, being with you awhile,--
How shall I say it?--'t was as when one hath
Beheld an Undine by the moonlit Rhine,
Who, ere the