he poet to come to her under a pretence of renewing their former love.
To effect this, she wrote him a letter expressing her undying affection
for him, and begging him to meet her near Meran. The plot was
successful, and Oswald fell completely into their power. By Frederick's
orders he was at once imprisoned in the dungeon of Schloss Forst, and
subjected to tortures which crippled him for the rest of his life.

"Oswald von Wolkenstein!
Last of a gifted line,
Years have gone by since we parted in hate;
What have they taught to me?
This, that all's naught to me
Save what you brought to me,--
Love and love's fate.
Can you that love forget?
Know that I love you yet!
If you my passion share,
Linger no longer there;
Fearless to do and dare,
Come, ere too late!

"Near the old Roman Road
Up which the legions strode,
Where the first vine-covered terraces rise,
Stands a grim fortress tall,
Which, like a mountain wall,
Though scarred by many a ball,
Capture defies!
'Forst' is the name it bears;
Brilliant the fame it wears;
Thither,--our trysting place--,
Ride at your swiftest pace;
Come to my fond embrace!
My love your prize!"

Who could such words suspect?
Who could that call reject?
Surely not Wolkenstein, ardent of soul!
Gone is the pain of years;
Vanished his jealous fears;
Smiles have replaced his tears;
Lost self-control;
Slave to his passion's past,
Vows to the winds are cast;
Faithless, she holds him still;
Absent, she sways his will;
Traitress, with subtle skill
Plays she her role.

Where Etsch and Eisack meet,
Mingling their waters fleet,
Opens the valley that leads to Meran;
As its red cliffs divide,
Castles on either side
(Each a strong chieftain's pride)
Threaten his plan;
Yet, where the shadows sleep
Under each dungeon keep,
Up through the land of wine,
Blest with both palm and pine,
Oswald von Wolkenstein
Rides to Terlan.

Here falls his gallant horse,
Killed by his headlong course;
Is it a warning to halt and retreat?
Yet who, when passion pleads,
Ever such warning heeds?
What though a dozen steeds
Drop at his feet?
Hence, while the peasants stare,
Buys he their swiftest mare;
And, as the pavement rings
With the bright gold he flings,
He to the saddle