at the feet of the
youthful Princess. Her pure spirit cannot conceive aught of dishonour in
his absence, and she welcomes him back to her heart with girlish trust.
Now the guests assemble and, marshalled in order, take their places for
the singers' tourney. The Landgrave announces the subject of the
contest--the power Of love--and more than hints that the hand of
Elisabeth is to be the victor's prize. The singers in turn take their
harps and pour forth their improvisations; Wolfram sings of the chaste
ideal which he worships from afar, Walther of the pure fount of virtue
from which he draws his inspiration, and the warrior Biterolf praises
the chivalrous passion of the soldier.

Each in turn is interrupted by Tannhaeuser, who, with ever-growing
vehemence, scoffs at the pale raptures of his friends. A kind of madness
possesses him, and as the hymns in praise of love recall to his memory
the amorous orgies of the Venusberg, he gradually loses all
self-control, and ends by bursting out with a wild hymn in praise of the
goddess herself. The horror-stricken women rush from the hall, and the
men, sword in hand, prepare to execute summary justice upon the
self-convicted sinner; but Elisabeth dashes in before the points of
their swords, and in broken accents begs pardon for her recreant lover
in the name of the Saviour of them all. Touched by her agonised pleading
the angry knights let fall their weapons, while Tannhaeuser, as his
madness slips from him and he realises all that he has lost, falls
repentant and prostrate upon the earth. The Landgrave bids him hasten to
Rome, where alone he may find pardon for a sin so heinous. Far below in
the valley a band of young pilgrims is passing, and the sound of their
solemn hymn rises to the castle windows; the pious strains put new life
into the despairing Tannhaeuser, and crying 'To Rome, to Rome,' he
staggers from the hall.

The scene of the third act is the same as that of the first, a wooded
valley beneath the towers of the Wartburg; but the fresh beauty of
spring has given place to the tender melancholy of autumn. No tidings of
the pilgrim have reached the castle, and Elisabeth waits on in patient
hope, praying that her lost lover may be given back to her arms free and
forgiven. While she pours forth her agony at the foot of a rustic cross,
the faithful Wolfram watches silently hard by. Suddenly the distant
chant of the pilgrims is heard. Elisabeth rises from her knees in an
ag