Oswald von Wolkenstein, the Last of the Minnesingers, loved a beautiful woman, named Sabina, who proved faithless to him, thereby causing the poet great mental suffering. He avenged his wrongs by writing poems on her coquetry and cruelty. Years later, Sabina, who had never forgiven him his satirical verses, became the favorite of the Tyrolese prince, "Frederick, of the Empty Purse", who also hated Oswald for opposing his political plans. Accordingly, Sabina plotted with her lover to induce the 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion'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 pa.s.sion 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 springs, Never so fleet!

Now, lover, pause for breath!

Folly may here mean death!

Yon gleam the lights of the capital's towers; Here let thy pace be slow; Frederick, thy crafty foe, Plots there to lay thee low, Fearing thy powers; He of the "empty purse", Stung by thy biting verse, Using a woman's hate, Offers a tempting bait; Both thy approach await, Counting the hours!

Dark is the starless night; Only one feeble light Burns at the grating surmounting the door; Has his advance been heard?

Was that a whispered word?

What in that shadow stirred?

Shall he explore?

Fie! when a prize so fair Doubtless awaits him there, Shall he now hesitate Here, at Forst's very gate, Fearing to test his fate?

No, nevermore!

Hark! 'tis a gruff command, Loosing an ambushed band; Seizing, they drag him, disarmed, to the court; Brightly the torches flare, Flinging a ruddy glare On a proud, mocking pair, Watching the sport; G.o.d, can this thing be true?

_She_ with this hostile crew!

"Faithless and shameless one, Thou hast my life undone"!

"Poet, thy race is run", Is her retort.

Barred is the iron door!

On the damp dungeon floor Oswald the Troubadour, gifted and strong, Lies in a loathsome cave, Dark as a living grave, No one to care or save, Silenced his song; And while they leave him there, Crushed by profound despair, Princelet and paramour, Knowing their prey secure, Feeling their vengeance sure, Laugh loud and long.

Who can in words relate Oswald's unhappy fate, Left to these monsters, whose hate was ablaze?

Both on revenge were bent; He for a menace sent, She for the merriment Caused by his lays.

"Dungeon and torture-rack, These shall now pay thee back!

Minstrel and poet rare, Rave in thy mad despair, And in that fetid lair Finish thy days!"

Vainly he pleads with her; No prayer succeeds with her; Useless the joys of their past to rehea.r.s.e; For to increase his woe, Frederick, his jealous foe, Shares in this cruel show,-- Fit for G.o.d's curse; Shameless and treacherous, Heartless and lecherous, Sabine with fiendish glee, Deaf to his every plea, Watches his agony, Quoting his verse!

Broken at last his chain!

Ended the poet's pain!

Freed by a ransom (his relatives' dole), Humbled by grief and shame, Injured in name and fame, Drags he his crippled frame Back through Tyrol.

Then, in a plaintive song Chanting his grievous wrong, Oswald von Wolkenstein, Last of his gifted line, Dies in Schloss Hauenstein; G.o.d rest his soul!

AFTER THE VINTAGE

How can my vineyard's charm be told, As it basks in the autumn haze?

The Frost King's touch, so light and cold, Like that of the Persian king of old, Hath turned its roof from green to gold, Till the hillside seems ablaze.

Threading its maze of arbors fair Under its saffron bowers, I watch, in the crisp, November air, Through vine-framed openings here and there The ivied walls of castles rare And ruined Roman towers.

Sapphire blue is the cloudless sky, White are the mountain walls, Rainbow-hued are the tints that lie Lavishly spread on the forests high, Where leaves by millions flame and die, As the chill of Autumn falls.

Over the slopes in sun and shade The terraced vines descend, Like stately steps of a broad cascade, Or an amphitheatre's seats, arrayed In folds of sumptuous, gold brocade, Where red and amber blend.

I love to see, from the rising sun Each terrace gain its crown, When the splendid dawn hath just begun, From the crest of the mountain it hath won, To gild the vine-rows one by one, As the mellow glow creeps down.

And when the day's receding light Deserts the vale below, I trace its noiseless, upward flight Through darkening zones of foliage bright, Till all the world is lost in night Save pyramids of snow.

THE Pa.s.sING MOON

In my loggia bright I watch to-night The full moon sailing by; From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak It slipped to the open sky, And now rides free in a clear, blue sea, With not an island nigh.

Through pearly haze its light displays Each b.u.t.tressed mountain side, And softly shines through stately pines Where feudal castles hide, And every height grows dazzling white In the foam of a silver tide.

From the eastern side of the valley wide To its snow-capped western rim It will hold its way, till the dawning day Shall have made its disk grow dim; Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view Behind the mountain's brim.

Whence did it climb on its path sublime, Ere it left that icy height?

And where will it go, when yonder snow Is reached in the morning light?

Will its face elsewhere be just as fair, When here it is lost to sight?

Why should I ask? 'Tis a fruitless task; Enough that its splendor falls On me to-night in my loggia bright, Till the scene my soul enthralls; 'Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set Behind those glittering walls.

And even when it sinks again Below that stainless crest, It will seem at last to have safely pa.s.sed To a haven of peace and rest, Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal In the kingdom of the blest.

I also know not where I go, Nor whence I came, or why, Nor can I guess what happiness Or strange, new world may lie Beyond the vale through which I sail, Beneath another sky;

But as the moon, which all too soon Sinks down the west for me, To other eyes appears to rise And glide on fair and free, So the frail boat in which I float, Though tempest-worn it be, May cross life's brink, and seem to sink, Yet sail another sea.