Crier of the dead (at a distance). Wake! wake! 
All ye that sleep! 
Pray for the Dead! 
Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Lo! with what depth of blackness thrown
Against the clouds, far up the skies,
The walls of the cathedral rise,
Like a mysterious grove of stone,
With fitful lights and shadows bleeding,
As from behind, the moon, ascending,
Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown! 
The wind is rising; but the boughs
Rise not and fall not with the wind
That through their foliage sobs and soughs;
Only the cloudy rack behind,
Drifting onward, wild and ragged,
Gives to each spire and buttress jagged
A seeming motion undefined. 
Below on the square, an armed knight,
Still as a statue and as white,
Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver
Upon the points of his armor bright
As on the ripples of a river. 
He lifts the visor from his cheek,
And beckons, and makes as he would speak.

Walter the Minnesinger Friend! can you tell me where alight
Thuringia’s horsemen for the night? 
For I have lingered in the rear,
And wander vainly up and down.

Prince Henry I am a stranger in the town,
As thou art, but the voice I hear
Is not a stranger to mine ear. 
Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid!

Walter Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy name Is Henry of Hoheneck!

  Prince Henry Ay, the same.

Walter (embracing him).  Come closer, closer to my side!  What brings thee hither?  What potent charm Has drawn thee from thy German farm Into the old Alsatian city?

Prince Henry.  A tale of wonder and of pity! 
A wretched man, almost by stealth
Dragging my body to Salern,
In the vain hope and search for health,
And destined never to return. 
Already thou hast heard the rest
But what brings thee, thus armed and dight
In the equipments of a knight?

Walter.  Dost thou not see upon my breast
The cross of the Crusaders shine? 
My pathway leads to Palestine.

Prince Henry.  Ah, would that way were also mine! 
O noble poet! thou whose heart
Is like a nest of singing birds
Rocked on the topmost bough of life,
Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart,
And in the clangor of the strife
Mingle the music of thy words?

Walter.  My hopes are high, my heart is proud,
And like a trumpet long and loud,
Thither my thoughts all clang and ring! 
My life is in my hand, and lo! 
I grasp and bend it as a bow,
And shoot forth from its trembling string
An arrow, that shall be, perchance,
Like the arrow of the Israelite king
Shot from the window toward the east,
That of the Lord’s deliverance!

Prince Henry.  My life, alas! is what thou seest! 
O enviable fate! to be
Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee
With lyre and sword, with song and steel;
A hand to smite, a heart to feel! 
Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword,
Thou givest all unto thy Lord,
While I, so mean and abject grown,
Am thinking of myself alone.