Two little bells rang shrilly,
          And the dream went with the hour: 
        She lay in the cloister stilly,
          He far in the dungeon-tower.

Translated from Uhland.]

Hanging his head, behind each came a hound,
With slow and noiseless paws upon the road. 
What is that shining on the weedy ground? 
Nought but the bright eyes of the dingy toad. 
The silent pines range every way around;
A deep stream on the left side hardly flowed. 
Their path is towards the moon, dying alone—­
It touches the horizon, dips, is gone.

Its last gleam fell upon dim glazed eyes;
An old man tottered feebly in her hold,
Stooping with bended knees that could not rise;
Nor longer could his arm her waist infold. 
The maiden trembled; but through this disguise
Her love beheld what never could grow old;
And so the aged man, she, young and warm,
Clasped closer yet with her supporting arm.

Till with short, dragging steps, he turned aside
Into a closer thicket of tall firs,
Whose bare, straight, slender stems behind them hide
A smooth grey rock.  Not a pine-needle stirs
Till they go in.  Then a low wind blows wide
O’er their cone-tops.  It swells until it whirrs
Through the long stems, as if aeolian chords
For moulding mystic sounds in lack of words.

But as they entered by a narrow cleft
Into the rock’s heart, suddenly it ceased;
And the tall pines stood still as if bereft
Of a strong passion, or from pain released;
Once more they wove their strange, dark, moveless weft
O’er the dull midnight sky; and in the East
A mist arose and clomb the skyey stairs;
And like sad thoughts the bats came unawares.

’Tis a dark chamber for the bridal night,
O poor, pale, saviour bride!  A faint rush-lamp
He kindled with his shaking hands; its light
Painted a tiny halo on the damp
That filled the cavern to its unseen height,
Like a death-candle on the midnight swamp. 
Within, each side the entrance, lies a hound,
With liquid light his green eyes gleaming round.

A couch just raised above the rocky floor,
Of withered oak and beech-leaves, that the wind
Had tossed about till weary, covered o’er
With skins of bears which feathery mosses lined,
And last of lambs, with wool long, soft, and hoar,
Received the old man’s bended limbs reclined. 
Gently the maiden did herself unclothe,
And lay beside him, trusting, and not loath.

Again the storm among the trees o’erhead;
The hounds pricked up their ears, their eyes flashed fire;
Seemed to the trembling maiden that a tread
Light, and yet clear, amid the wind’s loud ire,
As dripping feet o’er smooth slabs hither sped,
Came often up, as with a fierce desire,
To enter, but as oft made quick retreat;
And looking forth the hounds stood on their feet.