Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms
  Indent the western sky: 
The jewelled gifts of countless storms
  Upon their summits lie.

The sinking moon, with fading scars,
  Hath touched their frosty spires;
Around them pale the wearied stars,
  Like waning bivouac fires.

Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one,
  Like rose leaves half unfurled,
Announce the coming of the sun
  To an awakening world.

The chief peak now hath caught the glow,
  And, soft, o’er sloping walls
And buttresses of dazzling snow,
  The flood of splendor falls;

While miles of tender pink and gold
  Incrust the blue of space,
And bands of amethyst enfold
 Each mountain’s massive base.

Gone are the tents that pierced the skies;
  But in their place, more fair,
Transfigured flowers of Paradise
  Bloom in the crystal air.

OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER

A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran

PROLOGUE

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 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!”