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 passion’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 passion 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;
    God, 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.