3. Lyric poetry. There seems to have been no special development of lyric poetry early in Spain, such as is found in France. The earliest noteworthy lyric poet is Juan Ruiz (1300-1350).

4. Didactic literature. As early as the first half of the thirteenth century, we have in Spain a strong didactic literature. Gonzalo de Berceo (d. 1268) wrote many lives of the saints, miracles, hymns to the Virgin, and other devotional pieces. But the impulse to allegorizing does not seem to come to Spain till much later.

5. Fables and tales. Though a little later in being developed in Spain than in France, the same delight was taken in fables and short tales. About the middle of the fourteenth century, Juan Manul (d. 1349) made, in his "El Conde Lucanor", a large collection of these tales.

6. Chronicles. Spain had early an excellent school of chroniclers. An example of their work is The General Chronicle of Spain, compiled under Alphonso the Wise (d. 1284).

ANCIENT BALLADS.

Romantic ballads grew up in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Spain, centering chiefly about the national hero, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, who was called THE CID, some account of whom is necessary in order to an understanding of the poems.

History—Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, born 1030-40, died 1099, was the foremost warrior of the great struggle between the Christians and the Moors in Spain. The Moors called him the CID (Seid, the Lord), and the Champion (El Campeador). He was a vigorous, unscrupulous fighter, now on one side, now on the other. He was at one time entrusted with high embassies of state, at others, a rebel. His true place in history seems to be that of a great freebooter and guerrilla. His contemporary fame was really great.

Legend—During the lifetime of the CID many marvels and myths grew up about him, and within the next century they became almost numberless. He became the hero of poet and of romancer to the Spanish people. His story was told everywhere by the wandering minstrels, and his name became the center of all popular romances.

Literature.—At once, then, a large literature sprang up concerning the CID—ballads, romances, and incipient dramas. The chief pieces are (1)"The Ballads of the Cid", composed from the twelfth to the fifteenth century, of which nearly two hundred survive; (2)"The Poem of the Cid", a noble fragment; (3)"The Chronicle of the Cid".

The early history of Spain's popular hero is traced very accurately in (1)"The General Chronicle of Spain", compiled under Alphonso X. (died 1284); (2)"The Chronicle of the Cid", perhaps extracts from the first, and (3) Various Poems and Romances of the CID from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century.

The following give some of his adventures, and show the spirit of this interesting early literature—the earliest ballad literature in Europe.

From the Cid Ballads.

CUYDANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TEST.) Brooding sat Diego Laynez o'er the insult to his name, Nobler and more ancient far than Inigo Abarca's fame; For he felt that strength was wanting to avenge the craven blow, If he himself at such an age to fight should think to go. Sleepless he passed the weary nights, his food untasted lay, Ne'er raised his eyes from off the ground, nor ventured forth to stray, Refused all converse with his friends, impelled by mortal fear, Lest fame of outrage unatoned should aggravate his care. While pondering thus his honor's claims in search of just redress, He thought of an expedient his failing house to test; So summoning to his side his sons, excused all explanation, Silent began to clutch their hands in proper alternation, (Not by their tender palms to trace the chiromantic linings, For at that day no place was found in Spain for such divinings), But calling on his honor spent for strength and self-denial, He set aside parental love and steeled his nerves to trial, Griping their hands with all his might till each cried: "Hold, Sir, hold! What meaneth this? pray, let me go; thou'rt killing me, behold!" Now when he came to Roderick, the youngest of them all, Despair had well-nigh banished hope of cherished fruit withal (Though ofttimes lingering nearest when farthest thought to be); The young man's eyes flashed fury, like tiger fierce stood he And cried: "Hold, father, hold, a curse upon ye, stay! An ye were not my father, I would not stop to pray, But by this good right arm of mine would straight pluck out your life With a bare digit of my hand, in lieu of vulgar knife! The old man wept for joy: "Son of my soul," quoth he, "Thy rage my rage disarmeth, thine ire is good to see; Prove now thy mettle, Rod'rick; wipe out my grievous stain, Restore the honor I have lost, unless thou it regain—" Then quickly told him of the wrong to which he was a prey, Gave him his blessing and a sword and bade him go his way To end the Count's existence and begin a brighter day.

—Tr. by Knapp.

PENSATIVO ESTAVA EL CID. (THE SOLILOQUY.) Pensive stood the young Castilian, musing calmly on his plight; 'Gainst a man like Count Lozano to avenge a father's slight! Thought of all the trained dependents that his foe could quickly call, A thousand brave Asturians scattered through the highlands all; Thought, too, how at the Cortes of Leon his voice prevailed, And how in border forays the Moor before him quailed; At last reviewed the grievance—No sacrifice too great To vindicate the first affront to Layn Calvo's state; Then calls on Heaven for justice, and on the earth for space, Craves strength of honor injured, and of his father grace, Nor heeds his youthful bearing, for men of rank like he Are wont from birth to prove their worth by deeds of chivalry.

Next from the wainscot took he down an ancient sword and long: Once it had been Mudarra's, but now had rusty grown, And, holding it sufficient to achieve the end he sought, Before he girt it on him, he addressed the fitting thought: "Consider, valiant claymore, that Mudarrals arm is mine, And the cause wherein ye wrestle is Mudarra's cause and thine; But if, forsooth, thou scornest to be grasped by youthful hand, Think not 'twill lead thee backward e'en a jot from the demand; For as firm as thine own steel thou wilt find me in the fray, And as good as e'er the best man—Thou hast gained a lord to-day; And if perchance they worst thee, enraged at such a stain, I shall plunge thee to the cross in my breast for very shame. Then on to the field away, for the hour to fight is come, To requite on Count Lozano all the mischief he has done." So, full of courage and emprise the Cid rode forth to war, And his triumph was accomplished in the space of one short hour.

—Tr. by KNAPP.

NON ES DE SESSUDOS HOMES. (ON THE FIELD).

"It is not meet for men of brain, nor yet for champion true, To offer insult to a man of better blood than you! The brawny warrior, howe'er fierce and valiant he may be, Was never wont to test his power on aged infirmity. The men of Leon need not boast of high emprise, forsooth, Who craven smite the face of age, and not the breast of youth. Ye should have known who was my sire, and Layn Calvo's line, A breed that never brook offence, nor challenge fit decline; How dared ye thus provoke a man whom only Heaven may, And not another' while the son lives to avenge the day! Ye cast about his noble face dishonor's sombre pall, But I am here to strip it off and expiate it all; For only blood will cleanse the stain attainted honor brings, And valid blood is that alone which from the aggressor springs; Yours it must be, Oh tyrant, since by its overplay It moved ye to so foul a deed and robbed your sense away; On my father ye laid hand, in the presence of the king, And I, his son, am here to-day atonement fall to bring. Count, ye did a craven business and I call ye COWARD here! Behold, if I await you, think not I come with fear, For Diego Laynez wrought me well set in his own mould, And while I prove my birthright I your baseness shall unfold. Your valor as a crafty blade will not avail ye more, For to my needs I bring a sword and charger trained to war." Thus spake to Count Lozano Spain's champion, the Cid, (Ere long he won the title by achievements which he did) That day he slew his enemy and severing quick the head, Bore high the bleeding trophy as he homeward proudly sped.

—Tr. by Knapp.

LLORANDO DIEGO LAYNEZ. (THE TRIUMPH.)

Weeping sat Diego Laynez still o'er his untasted meal; Still o'er his shame was brooding, the tears his thoughts reveal; Beset with a thousand fancies, and crazed with honest care, Sensitive to a footfall lest some foe were lurking there, When Rod'rick, bearing by the locks the Count's dissevered poll, Tracking the floor with recent gore, advanced along the hall. He touched his father's shoulder and roused him from his dream, And proudly flaunting his revenge he thus addresses him: "Behold the evil tares, sir, that ye may taste the wheat; Open thine eyes, my father, and lift thy head, 'tis meet, For this thine honor is secure, is raised to life once more, And all the stain is washed away in spite of pride and power: For here are hands that are not hands, this tongue no tongue is now, I have avenged thee, sir, behold, and here the truth avow." The old man thinks he dreams; but no, no dream is there; 'Twas only his long grieving that had filled his heart with care. At length he lifts his eyes, spent by chivalrous deeds, And turns them on his enemy clad in the ghastly weeds: "Roderick, son of my soul, mantle the spectre anon, Lest, like a new Medusa, it change my heart to stone, And leave me in such plight at last, that, ere I wish ye joy, My heart should rend within me of bliss without alloy. Oh, infamous Lozano! kind heaven hath wrought redress, And the great justice of my claim hath fired Rodrigo's breast! Sit down, my son, and dine, here at the head with me, For he who bringest such a gift, is head of my family."

—Tr. by Knapp.

THE YOUNG CID.

Now rides Diego Laynez, to kiss the good King's hand, Three hundred men of gentry go with him from his land, Among them, young Rodrigo, the proud Knight of Bivar; The rest on mules are mounted, he on his horse of war.

They ride in glittering gowns of soye—He harnessed like a lord; There is no gold about the boy, but the crosslet of his sword; The rest have gloves of sweet perfume,—He gauntlets strong of mail; They broidered cap and flaunting plume,—He crest untaught to quail.

All talking with each other thus along their way they passed, But now they've come to Burgos, and met the King at last; When they came near his nobles, a whisper through them ran,— "He rides amidst the gentry that slew the Count Lozan."

With very haughty gesture Rodrigo reined his horse, Right scornfully he shouted, when he heard them so discourse, "If any of his kinsmen or vassals dare appear, The man to give them answer, on horse or foot, is here."—

"The devil ask the question," thus muttered all the band;— With that they all alighted, to kiss the good King's hand,— All but the proud Rodrigo, he in his saddle stayed,— Then turned to him his father (you may hear the words he said).

"Now, light, my son, I pray thee, and kiss the good King's hand, He is our lord, Rodrigo; we hold of him our land."— But when Rodrigo heard him, he looked in sulky sort, I wot the words he answered they were both cold and short.

"Had any other said it, his pains had well been paid, But thou, sir, art my father, thy word must be obeyed."— With that he sprung down lightly, before the King to kneel, But as the knee was bending, out leapt his blade of steel.

The King drew back in terror, when he saw the sword was bare; "Stand back, stand back, Rodrigo, in the devil's name beware; Your looks bespeak a creature of father Adam's mould, But in your wild behaviour you're like some lion bold."

When Rodrigo heard him say so, he leapt into his seat, And thence he made his answer, with visage nothing sweet,— "I'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm, And if my father's kissed it, thereof ashamed I am."—

When he these words had uttered, he turned him from the gate. His true three hundred gentles behind him followed straight; If with good gowns they came that day, with better arms they went; And if their mules behind did stay, with horses they're content.

—Tr. by Lockhart.

THE CID'S COURTSHIP.

Now, of Rodrigo de Bivar great was the fame that run, How he five Kings had vanquished, proud Moormen every one; And how, when they consented to hold of him their ground, He freed them from the prison wherein they had been bound.

To the good King Fernando, in Burgos where he lay, Came then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say:— "I am Don Gomez, daughter, in Gormaz Count was he; Him slew Rodrigo of Bivar in battle valiantly.

"Now am I come before you, this day a boon to crave, And it is that I to husband may this Rodrigo have; Grant this, and I shall hold me a happy damosell, Much honoured shall I hold me, I shall be married well.

"I know he's born for thriving, none like him in the land; I know that none in battle against his spear may stand; Forgiveness is well pleasing in God our Saviour's view, And I forgive him freely, for that my sire he slew."—

Right pleasing to Fernando was the thing she did propose; He writes his letter swiftly, and forth his foot-page goes; I wot, when young Rodrigo saw how the King did write, He leapt on Bavieca—I wot his leap was light.

With his own troop of true men forthwith he took the way, Three hundred friends and kinsmen, all gently born were they; All in one colour mantled, in armour gleaming gay, New were both scarf and scabbard, when they went forth that day.

The King came out to meet him with words of hearty cheer; Quoth he, "My good Rodrigo, you are right welcome here; This girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord, Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.

"I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great; You shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate." "Lord King", Rodrigo answers, "in this and all beside, Command, and I'll obey you. The girl shall be my bride."—

But when the fair Ximena came forth to plight her hand, Rodrigo, gazing on her, his face could not command: He stood and blushed before her;—thus at the last said he— "I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villany:-

"In no disguise I slew him, man against man I stood; There was some wrong between us* and I did shed his blood. I slew a man, I owe a man; fair lady, by God's grace, An honoured husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place."

[1] See the account of this quarrel, "Non es de Sessudos Homes."

—Tr. by Lockhart.

BAVIECA.

The favorite warrior horse of the Cid. There are several more ballads devoted to this charger.

The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true; Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,— "O King, the thing is shameful, that any man beside The liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:

"For neither Spain or Araby could another charger bring So good as he, and certes, the best befits my King. But that you may behold him, and know him to the core, I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."

With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide, On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side; And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.

And all that saw them praised them—they lauded man and horse, As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near, Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed, He snapt in twain his hither rein:—"God pity now the Cid." "God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,—but when they looked again, They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein; They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm, Like a true lord commanding—and obeyed as by a lamb.

And so he led him foaming and panting to the King, But "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid By any mortal but Bivar—Mount, mount again, my Cid."

—Tr. by Lockhart.

FROM THE POEM OF THE CID.

The Cid has been banished by King Alphonso, has entered the Moors, country and taken a city. The Moors rally, gather their allies and surround the Cid's army. He turns to consult with his men.

"From water they have cut us off, our bread is running low; If we would steal away by night, they will not let us go; Against us there are fearful odds if we make choice to fight; What would ye do now gentlemen, in this our present plight?" Minaya was the first to speak: said the stout cavalier, "Forth from Castile the gentle thrust, we are but exiles here; Unless we grapple with the Moor bread he will never yield; A good six hundred men or more we have to take the field; In God's name let us falter not, nor countenance delay, But sally forth and strike a blow upon to-morrow's day." "Like thee the counsel," said my Cid; "thou speakest to my mind; And ready to support thy word thy hand we ever find." Then all the Moors that bide within the walls he bids to go Forth from the gates, lest they, perchance, his purpose come to know In making their defences good they spend the day and night, And at the rising of the sun they arm them for the fight. Then said the Cid: "Let all go forth, all that are in our band; Save only two of those on foot, beside the gate to stand. Here they will bury us if death we meet on yonder plain, But if we win our battle there, rich booty we shall gain. And thou Pero Bermuez, this my standard thou shalt hold; It is a trust that fits thee well, for thou art stout and bold; But see that thou advance it not unless I give command." Bermuez took the standard and he kissed the Champion's hand. Then bursting through the castle gates upon the plain they is how; Back on their lines in panic fall the watchmen of the foe. And hurrying to and fro the Moors are arming all around, While Moorish drums go rolling like to split the very ground, And in hot haste they mass their troops behind their standards twain, Two mighty bands of men-at-arms to count them it were vain. And now their line comes sweeping on, advancing to the fray, Sure of my Cid and all his band to make an easy prey. "Now steady, comrades"' said my Cid; "our ground we have to stand; Let no man stir beyond the ranks until I give command." Bermuez fretted at the word, delay he could not brook; He spurred his charger to the front, aloft the banner shook: "O loyal Cid Campeador, God give the aid! I go To plant thy ensign in among the thickest of the foe; And ye who serve it, be it yours our standard to restore." "Not so—as thou dost love me, stay!" called the Campeador. Came Pero's answer, "Their attack I cannot, will not stay." He gave his horse the spur and dashed against the Moors array. To win the standard eager all the Moors await the shock, Amid a rain of blows he stands unshaken as a rock. Then cried my Cid: "In charity, on to the rescue—ho!" With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low, With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle bow, All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe. And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out, And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout, "Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity! The Champion of Bivar is here—Ruy Diaz—I am he!" Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight, Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white; Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow; And when they wheel three hundred more, as wheeling back they go. It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day; The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay; The pennons that went in snow-white come out a gory red; The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead; While Moors call on Mohammed, and "St. James!" the Christians cry, And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie. Above his gilded saddle-bow there played the Champion's sword; And Minaya Alvar Fanez, Zurita's gallant lord; Add Martin Antolinez the worthy Burgalese; And Muno Gustioz his squire—all to the front were these. And there was Martin Mufloz, he who ruled in Mont Mayor; And there was Alvar Alvarez, and Alvar Salvador; And the good Galin Garcia, stout lance of Arragon; And Felix Mufloz, nephew of my Cid the Champion. Well did they quit themselves that day, all these and many more, In rescue of the standard for my Cid Campeador.

—Tr. by Ormsby.

THE BATTLE WITH KING BUCAR OF MOROCCO, AT VALENCIA.

Loud from among the Moorish tents the call to battle comes, And some there are, unused to war, awed by the rolling drums. Ferrando and Diego most: of troubled mind are they; Not of their will they find themselves before the Moors that day. "Pero Burmuez," said the Cid, "my nephew staunch and true, Ferrando and Diego do I give in charge to you; Be yours the task in this day's fight my sons-in-law to shield, For, by God's grace to-day we sweep the Moors from off the field!" "Nay," said Bermuez, "Cid, for all the love I bear to thee, The safety of thy sons-in-law no charge of mine shall be. Let him who will the office fill; my place is at the front, Among the comrades of my choice to bear the battle's brunt; As it is thine upon the rear against surprise to guard, And ready stand to give support where'er the fight goes hard." Came Alvar Fanez: "Loyal Cid Campeador," he cried, "This battle surely God ordains—He will be on our side; Now give the order of attack which seems to thee the befit, And, trust me, every man of us will do his chief's behest." But lo! all armed from head to heel the Bishop Jeronie shows; He ever brings good fortune to my Cid where'er he goes. "Mass have I said, and now I come to join you in the fray; To strike a blow against the Moor in battle if I may, And in the field win honor for my order and my hand. It is for this that I am here, far from my native land. Unto Valencia did I come to cast my lot with you, All for the longing that I had to slay a Moor or two. And so in warlike guise I come, with blazoned shield and lance, That I may flesh my blade to-day, if God but give the chance, Then send me to the front to do the bidding of my heart: Grant me this favor that I ask, or else, my Cid, we part." "Good!" said my Cid. "Go, flesh thy blade; there stand thy Moorish foes. Now shall we see how gallantly our fighting Abbot goes." He said; and straight the Bishop's spurs are in his charger's flanks, And with a will he flings himself against the Moorish ranks. By his good fortune, and the aid of God, that loved him well, Two of the foe before his point at the first onset fell. His lance he broke, he drew his sword—God! how the good steel played! Two with the lance he slew, now five go down beneath his blade. But many are the Moors and round about him fast they close, And on his hauberk, and his shield, they rain a shower of blows. He in the good hour born beheld Don Jerome sorely pressed; He braced his buckler on his arm, he laid his lance in rest, And aiming where beset by Moors the Bishop stood at bay, Touched Bavieca with the spur and plunged into the fray; And flung to earth unhorsed were seven, and lying dead were four, Where breaking through the Moorish ranks came the Campeador. God it so pleased, that this should be the finish of the fight; Before the lances of my Cid the fray became a flight; And then to see the tent-ropes burst, the tent-poles prostrate flung! As the Cid's horsemen crashing came the Moorish tents among. Forth from the camp King Bucar's Moors they drove upon the plain, And charging on the rout, they rode and cut them down amain Here severed lay the mail-clad arm, there lay the steel-capped head, And here the charger riderless, ran trampling on the dead. Behind King Bucar as he fled my Cid came spurring on; "Now, turn thee, Bucar, turn!" he cried; "here is the Bearded One: Here is that Cid you came to seek, King from beyond the main, Let there be peace and amity to-day between us twain." Said Bucar, "Nay; thy naked sword, thy rushing steed, I see; If these mean amity, then God confound such amity. Thy hand and mine shall never join unless in yonder deep, If the good steed that I bestride his footing can but keep." Swift was the steed, but swifter borne on Bavieca's stride, Three fathoms from the sea my Cid rode at King Bucar's side; Aloft his blade a moment played, then on the helmet's crown, Shearing the steel-cap dight with gems, Colada he brought down. Down to the belt, through helm and mail, he cleft the Moor in twain. And so he slew King Bucar, who came from beyond the main. This was the battle, this the day, when he the great sword won, Worth a full thousand marks of gold—the famous Brand Tizon.

—Tr. by Ormsby.

CHAPTER III. SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE.

Scandinavian literature embraces the literature of Norway, Sweden, Iceland, and their western colonies. In the Middle Ages this literature reached its fullest and best development in Iceland.

The earliest and greatest portion of this literature is the heroic poetry forming the collection called the Poetic or Elder Edda. Like all early poetry these were minstrel poems, passing orally from singer (skald) to singer for centuries. Some of them were composed as early as the eighth century. The collection was probably made in the thirteenth century (1240). The collection consists of thirty-nine distinct songs or poems. They are based upon common Norse mythology and tradition. In one section of this collection is found in outline the story of the Nibelungs and Brunhild-the story which later formed the basis of the "Niebelungen-Lied". This fact connects the two literatures with the original common Teutonic traditions. Anderson says, "The Elder Edda presents the Norse cosmogony, the doctrines of the Odinic mythology, and the lives and doings of the gods. It contains also a cycle of poems on the demigods and mythic heroes and heroines of the same period. It gives us as complete a view of the mythological world of the North as Homer and Hesiod do of that of Greece" (Norse Mythology). Almost equal in importance and interest is the Prose Edda, sometimes called the Younger Edda, arranged and in part written by Snorra Sturleson, who lived from 1178 to 1241. The chief portions of it are:

1. "Gylfaginning," in which Odin recounts to Gylf the history of the gods.

2. "Bragaraethur, the conversations of Braga the god of poetry.

Other and less important varieties of Scandinavian literature are the romances of history and romances of pure fiction.

VOLUSPA. THE ORACLE OF THE PROPHETESS VALA.

The Voluspa is the first song in the Elder Edda. It is a song of a prophetess and gives an account of the creation of the world, of man, giants, and dwarfs; of the employments of fairies or destinies; of the functions of the gods, their adventures, their quarrels, and the vengeance they take; of the final state of the universe and its dissolution; of the battle of the lower deities and the evil beings; of the renovation of the world; of the happy lot of the good, and the punishment of the wicked. The first passage selected gives the account of creation.

In early times, When Ymer[1] lived, Was sand, nor sea, Nor cooling wave; No earth was found, Nor heaven above; One chaos all, And nowhere grass:

Until Bor's[2] sons Th' expanse did raise, By whom Midgard [3] The great was made. From th' south the sun Shone on the walls; Then did the earth Green herbs produce.

The sun turned south; The moon did shine; Her right hand held The horse of heaven. The sun knew not His proper sphere; The stars knew not Their proper place; The moon know not Her proper power.

Then all the powers Went to the throne, The holy gods, And held consult: Night and cock-crowing Their names they gave, Morning also, And noon-day tide, And afternoon, The years to tell.

The Asas[4] met On Ida's plains, Who altars raised And temples built; Anvils they laid, And money coined; Their strength they tried In various ways, When making songs, And forming tools.

On th' green they played In joyful mood, Nor knew at all The want of gold, Until there came Three Thursa maids, Exceeding strong, From Jotunheim:[5] . . . . Until there came Out of the ranks, Powerful and fair, Three Asas home, And found on shore, In helpless plight, Ask and Embla [6] Without their fate.

They had not yet Spirit or mind, Blood, or beauty, Or lovely hue. Odin gave spirit, Heinir gave mind, Lothur gave blood And lovely hue.

[1] Ymer, the progenitor of the giants.

[2] Bor, the father of Odin, Vile, and Ve.

[3] Midgard, the earth.

[4] Asas, the gods.

[5] The home of the giants.

[6] The first man and first woman made out of pine trees by the three gods Odin, Heinir, and Lothur.

—Tr. by Henderson.

The second passage gives an account of the universal dissolution—called Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods.

Loud barks Garm 1] At Gnipa-cave; The fetters are severed, The wolf is set free, Vala[2] knows the future. More does she see Of the victorious gods, Terrible fall.

From the east drives Hrym,[3] Bears his child before him; Jormungander welters In giant fierceness; The waves thunder; The eagle screams, Rends the corpses with pale beak, And Naglfar[4] is launched. A ship from the east nears, The hosts of Muspel Come o'er the main, But Loke is pilot. All grim and gaunt monsters Conjoin with the wolf, And before them all goes The brother of Byleist.[5]

From the south wends Surt [6] With seething fire; The sun of the war-god Shines in his sword; Mountains together dash, And frighten the giant-maids; Heroes tread the paths to Hel, And heaven in twain is rent. Over Him [7] then shall come Another woe, When Odin goes forth The wolf to combat. . . . . All men Abandon the earth.

The sun darkens, The earth sinks into the ocean; The lucid stars From heaven vanish; Fire and vapor Rage toward heaven; High flames Involve the skies.

Loud barks Garm At Gnipa-eave: The fetters are severed, The wolf is set free,— Vala knows the future. More does she see Of the victorious gods, Terrible fall.

[1] Hel's dog.

[2] Vala, the prophetess.

[3] The winter.

[4] Naglfar, a ship of the gods.

[5] The brother of Byleist, Loke.

[6] Surt, a fire-giant.

[7] Hlin, a name sometimes used for the goddess, Frigg.

—Tr. by Thorpe.

The conclusion of the "Voluspa "is the following picture of the regenerated earth.

She sees arise, The second time, From the sea, the earth Completely green: Cascades do fall; The eagle soars, That on the hills Pursues his prey.

The gods convene On Ida's plains, And talk of man, The worm of dust: They call to mind Their former might, And the ancient runes Of Fimbultyr.[1]

The fields unsown Shall yield their growth; All ills shall cease; Balder[2] shall come, And dwell with Hauthr[3] In Hropt's[4] abodes. Say, warrior-gods, Conceive ye yet?

A hall she sees Outshine the sun, Of gold its roof, It stands in heaven: The virtuous there Shall always dwell, And evermore Delights enjoy.

[1] Fimbultyr, Odin.

[2] Balder, the god of the summer.

[3] Hauthr, Hoder, the brother of Balder.

[4] Hropt, Odin. of Odinic morality and precepts of wisdom, in the form of social and moral maxims.

—Tr. by Henderson.

HAVAMAL.

The High-Song of Odin. This is the second song in the Elder Edda. Odin himself is represented as its author. It contains a pretty complete code.

All door-ways Before going forward, Should be looked to; For difficult it is to know Where foes may sit Within a dwelling. . . . . Of his understanding No one should be proud, But rather in conduct cautious. When the prudent and taciturn Come to a dwelling, Harm seldom befalls the cautious; For a firmer friend No man ever gets Than great sagacity. . . . . One's own house is best, Small though it be; At home is every one his own master. Though he but two goats possess, And a straw-thatched cot, Even that is better than begging.

One's own house is best, Small though it be; At home is every one his own master. Bleeding at heart is he Who has to ask For food at every meal-tide. . . . . A miserable man, And ill-conditioned, Sneers at everything: One thing he knows not, Which he ought to know, That he is not free from faults. . . . . Know if thou hast a friend Whom thou fully trustest, And from whom thou would'st good derive; Thou should'st blend thy mind with his, And gifts exchange, And often go to see him.

If thou hast another Whom thou little trustest, Yet would'st good from him derive, Thou should'st speak him fair, But think craftily, And leasing pay with lying.

But of him yet further Whom thou little trustest, And thou suspectest his affection, Before him thou should'st laugh, And contrary to thy thoughts speak; Requital should the gift resemble.

I once was young, I was journeying alone And lost my way; Rich I thought myself When I met another: Man is the joy of man.

Liberal and brave Men live best, They seldom cherish sorrow; But a bare-minded man Dreads everything; The niggardly is uneasy even at gifts.

My garments in a field I gave away To two wooden men: Heroes they seemed to be When they got cloaks:[1] Exposed to insult is a naked man. . . . . . Something great Is not always to be given, Praise is often for a trifle bought. With half a loaf And a tilted vessel I got myself a comrade. Little are the sand grains, Little the wits, Little the minds of men; For all men Are not wise alike: Men are everywhere by halves. Moderately wise Should each one be, But never over-wise; For a wise man's heart Is seldom glad, If he is all-wise who owns it. . . . . Much too early I came to many places, But too late to others; The beer was drunk, or not ready: The disliked seldom hits the moment. . . . . Cattle die, Kindred die, We ourselves also die; But the fair fame Never dies of him who has earned it.

Cattle die, Kindred die, We ourselves also die; But I know one thing That never dies, Judgment on each one dead.

[1] The tailor makes the man.

—Tr. by Thorpe.

VAFTHRUDNISMAL. THE SONG OF VAFTHRUDNER.

From the third poem in the Elder Edda came the following lines, describing the day and the night:

Delling called is he Who the Day's father is, But Night was of Norve born; The new and waning moons The beneficent powers created To count years for men.

Skinfaxe[1] he is named That the bright day draws Forth over human kind; Of coursers he is best accounted Among faring men; Ever sheds light that horse's mane.

Hrimfaxe[2] he is called That each night draws forth Over the beneficent powers; He from his bit lets fall Drops every morn Whence in the dells comes dew. —Tr. by Thorpe

[1] Skinfaxe (shining mane), the horse of Day.

[2] Hrimfaxe (Rime mane), the horse of Night.



CHAPTER IV. GERMAN LITERATURE.

There are three classical periods in German literature.[1]

[1] See Scherer's "History of German Literature." Vol. I., page 16.

1. The Old High German Period, culminating about 600 A. D. The chief development of this period is the epic legend and poetry. As this literature remained largely unwritten, it is all lost except one fragment, The Song of Hildebrand.

2. The Middle High German Period, culminating about 1200 A. D. This was in Germany, as elsewhere in Europe, a time of abundant literary activity. It is the period of the renaissance of the heroic legends of the first period, and their remaking into developed epic poetry; of the writing of romances of chivalry and of antiquity; of the development of the lyric poetry of the Minnesingers; of the growth of popular fables and tales and of the drama. In short, all the forms of literary production known to the Middle Ages flourished in Germany in this period.

3. The Modern Classical Period, culminating about 1800 in the work of Goethe, Schiller, and the many poets and scholars surrounding them.

THE NATIONAL EPIC.

The fragment of the "Song of Hildebrand" is the sole surviving portion of the heroic literature of the first period. The story runs that "Hildebrand had fought in his youth in Italy, married there, and left a three-year son, when he was driven by Odoacer to Attila, king of the Huns. After years, in which the son grew up to manhood, Hildebrand re-entered Italy as a great chief in the army of Theodorle. His son, Hadubrand was then a chief combatant in Odoacer's army." They challenge each other to combat, and though the fragment ends before the fight is over, it is thought from other references that Hildebrand is victor.

THE SONG OF HILDEBRAND.

I have heard tell, they called each other forth, Hildebrand, Hadubrand, among the hosts. Son, father, made them ready for the strife. Donned their war shirts, and girded on their swords Over ringed mail, rode, heroes, to the fight.

Hildebrand, Herbrand's son, the elder man And wiser, spake, well skilled in questionings Asked in few words, who among all the folk His father was, "or of what stock thou be? Tell, and I'll give a mail of triple web: Child in this realm, I knew its families." Hadubrand spoke, Hildebrand's son: "The old And wise among our folk tell me my father Was Hildebrand, my name is Hadubrand. My father went to the east to fly the hate Of Otaker, with Dietrich and his bands. A slender bride abiding in the lands He left in bower, with an ungrown child, And weapons masterless. Eastward he went When sorrow came to Deitrich, friendless man, My kinsman Otaker became his foe. Most famed of warriors, since Dietrich fell, Foremost in every field, he loved the fight, Praised by the bold, I doubt not he is dead."

"Lord God of men," spake Hildebrand, "from heaven Stay strife between two men so near in blood!" Then twisted from his arm the bracelet ring That once the King of Huns had given him, I give it you in token of my love." Spake Hadubrand, the son of Hildebrand, "At the spear's point I take of you such gifts, Point against point. No comrade thou, old Hun, With Bly, enticing words wouldst win me near: My answer to thee is with cast of spear. Thou'rt old. This cunning out of age is bred." Over the Midland Sea came foes who said, "Hildebrand, son of Herbrand, he is dead."

Hildebrand, son of Herbrand, spake again: "Thine arms show that in this land thou couldst not gain A liberal leader or a royal friend. Now well away. Great God, fate's evil end! For sixty years, exile in stranger lands, Summer and winter with spear-darting bands, Never once leg bound within city wall, I come back by my own son's hand to fall, Hewn by his sword, or be his murderer,— But if thy strength hold, thou canst readily Win of the brave his arms, spoil of the slain, When thine by right." Said Hildebrand, "Now, worst Of Ostrogoths be he who holds me back! My heart is for the fray. Judge comrades who look on, which of us wins The fame, best throws the dart, and earns the spoil." The ashen spears then sped, stuck in the shields With their keen points, and down on the white shields The heavy axes rang with sounding blows, Shattering their rims, the flesh behind stood firm. . . .

—Tr. by Morley.

In the second, or Middle High German Period, the heroic legends of early times were revived and formed the subject matter of many epic and semi epic poems. These legends have been classified into six several cycles of romances:[1]

[1] Cf. Morley's "English Writers." Vol. III., pp. 152-4.

1. The Frankish cycle contains the stories of Siegfried, the Sigurd of the Scandinavian tradition.

2. The Burgundian cycle contains King Gunther.

3. The Ostrogoth cycle contains Dietrich, Theodoric, and Hildebrand.

4. The Hungarian cycle, to which belongs Attila or Etzel, and Rudiger.

5. The Lombard cycle, to which belong King Rother, King Otnit, and Wolfdietrich.

6. The North Saxon cycle, to which belongs the tale of Gudrun. The two most important of all the epics based upon these cycles are the Gudrun and the Niebelungenlied. The latter is the more comprehensive, national, and famous. It includes and unifies all the tales from the first four cycles of heroic legends.[1] The whole of German art, literature, and tradition is full of reflections of this poem. The best scholarship has concluded that the poem is not the work of a single author, but, like other folk epics, an edited collection of songs. The work was finished about 1190-1210. It consists of two greater parts, (1) the "Death of Siegfried" and (2) the "Vengeance of Kriemhild".

[1] See Kluge, "Geschichte der Deutschen National-Literature," p. 33.

From the "Niebelungenlied". The first song in the poem gives us Kriemhild's foreboding dream.

KRIEMHILD'S DREAM. Stanzas 1-19.

In stories of our fathers high marvels we are told Of champions well approved in perils manifold. Of feasts and merry meetings, of weeping and of wail, And deeds of gallant daring I'll tell you in my tale.

In Burgundy there flourish'd a maid so fair to see, That in all the world together a fairer could not be. This maiden's name was Kriemhild; through her in dismal strife Full many a proudest warrior thereafter lost his life.

Many a fearless champion, as such well became, Woo'd the lovely lady; she from none had blame. Matchless was her person, matchless was her mind. This one maiden's virtue grac'd all womankind.

Three puissant Kings her guarded with all the care they might, Gunther and eke Gernot, each a redoubted knight, And Giselher the youthful, a chosen champion he; This lady was their sister, well lov'd of all the three.

They were high of lineage, thereto mild of mood, But in field and foray champions fierce and rude. They rul'd a mighty kingdom, Burgundy by name; They wrought in Etzel's country deeds of deathless fame.

At Worms was their proud dwelling, the fair Rhine flowing by, There had they suit and service from haughtiest chivalry For broad lands and lordships, and glorious was their state, Till wretchedly they perish'd by two noble ladies' hate.

Dame Uta was their mother, a queen both rich and sage; Their father hight Dancrat, who the fair heritage Left to his noble children when he his course had run; He too by deeds of knighthood in youth had worship won.

Each of these three princes, as you have heard me say, Were men of mighty puissance. They had beneath their sway The noblest knights for liegemen that ever dwelt on ground; For hardihood and prowess were none so high renown'd.

There was Hagan of Troy of a noble line, His brother nimble Dankwart, and the knight of Metz, Ortwine, Eckewart and Gary, the margraves stout in fight, Folker of Alzeia, full of manly might.

Rumolt the steward (a chosen knight was he), Sindolt, and Hunolt; these serv'd the brethren three, At their court discharging their several duties well; Besides, knights had they many whom now I cannot tell.

Dankwart was marshal to the king his lord, Ortwine of Metz, his nephew, was carver at the board, Sindolt he was butler, a champion choice and true, The chamberlain was Hunolt; they well their duties knew.

The gorgeous pomp and splendour, wherein these brethren reign'd, How well they tended knighthood, what worship they attain'd, How they thro' life were merry, and mock'd at woe and bale— Who'd seek all this to tell you, would never end his tale.

A dream was dreamt by Kriemhild the virtuous and the gay, How a wild young falcon she train'd for many a day, Till two fierce eagles tore it; to her there could not be In all the world such sorrow at this perforce to see. To her mother Uta at once the dream she told,

But she the threatening future could only thus unfold; "The falcon that thou trainedst is sure a noble mate; God shield him in his mercy, or thou must lose him straight."

"A mate for me? what say'st thou, dearest mother mine? Ne'er to love, assure thee, my heart will I resign. I'll live and die a maiden, and end as I began, Nor (let what else befall me) will suffer woe for man."

"Nay", said her anxious mother, "renounce not marriage so; Wouldst thou true heartfelt pleasure taste ever here below, Man's love alone can give it. Thou'rt fair as eye can see, A fitting mate God send thee, and nought will wanting be."

"No more," the maiden answer'd, "no more, dear mother, say; From many a woman's fortune this truth is clear as day, That falsely smiling Pleasure with Pain requites us ever. I from both will keep me, and thus will sorrow never."

So in her lofty virtues, fancy-free and gay, Liv'd the noble maiden many a happy day, Nor one more than another found favour in her sight; Still at the last she wedded a far-renowned knight.

He was the self-same falcon she in her dream had seen, Foretold by her wise mother. What vengeance took the queen On her nearest kinsmen who him to death had done! That single death atoning died many a mother's son.

In his home in the Netherlands the hero Siegfried hears of the beauty of Kriemhild and after magnificent preparations comes to Worms to win her, if possible, for his bride. After a long stay at the court of her brother, he finally sees her at a feast. They love each other at their first meeting. In Isenstein, far over the sea, lives Brunhild, the Amazon-queen, who is pledged to wed only him who can conquer her in single combat. Gunther, the brother of Kriemhild, desires her for his wife. Siegfried promises to win her for him on condition that Gunther grant him Kriemhild's hand in return. They proceed to Brunhild's land, where Siegfried, by the aid of a magic cloak, which renders him invisible, helps Gunther to overcome Brunhild.

THE CONQUEST OF BRUNHILD. Stanza 447-455.

There too was come fair Brunhild; arm'd might you see her stand, As though resolv'd to champion all kings for all their land. She bore on her silk surcoat, gold spangles light and thin, That quivering gave sweet glimpses of her fair snowy skin.

Then came on her followers, and forward to the field Of ruddy gold far-sparkling bore a mighty shield, Thick, and broad, and weighty, with studs of steel o'erlaid, The which was wont in battle to wield the martial maid.

As thong to that huge buckler a gorgeous band there lay; Precious stones beset it as green as grass in May; With varying hues it glitter'd against the glittering gold. Who would woo its wielder must be boldest of the bold.

Beneath its folds enormous three spans thick was the shield, If all be true they tell us, that Brunhild bore in field. Of steel and gold compacted all gorgeously it glow'd. Four chamberlains, that bore it, stagger'd beneath the load.

Grimly smil'd Sir Hagan, Trony's champion strong, And mutter'd, as he mark'd it trail'd heavily along, "How now, my lord king Gunther? who thinks to scape with life? This love of yours and lady—'faith she's the devil's wife." . . . . . . . . . . . Then to the maid was carried heavily and slow A strong well-sharpen'd jav'lin, which she ever us'd to throw, Huge and of weight enormous, fit for so strong a queen, Cutting deep and deadly with its edges keen.

To form the mighty spear-head a wondrous work was done; Three weights of iron and better were welden into one; The same three men of Brunhild's scarcely along could bring; Whereat deeply ponder'd the stout Burgundian king.

To himself thus thought he, "What have I not to fear? The devil himself could scarcely 'scape from such danger clear. In sooth, if I were only in safety by the Rhine, Long might remain this maiden free from all suit of mine." . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Stanza 464-483. Then was the strength of Brunhild to each beholder shown. Into the ring by th' effort of panting knights a stone Was borne of weight enormous, massy and large and round. It strain'd twelve brawny champions to heave it to the ground.

This would she cast at all times when she had hurl'd the spear; The sight the bold Burgundians fill'd with care and fear. Quoth Hagan, "she's a darling to lie by Gunther's side. Better the foul fiend take her to serve him as a bride."

Her sleeve back turn'd the maiden, and bar'd her arm of snow, Her heavy shield she handled, and brandished to and fro High o'er her head the jav'lin; thus began the strife. Bold as they were, the strangers each trembled for his life;

And had not then to help him come Siegfried to his side, At once by that grim maiden had good King Gunther died. Unseen up went he to him, unseen he touch'd his hand. His trains bewilder'd Gunther was slow to understand.

"Who was it just now touch'd me?" thought he and star'd around To see who could be near him; not a soul he found. Said th' other, "I am Siegfried, thy trusty friend and true; Be not in fear a moment for all the queen can do."

Said he, "off with the buckler and give it me to bear; Now, what I shall advise thee, mark with thy closest care. Be it thine to make the gestures, and mine the work to do." Glad man was then king Gunther, when he his helpmate knew.

"But all my trains keep secret; thus for us both 'twere best; Else this o'erweening maiden, be sure, will never rest, Till her grudge against thee to full effect she bring. See where she stands to face thee so sternly in the ring!"

With all her strength the jav'lin the forceful maiden threw. It came upon the buckler massy, broad, and new, That in his hand unshaken, the son of Sieglind bore. Sparks from the steel came streaming, as if the breeze before.

Right through the groaning buckler the spear tempestuous broke; Fire from the mail-links sparkled beneath the thund'ring stroke, Those two mighty champions stagger'd from side to side; But for the wondrous cloud-cloak both on the spot had died.

From the mouth of Siegfried burst the gushing blood; Soon he again sprung forward; straight snatch'd the hero good The spear that through his buckler she just had hurl'd amain, And sent it at its mistress in thunder back again.

Thought he "'t were sure a pity so fair a maid to slay;" So he revers'd the jav'lin, and turn'd the point away. Yet, with the butt end foremost, so forceful was the throw, That the sore-smitten damsel totter'd to and fro.

From her mail fire sparkled as driven before the blast; With such huge strength the jav'lin by Sieglind's son was cast, That 'gainst the furious impulse she could no longer stand. A stroke so sturdy never could come from Gunther's hand.

Up in a trice she started, and straight her silence broke, "Noble knight, Sir Gunther, 'thank thee for the stroke." She thought 't was Gunther's manhood had laid her on the lea; No! It was not he had fell'd her, but a mightier far than he.

Then turn'd aside the maiden; angry was her mood; On high the stone she lifted rugged and round and rude, And brandish'd it with fury, and far before her flung, Then bounded quick behind it, that loud her armour rung.

Twelve fathoms' length or better the mighty mass was thrown, But the maiden bounded further than the stone. To where the stone was lying Siegfried fleetly flew Gunther did but lift it, th' Unseen it was, who threw.

Bold, tall, and strong was Siegfried, the first all knights among; He threw the stone far further, behind it further sprung. His wondrous arts had made him so more than mortal strong, That with him as he bounded, he bore the king along.

The leap was seen of all men, there lay as plain the stone, But seen was no one near it, save Gunther all alone. Brunhild was red with anger, quick came her panting breath; Siegfried has rescued Gunther that day from certain death.

Then all aloud fair Brunhild bespake her courtier band, Seeing in the ring at distance unharm'd her wooer stand, "Hither, my men and kinsmen: low to my better bow; I am no more your mistress; you're Gunther's liegemen now."

Down cast the noble warriors their weapons hastily, And lowly kneel'd to Gunther the king of Burgundy. To him as to their sovran was kingly homage done, Whose manhood, as they fancied, the mighty match had won.

He fair the chiefs saluted bending with gracious look; Then by the hand the maiden her conquering suitor took, And granted him to govern the land with sovran sway; Whereat the warlike nobles were joyous all and gay.

Upon the return to Worms the double marriage feast is celebrated—the weddings of Gunther and Brunhild, of Siegfried and Kriemhild. A second time is Gunther compelled to ask the help of Siegfried in conquering Brunhild, who again thinks that Gunther is the conqueror. From this second struggle Siegfried carries away Brunhild's ring and girdle, which he gives to Kriemhild. Siegfried and Kriemhild depart to his country, and not until after ten years do they visit again the court of Gunther. At the festival given in honor of this visit, the two queens, looking on at the knightly games, fall into a bitter quarrel concerning the prowess of their husbands. Kriemhild boasts to Brunhild that it was Siegfried and not Gunther who overcame her in both struggles. To prove her taunt she shows the girdle and ring. Brunhild is thrown into violent anger by the insult and desires only vengeance upon Siegfried and Kriemhild. Hagen, the most valiant of Gunther's vassals, takes up her cause, and seeks opportunity to kill Siegfried. A war against the Saxons is declared, in which Siegfried offers to assist Gunther. On the eve of the departure to battle, Hagen visits Kriemhild. She begs him to protect Siegfried, and tells him the story of her husband's one vulnerable spot—when Siegfried had killed the dragon, he bathed in its blood, and was rendered invulnerable, except in one spot, where a lime leaf fell between his shoulders. This spot the dragon blood did not touch. Kriemhild promises to mark this spot with a silken cross, that Hagen may the better protect her husband. The next morning the excursion against the Saxons is withdrawn, and the heroes conclude to go on a hunting party.

THE HUNTING AND THE DEATH OF SIEGFRIED. Stanzas 944-958.

Gunther and Hagan, the warriors fierce and bold, To execute their treason, resolved to scour the wold. The bear, the boar, the wild bull, by hill or dale or fen, To hunt with keen-edg'd javelins; what fitter sport for valiant men?

In lordly pomp rode with them Siegfried the champion strong. Good store of costly viands they brought with them along. Anon by a cool runnel he lost his guiltless life. 'T was so devis'd by Brunhild, King Gunther's moody wife.

But first he sought the chamber where he his lady found. He and his friends already had on the sumpters bound Their gorgeous hunting raiment; they o'er the Rhine would go. Never before was Kriemhild sunk so deep in woe.

On her mouth of roses he kiss'd his lady dear; "God grant me, dame, returning in health to see thee here; So may those eyes see me too; meanwhile be blithe and gay Among thy gentle kinsmen; I must hence away."

Then thought she on the secret (the truth she durst not tell) How she had told it Hagan; then the poor lady fell To wailing and lamenting that ever she was born. Then wept she without measure, sobbing and sorrow-worn.

She thus bespake her husband, "Give up that chace of thine. I dreamt last night of evil, how two fierce forest swine Over the heath pursued thee; the flowers turn'd bloody red. I cannot help thus weeping; I'm chill'd with mortal dread.

I fear some secret treason, and cannot lose thee hence, Lest malice should be borne thee from misconceiv'd offence. Stay, my beloved Siegfried, take not my words amiss. 'T is the true love I bear thee that bids me counsel this."

"Back shall I be shortly, my own beloved mate. Not a soul in Rhineland know I, who bears me hate. I'm well with all thy kinsmen; they're all my firm allies; Nor have I from any e'er deserv'd otherwise."

"Nay! do not, dearest Siegfried! 't is e'en thy death I dread. Last night I dreamt, two mountains fell thundering on thy head, And I no more beheld thee; if thou from me wilt go, My heart will sure be breaking with bitterness of woe."

Round her peerless body his clasping arms he threw; Lovingly he kiss'd her, that faithful wife and true; Then took his leave, and parted;—in a moment all was o'er— Living, alas poor lady! she saw him never more.

In the chase Siegfried prefers to hunt with a single limehound. But he achieves most marvelous feats of skill and strength.

Stanzas 962-971. All, that the limehound started, anon with mighty hand Were slain by noble Siegfried the chief of Netherland. No beast could there outrun him, so swift is steed could race; He won from all high praises for mastery in the chace.

Whatever he attempted, he went the best before. The first beast he encounter'd was a fierce half-bred boar. Him with a mighty death-stroke he stretch'd upon the ground; Just after in a thicket a lion huge he found.

Him the limehound started; his bow Sir Siegfried drew; With a keen-headed arrow he shot the lion through. But three faint bounds thereafter the dying monster made. His wond'ring fellow-huntsmen thanks to Sir Siegfried paid.

Then one upon another a buffalo, an elk He slew, four strong ureoxen, and last a savage shelk. No beast, how swift soever, could leave his steed behind; Scarcely their speed could profit the flying hart or hind . . . . . . . They heard then all about them, throughout those forest grounds, Such shouting and such baying of huntsmen and of hounds, That hill and wood re-echoed with the wild uproar. Th' attendants had uncoupled four and twenty dogs or more.

Then full many a monster was doom'd his last to groan. They thought with glad expectance to challenge for their own The praise for the best hunting; but lower sunk their pride, When to the tryst-fire shortly they saw Sir Siegfried ride.

The hunting now was over for the most part at least; Game was brought in plenty and skins of many a beast To the place of meeting, and laid the hearth before. Ah! to the busy kitchen what full supplies they bore! . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The chase being done, the hunters are summoned to a feast in a neighboring glade. Here, though they are served with a profusion of sumptuous viands, there is, according to Hagen's plot, no wine to drink. When, toward the end of the meal Siegfried is tormented with thirst, Hagen tells him of a cool runnel near by under a linden, and proposes that he and Gunther and Siegfried shall try a race to this brook. Siegfried gaily consents, and boasts that he will run with all his clothing and his weapons upon him.

Stanzas 1005-1029. King Gunther and Sir Hagan to strip were nothing slow; Both for the race stood ready in shirts as white as snow. Long bounds, like two wild panthers o'er the grass they took, But seen was noble Siegfried before them at the brook.

Whate'er he did, the warrior high o'er his fellows soar'd. Now laid he down his quiver, and quick ungirt his sword. Against the spreading linden he lean'd his mighty spear. So by the brook stood waiting the chief without a peer.

In every lofty virtue none with Sir Siegfried vied. Down he laid his buckler by the water's side. For all the thirst that parch'd him, one drop he never drank Till the king had finished; he had full evil thank.

Cool was the little runnel, and sparkled clear as glass. O'er the rill king Gunther knelt down upon the grass. When he his draught had taken, he rose and stepp'd aside. Full fain alike would Siegfried his thirst have satisfied.

Dear paid he for his courtesy; his bow, his matchless blade, His weapons all, Sir Hagan far from their lord convey'd, Then back sprung to the linden to seize his ashen spear, And to find out the token survey'd his vesture near;

Then, as to drink Sir Siegfried down kneeling there he found, He pierc'd him through the croslet, that sudden from the wound Forth the life-blood spouted e'en o'er his murderer's weed. Never more will warrior dare so foul a deed.

Between his shoulders sticking he left the deadly spear. Never before Sir Hagan so fled for ghastly fear, As from the matchless champion whom he had butcher'd there. Soon as was Sir Siegfried of the mortal wound aware,

Up he from the runnel started, as he were wood Out from betwixt his shoulders his own hugh boar-spear stood. He thought to find his quiver or his broadsword true. The traitor for his treason had then receiv'd his due.

But, ah! the deadly-wounded nor sword nor quiver found; His shield alone beside him lay there upon the ground. This from the bank he lifted and straight at Hagan ran; Him could not then by fleetness escape king Gunther's man.

E'en to the death though wounded, he hurl'd it with such power, That the whirling buckler scatter'd wide a shower Of the most precious jewels, then straight in shivers broke. Full gladly had the warrior then vengeance with that stroke.

E'en as it was, his manhood fierce Hagan level'd low. Loud, all around, the meadow rang with the wondrous blow. Had he in hand good Balmung, the murderer he had slain. His wound was sore upon him; he writh'd in mortal pain;

His lively colour faded; a cloud came o'er his sight: He could stand no longer; melted all his might; In his paling visage the mark of death he bore. Soon many a lovely lady sorrow'd for him sore.

So the lord of Kriemhild among the flowerets fell. From the wound fresh gushing his heart's blood fast did well. Then thus amidst his tortures, e'en with his failing breath, The false friends he upbraided who had contriv'd his death.

Thus spake the deadly-wounded, "Ay! cowards false as hell! To you I still was faithful; I serv'd you long and well; But what boots all?—for guerdon treason and death I've won. By your friends, vile traitors! foully have you done.

Whoever shall hereafter from your loins be born, Shall take from such vile fathers a heritage of scorn. On me you have wreak'd malice where gratitude was due. With shame shall you be banish'd by all good knights and true."

Thither ran all the warriors where in his blood he lay. To many of that party sure it was a joyless day. Whoever were true and faithful, they sorrow'd for his fall. So much the peerless champion had merited of all.

With them the false king Gunther bewept his timeless end. Then spake the deadly-wounded; "little it boots your friend Yourself to plot his murder, and then the deed deplore. Such is a shameful sorrow; better at once it were o'er."

Then spake the low'ring Hagan, "I know not why you moan. Our cares all and suspicions are now for ever flown. Who now are left, against us who'll dare to make defence? Well's me, for all this weeping, that I have rid him hence."

"Small cause hast thou," said Siegfried, "to glory in my fate. Had I ween'd thy friendship cloak'd such murderous hate, From such as thou full lightly could I have kept my life. Now grieve I but for Kriemhild, my dear, my widow'd wife. . . . . . . . . . Then further spake the dying, and speaking sigh'd full deep, "Oh king! if thou a promise with any one wilt keep, Let me in this last moment thy grace and favour find For my dear love and lady, the wife I leave behind.

Remember, she's thy sister, yield her a sister's right, Guard her with faith and honour, as thou'rt a king and knight. My father and my followers for me they long must wait. Comrade ne'er found from comrade so sorrowful a fate."

In his mortal anguish he writh'd him to and fro, And then said, deadly groaning, "this foul and murderous blow Deep will ye rue hereafter; this for sure truth retain, That in slaying Siegfried you yourselves have slain."

With blood were all bedabbled the flowerets of the field. Some time with death he struggled, as though he scorn'd to yield E'en to the foe, whose weapon strikes down the loftiest head. At last prone in the meadow lay mighty Siegfried dead.

They carry the body of Siegfried back to Worms, and lay it at Kriemhild's door. Here she finding it next morning. She has it carried to the church and stands by it while the heroes come to view it, expecting to discover the murderer.

KRIEMHILD'S TEST. Stanza 1071-1078.

And now the night was over; forth peep'd the morning fair; Straight had the noble lady thence to the minster bear The matchless champion Siegfried, her husband lov'd so dear. All her friends close follow'd with many a sigh and tear.

When they the minster enter'd, how many a bell was rung! How many a priest on all sides the mournful requiem sung! Then thither with his meiny came Dancrat's haughty son, And thither too grim Hagan; it had been better left undone.

Then spoke the king, "dear sister, woe worth this loss of thine! Alas that such misfortune has happ'd to me and mine! For sure the death of Siegfried we ever both must rue." "Nay", said the mournful lady, "so without cause you do,

For if you really rued it, never had it been. I know, you have your sister forgotten quite and clean, So I and my beloved were parted as you see. Good God! would he had granted the stroke had fall'n on me!"

Firmly they made denial; Kriemhild at once replied, "Whoe'er in this is guiltless, let him this proof abide. In sight of all the people let him approach the bier, And so to each beholder shall the plain truth appear."

It is a mighty marvel, which oft e'en now we spy, That when the blood-stain'd murderer comes to the murder'd nigh, The wounds break out a-bleeding; then too the same befell, And thus could each beholder the guilt of Hagan tell.

The wounds at once burst streaming fast as they did before; Those, who then sorrow'd deeply, now yet lamented more. Then outspake king Gunther, "I give you here to know, He was slain by robbers; Hagan struck ne'er a blow."

"Ay! well know I those robbers," his widow'd sister said; "By the hands of his true comrades may God revenge the dead! False Gunther, and false Hagan! 't was you, your friend that slew." Thereat the knights of Siegfried grip'd to their swords anew.

After the burial of Siegfried, Kriemhild decides to remain at the court of Gunther, in the care of her brothers. Thither is brought the enormous treasures of the Niebelungen, which Siegfried had won, and of which he had been the guardian, and which now fell to Kriemhild. The crafty Hagen gains possession of this horde, and conceals it by sinking it in the Rhine, hoping some day to recover and enjoy it. For thirteen years Kriemhild remains at the court of her brother, brooding over her wrongs and meditating revenge. The second part of the poem begins by telling how Etzel, king of the Huns, proposed for the hand of the widowed Kriemhild, and how she finally, hoping to use him in her plan of vengeance, consents to a marriage with him and goes away with him into his land. Here for many years she lives the beloved queen of the Huns. But her purpose of vengeance never falters, and at last she persuades Etzel to invite her brothers to his court on a visit. Against many forebodings and warnings they come, Hagen with them. After numerous interesting episodes upon the journey, they arrive at Etzell's court and are handsomely welcomed. But the inevitable quarrel soon breaks out and a desperate fight begins. After a most desperate and bloody struggle, Gunther, Hagen, and a few followers are shut up in a hall. To this Kriemhild sets fire.

THE BURNING OF THE HALL. Stanza, 2186-2194.

With that, the wife of Etzel had set the hall on fire. How sore then were they tortur'd in burning anguish dire! At once, as the wind freshen'd, the house was in a glow. Never, I ween, were mortals in such extremes of woe.

"We all are lost together," each to his neighbour cried, "It had been far better we had in battle died. Now God have mercy on us! woe for this fiery pain! Ah! what a monstrous vengeance the bloody queen has ta'en!"

Then faintly said another, "needs must we here fall dead; What boots us now the greeting, to us by Etzel sped? Ah me! I'm so tormented by thirst from burning heat, That in this horrid anguish my life must quickly fleet."

Thereat outspake Sir Hagan, the noble knight and good, "Let each, by thirst tormented, take here a draught of blood. In such a heat, believe me, 't is better far than wine. Nought's for the time so fitting; such counsel, friends, is mine."

With that straight went a warrior, where a warm corpse he found. On the dead down knelt he; his helmet he unbound; Then greedily began he to drink the flowing blood. However unaccustom'd, it seem'd him passing good.

"Now God requite thee, Hagan," the weary warrior cried, "For such refreshing beverage by your advice supplied. It has been my lot but seldom to drink of better wine. For life am I thy servant for this fair hint of thine."

When th' others heard and witness'd with that delight he quaff'd, Yet many more among them drank too the bloody draught. It strung again their sinews, and failing strength renew'd. This in her lover's person many a fair lady rued.

Into the hall upon them the fire-flakes thickly fell; These with their shields they warded warily and well. With smoke and heat together they were tormented sore. Never, I ween, good warriors such burning anguish bore.

Through smoke and flame cried Hagan, "stand close against the wall; Let not the burning ashes on your helm-laces fall. Into the blood yet deeper tread every fiery flake. In sooth, this feast of Kriemhild's is ghastly merry-make."

One by one the champions fall, until only Hagen and Gunther, exhausted with fighting, are left to contend with Dietrich, the most Valisntof Etzel's vassals. The conclusion of the poem tells of the fate of Hagen, Gunther, and Kriemhild.

THE FALL OF THE NIEBELUNGEN. Stanza 2428-2459.

Well knew the noble Dietrich how fierce and fell a knight Was standing now against him; so warily the fight 'Gainst those tempestuous swordstrokes wag'd the good lord of Bern. The strength and skill of Hagan he had not now to learn.

He fear'd too, mighty Balmung as down it swept amain; Yet at times Sir Dietrich with craft would strike again, Till that to sink before him he brought his foeman strong; A fearful wound, he gave him that was both deep and long.

Sir Dietrich then bethought him, "thou'rt faint and ill bestead I should win little worship, were I to strike thee dead. I'll make a different trial, if thou can'st now be won By main force for a pris'ner." With wary heed 't was done.

Down he threw his buckler; wondrous was his might; He his arms resistless threw round Trony's knight. So was by his stronger the main of strength subdued. Thereat the noble Gunther remain'd in mournful mood.

His vanquish'd foe Sir Dietrich bound in a mighty band, And led him thence to Kriemhild, and gave into her hand The best and boldest champion that broadsword ever bore. She after all her anguish felt comfort all the more.

For joy the queen inclin'd her before the welcome guest; "Sir knight I in mind and body heaven keep thee ever blest! By thee all my long sorrows are shut up in delight. Even if death prevent not, thy service I'll requite."

"Fair and noble Kriemhild," thus Sir Dietrich spake, "Spare this captive warrior, who full amends will make For all his past transgressions; him here in bonds you see; Revenge not on the fetter'd th' offences of the free."

With that she had Sir Hagan to durance led away, Where no one could behold him, where under lock he lay. Meanwhile the fierce king Gunther shouted loud and strong, "Whither is gone the Berner? he hath done me grievous wrong."

Straight, at the call, to meet him Sir Dietrich swiftly went. Huge was the strength of Gunther, and deadly his intent. There he no longer dallied; from th' hall he forward ran; Sword clash'd with sword together, as man confronted man.

Howe'er renown'd was Dietrich, and train'd in combat well, Yet Gunther fought against him so furious and so fell, And bore him hate so deadly, now friendless left and lone, It seemed past all conceiving, how Dietrich held his own.

Both were of mighty puissance, and neither yielded ground; Palace and airy turret rung with their strokes around, As their swift swords descending their temper'd helmets hew'd Well there the proud king Gunther display'd his manly mood.

Yet him subdued the Berner, as Hagan erst befell; Seen was the blood of the warrior forth through his mail to well Beneath the fatal weapon that Dietrich bore in fright. Tir'd as he was, still Gunther had kept him like a knight.

So now at length the champion was bound by Dietrich there, How ill soe'er it fitteth a king such bonds to bear. Gunther and his fierce liegeman if he had left unbound, He ween'd they'd deal destruction on all, whome'er they found.

Then by the hand Sir Dietrich took the champion good. And in his bonds thence led him to where fair Kriemhild stood. She cried, "thou'rt welcome, Gunther, hero of Burgundy." "Now God requite you, Kriemhild, if you speak lovingly."

Said he, "I much should thank you, and justly, sister dear, If true affection prompted the greeting which I hear; But, knowing your fierce temper, proud queen, too well I see, Such greeting is a mocking of Hagan and of me."

Then said the noble Berner, "high-descended dame, Ne'er have been brought to bondage knights of such peerless fame, As those, whom you, fair lady, now from your servant take. Grant these forlorn and friendless fair treatment for my sake."

She said she fain would do so; then from the captive pair With weeping eyes Sir Dietrich retir'd and left them there. Straight a bloody vengeance wreak'd Etzell's furious wife On those redoubted champions, and both bereft of life.

In dark and dismal durance them kept apart the queen, So that from that hour neither was by the other seen, Till that at last to Hagan her brother's head she bore. On both she took with vengeance as tongue ne'er told before.

To the cell of Hagan eagerly she went; Thus the knight bespake she, ah! with what fell intent! "Wilt thou but return me what thou from me hast ta'en, Back thou may'st go living to Burgundy again."

Then spake grim-visag'd Hagan, "you throw away your prayer, High-descended lady; I took an oath whilere, That, while my lords were living, or of them only one, I'd ne'er point out the treasure; thus 't will be given to none."

Well knew the subtle Hagan, she ne'er would let him 'scape. Ah! when did ever falsehood assume so foul a shape? He fear'd, that, soon as ever the queen his life had ta'en, She then would send her brother to Rhineland back again.

"I'll make an end, and quickly," Kriemhild fiercely spake. Her brother's life straight had she in his dungeon take. Off his head was smitten; she bore it by the hair To the lord of Trony; such sight he well could spare.

A while in gloomy sorrow he view'd his master's head; Then to remorseless Kriemhild thus the warrior said; "E'en to thy wish this business thou to an end hast brought, To such an end, moreover, as Hagan ever thought.

Now the brave king Gunther of Burgundy is dead Young Giselher and eke Gernot alike with him are sped; So now, where lies the treasure, none knows save God and me, And told shall it be never, be sure, she-fiend! to thee."

Said she, "ill hast thou quitted a debt so deadly scor'd; At least in my possession I'll keep my Siegfried's sword. My lord and lover bore it, when last I saw him go. For him woe wring my bosom, that pass'd all other woe."

Forth from the sheath she drew it; that could not be prevent; At once to slay the champion was Kriemhild's stern intent. High with both hands she heav'd it, and off his head did smite. That was seen of king Etzel; he shudder'd at the sight.

"Ah!" cried the prince impassion'd, "harrow and welaway! That the hand of a woman the noblest knight should slay, That e'er struck stroke in battle, or ever buckler bore! Albeit I was his foeman, needs must I sorrow sore."

Then said the aged Hildebrand, "let not her boast of gain, In that by her contrivance this noble chief was slain. Though to sore strait he brought me, let ruin on me light, But I will take full vengeance for Trony's murdered knight."

Hildebrand the aged fierce on Kriemhild sprung: To the death he smote her as his sword he swung. Sudden and remorseless he his wrath did wreak. What could then avail her her fearful thrilling shriek?

There now the dreary corpses stretch'd all around were seen; There lay, hewn in pieces, the fair and noble queen. Sir Dietrich and king Etzel, their tears began to start; For kinsmen and for vassals each sorrow'd in his heart.

The mighty and the noble there lay together dead; For this had all the people dole and drearihead. The feast of royal Etzel was thus shut up in woe. Pain in the steps of Pleasure treads ever here below.

'Tis more than I can tell you what afterwards befell, Save that there was weeping for friends belov'd so well; Knights and squires, dames and damsels, were seen lamenting all, So here I end my story. This is THE NIBELUNGERS' FALL.

—Tr. by Littsom.

ROMANCES.

As elsewhere in Europe, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Germany produced numberless romances. These may be classed under (1) Romances of Arthur, (2) Romances of the Holy Graal, (3) Romances of Antiquity, and (4) Romances of Love and Chivalry. The chief poets of romances were Hartmann von Aue, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Wolfram von Eschenbach. A good example of the romance of love is "Der Arme Heinrich of Hartmann von Aue". "Poor Henry", to quote Scherer, "is a kind of Job, a man of noble birth; rich, handsome, and beloved, who is suddenly visited by God with the terrible affliction of leprosy, and who can be cured only by the lifeblood of a young maiden who is willing to die for him. The daughter of a peasant, to whose house he has retired in his despair, resolves to sacrifice her life for him. Heinrich accepts her offer, and the knife to kill her is already whetted, when a better feeling arises in his breast, and he refuses to take upon himself the guilt of her death, resolving to resign himself to the will of God. This resignation saves him; he recovers and marries the maiden." Our extracts are from the first and last of the poem.

HENRY THE LEPER. Ll. 1-131.—

Once on a time, rhymeth the rhyme, In Swabia land once on a time, There was a nobleman so journeying, Unto whose nobleness everything Of virtue and high-hearted excellence Worthy his line and his high pretense With plentiful measure was meted out: The land rejoiced in him round about. He was like a prince in his governing— In his wealth he was like a king; But most of all by the fame far-flown Of his great knightliness was he known, North and south, upon land and sea. By his name he was Henry of the Lea. All things whereby the truth grew dim Were held as hateful foes with him: By solemn oath was he bounden fast To shun them while his life should last. In honour all his days went by: Therefore his soul might look up high To honorable authority.

A paragon of all graciousness, A blossoming branch of youthfulness, A looking-glass to the world around, A stainless and priceless diamond, Of gallant 'haviour a beautiful wreath, A home when the tyrant menaceth, A buckler to the breast of his friend, And courteous without measure or end; Whose deeds of arms 'twere long to tell; Of precious wisdom a limpid well, A singer of ladies every one, And very lordly to look upon In feature and hearing and countenance: Say, failed he in anything, perchance, The summit of all glory to gain. And the lasting honour of all men.

Alack! the soul that was up so high Dropped down into pitiful misery; The lofty courage was stricken low, The steady triumph stumbled in woe, And the world-joy was hidden in the dust, Even as all such shall be and must. He whose life in the senses centreth Is already in the shades of death. The joys, called great, of this under-state Burn up the bosom early and late; And their shining is altogether vain, For it bringeth anguish and trouble and pain, The torch that flames for men to see And wasteth to ashes inwardly Is verily but an imaging Of man's own life, the piteous thing. The whole is brittleness and mishap: We sit and dally in Fortune's lap Till tears break in our smiles betwixt, And the shallow honey-draught be mix'd With sorrow's wormwood fathom-deep. Oh! rest not therefore, man, nor sleep: In the blossoming of thy flower-crown A sword is raised to smite thee down.

It was thus with Earl Henry, upon whom for his pride God sent a leprosy, as He did upon Job. But he did not bear his affliction as did Job.

Its duteousness his heart forgot; His pride waxed hard, and kept its place, But the glory departed from his face, And that which was his strength, grew weak. The hand that smote him on the cheek Was all too heavy. It was night, Now, and his sun withdrew its light. To the pride of his uplifted thought Much woe the weary knowledge brought That the pleasant way his feet did wend Was all passed o'er and had an end. The day wherein his years had begun Went in his mouth with a malison. As the ill grew stronger and more strong,— There was but hope bore him along; Even yet to hope he was full fain That gold might help him back again Thither whence God had cast him out. Ah! weak to strive and little stout 'Gainst Heaven the strength that he possessed. North and south and east and west, Far and wide from every side, Mediciners well proved and tried Came to him at the voice of his woe; But, mused and pondered they ever so, They could but say, for all their care, That he must be content to bear The burthen of the anger of God; For him there was no other road. Already was his heart nigh down When yet to him one chance was shown; For in Salerno dwelt, folk said, A leach who still might lend him aid, Albeit unto his body's cure, All such had been as nought before.

Earl Henry visits the leach in Salerno whom he implores to tell him the means by which he may be healed.

Quoth the leach, "Then know them what they are; Yet still all hope must stand afar. Truly if the cure for your care Might be gotten anyway anywhere, Did it hide in the furthest parts of earth, This-wise I had not sent you forth. But all my knowledge hath none avail; There is but one thing would not fail: An innocent virgin for to find, Chaste, and modest, and pure in mind, Who to save you from death might choose Her own young body's life to lose; The heart's blood of the excellent maid— That and nought else can be your aid. But there is none will be won thereby For the love of another's life to die.

"'T was then poor Henry knew indeed That from his ill he might not be freed, Sith that no woman he might win Of her own will to act herein. Thus got he but an ill return For the journey he made unto Salerne, And the hope he had upon that day Was snatched from him and rent away. Homeward he hied him back: fall fain With limbs in the dust he would have lain. Of his substance—lands and riches both— He rid himself; even as one doth Who the breath of the last life of his hope Once and forever hath rendered up. To his friends he gave and to the poor, Unto God praying evermore The spirit that was in him to save, And make his bed soft in the grave. What still remained aside he set For Holy Church's benefit. Of all that heretofore was his Nought held he for himself, I wis, Save one small house with byre and field: There from the world he lived concealed,— There lived he, and awaited Death, Who being awaited, lingereth. Pity and ruth his troubles found Alway through all the country round. Who heard him named, had sorrow deep And for his piteous sake would weep.

The poor man who tilled Earl Henry's field had a daughter, a sweet and tender maiden who, out of love for Henry and a heart of Christ-like pity, at last offers herself to die for him. After a struggle Henry accepts the sacrifice. But when he knows it is about to be made his heart rises against it and he refuses to permit it. At this the maiden is much grieved. She takes it as a token that she is not pure enough to be offered for him. She prays for a sign that she may hope to become wholly cleansed. In answer to this prayer Earl Henry is in one night cleansed of the leprosy. He then joyfully takes the maiden for his bride and leads her before his kinsman and nobles for their consent.

"Then," quoth the Earl, "hearken me this. The damozel who standeth here,— And whom I embrace, being most dear,— She it is unto whom I owe The grace it hath pleased God to bestow. He saw the simple spirited Earnestness of the holy maid, And even in guerdon of her truth Gave me back the joys of my youth, Which seemed to be lost beyond all doubt, And therefore I have chosen her out To wed with me knowing her free. I think that God will let this be. Lo! I enjoin ye, with God's will That this my longing ye fulfill. I pray ye all have but one voice And let your choice go with my choice."

Then the cries ceased, and the counter-cries, And all the battle of advice, And every lord, being content With Henry's choice, granted assent.

Then the priests came to bind as one Two lives in bridal unison, Into his hand they folded hers, Not to be loosed in coming years, And uttered between man and wife God's blessing on the road of this life. Many a bright and pleasant day The twain pursued their steadfast way, Till hand in hand, at length they trod Upward to the kingdom of God. Even as it was with them, even thus, And quickly, it must be with us. To such reward as theirs was then, God help us in His hour. Amen.

— Tr. by Rossetti.

THE MINNESINGERS.

In the twelfth century, Germany had a remarkable outburst of lyric poetry, chiefly songs of love. The influence of the crusades, the spread of the romances of Arthur and Charlemagne roused over all Germany the spirit of poetry. The poets of this new movement are called Minnesingers. It is interesting to notice that the same poets who wrote these love lyrics, wrote also long romances of chivalry; the greatest names among them being Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, Gottfried von Strassburg, and Walther von der Vogelweide. They were of all ranks, but chiefly belonged to the upper classes—knights, squires, princes, and even kings being numbered among them. Their extraordinarily large number may be gathered from the fact that from the twelfth century alone the names of one hundred and sixty Minnesingers have come down to us. Their names and their songs have been handed down largely by tradition, since the mass of them could neither read nor write, and for a century or more their work was preserved orally.

The subject of these songs was almost always love—generally love of a sweetheart; sometimes of the simpler aspects of nature, sometimes the love of the Virgin. Besides this they wrote also many didactic, religious, and patriotic songs. The rhythmical and metrical structure of their verse was very complicated and generally very skillful, sometimes, however, running into eccentricities and barren technicalities. The Minnesinger generally composed the music of his song at the same time with the verse.