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Rampolli
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“The beaker, well won, is thine;
And this ring I will give thee too,” he says,
“Precious with gems that are more than fine,
If thou dare it yet once, and bring me the story
Of what’s in the sea’s lowest repertory.”
His daughter she hears him with tender dismay,
And with sweet words suasive doth plead:
“Father, enough of this cruel play!
For you he has done an unheard-of deed!
If you may not master your heart’s desire,
‘Tis the knights’ turn now to shame the squire!”
The king sudden snatches and hurls the cup
Into the swirling pool:—
“If thou bring me once more that beaker up,
Thou art best of my knights, the most worshipful!
And this very day to thy home thou shalt lead her
Who stands there—for thee such a pitiful pleader.”
A passion divine his being invades;
His eyes dart a lightning ray;
He sees of her blushes the changeful shades,
He sees her grow pallid and sink away!
Determination thorough him flashes,
And downward for life or for death he dashes!
They hear the dull roar: ‘tis returning again,
Announced by the thunderous brawl!
Downward they bend with loving strain:
They come! they are coming, the waters all!—
They rush up!—they rush down! they rush ever and ever:
The youth to the daylight rises never!
KNIGHT TOGGENBURG
True love, knight, as to a brother,
Yield I you again;
Ask me not for any other,
For it gives me pain.
Calmly I behold you come in,
Calm behold you go;
Your sad eyes the weeping dumb in
I nor read nor know.
And he hears her uncomplaining,
Tears him free by force;
To his heart but once her straining,
Flings him on his horse;
Sends to all his vassals merry
In old Switzerland;
To the holy grave they hurry,
White-crossed pilgrim band.
Mighty deeds, the foe outbraving,
Works their hero-arm;
From their helms the plumes float waving
Mid the heathen swarm;
Still his “Toggenburg” upwaking
Frays the Mussulman;
But his heart its grievous aching
Quiet never can.
One whole year he did endure it,
Then his patience lost;
Peace, he never could secure it,
And forsakes the host;
Sees a ship by Joppa’s entry
At her cable saw;
Sails him home to that dear country
Where she breath doth draw.
At the gate, her castle under,
Pilgrim sad, he knocked;
Straight, as with a word of thunder
Was the gate unlocked:
“She you seek, with rites most solemn
Is betrothed to heaven;
Yesterday, beneath that column,
She to Christ was given.”
Then the halls he leaves for ever
Of his ancestors;
Shield or sword sets eyes on never,
Or his faithful horse.
Down from Toggenburg he fareth,
None to see or care;
On his noble limbs he weareth
Sackcloth made of hair:
And himself a hovel buildeth
That same cloister nigh,
Where the lime-tree thicket yieldeth
Cover whence to spy.
There, from morning’s earliest traces
Till red evening shone,
Thither turned his hoping face is,
There he sits alone.
On the walls so high above him,
And this ring I will give thee too,” he says,
“Precious with gems that are more than fine,
If thou dare it yet once, and bring me the story
Of what’s in the sea’s lowest repertory.”
His daughter she hears him with tender dismay,
And with sweet words suasive doth plead:
“Father, enough of this cruel play!
For you he has done an unheard-of deed!
If you may not master your heart’s desire,
‘Tis the knights’ turn now to shame the squire!”
The king sudden snatches and hurls the cup
Into the swirling pool:—
“If thou bring me once more that beaker up,
Thou art best of my knights, the most worshipful!
And this very day to thy home thou shalt lead her
Who stands there—for thee such a pitiful pleader.”
A passion divine his being invades;
His eyes dart a lightning ray;
He sees of her blushes the changeful shades,
He sees her grow pallid and sink away!
Determination thorough him flashes,
And downward for life or for death he dashes!
They hear the dull roar: ‘tis returning again,
Announced by the thunderous brawl!
Downward they bend with loving strain:
They come! they are coming, the waters all!—
They rush up!—they rush down! they rush ever and ever:
The youth to the daylight rises never!
KNIGHT TOGGENBURG
True love, knight, as to a brother,
Yield I you again;
Ask me not for any other,
For it gives me pain.
Calmly I behold you come in,
Calm behold you go;
Your sad eyes the weeping dumb in
I nor read nor know.
And he hears her uncomplaining,
Tears him free by force;
To his heart but once her straining,
Flings him on his horse;
Sends to all his vassals merry
In old Switzerland;
To the holy grave they hurry,
White-crossed pilgrim band.
Mighty deeds, the foe outbraving,
Works their hero-arm;
From their helms the plumes float waving
Mid the heathen swarm;
Still his “Toggenburg” upwaking
Frays the Mussulman;
But his heart its grievous aching
Quiet never can.
One whole year he did endure it,
Then his patience lost;
Peace, he never could secure it,
And forsakes the host;
Sees a ship by Joppa’s entry
At her cable saw;
Sails him home to that dear country
Where she breath doth draw.
At the gate, her castle under,
Pilgrim sad, he knocked;
Straight, as with a word of thunder
Was the gate unlocked:
“She you seek, with rites most solemn
Is betrothed to heaven;
Yesterday, beneath that column,
She to Christ was given.”
Then the halls he leaves for ever
Of his ancestors;
Shield or sword sets eyes on never,
Or his faithful horse.
Down from Toggenburg he fareth,
None to see or care;
On his noble limbs he weareth
Sackcloth made of hair:
And himself a hovel buildeth
That same cloister nigh,
Where the lime-tree thicket yieldeth
Cover whence to spy.
There, from morning’s earliest traces
Till red evening shone,
Thither turned his hoping face is,
There he sits alone.
On the walls so high above him,
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