Classic Poem

In the merry days of Spring-time
When with flowers the fields are dight,
For the rose wreath — prize of vigour —
Stalwart youths put forth their might.
Naught they care themselves to gather
Garlands from the lavish land;
Nay! they would, as sturdy wrestlers,
Win them from a maiden's hand.

'Neath an arbour sits she, silent,
She whom all with wonder view,
She who in the bloom of beauty
Shews to-day her loveliest hue.
Sprays of roses nod and waver —
Pleasant arbour — o'er her head;
Round the queen of May and beauty
Vines their curling tendrils spread.

Lo! a warrior sheathed in armour
On a flagging steed draws near;
Bows his head as one in slumber,
Faint with toil, he vails his spear.
Gaunt his cheeks, his locks are hoary,
Oft his hand the rein forsakes;
Lo! he starts, as starts the dreamer
When from mournful dreams he wakes.

" Hail to all that throng this meadow,
Noble youths and lovely dames;
Need is none to fear my presence,
Fain would I behold your games.
Fain would I, in fierce encounter,
'Gainst you break a lance or twain;
But mine arms with age are trembling,
Scarce my knees their load sustain.

Well I know such knightly pastimes,
Lance and sword my strength have tried;
Still my body wears the breast-plate,
As the dragon wears his hide.
Strife and wounds by land I've suffered,
Storms at sea and billows steep;
Calm repose I met with never,
Save a year in dungeon deep.

Wo! my days and nights are ended,
Never love my life hath blest;
Thee, O hand in battles hardened,
Woman's hand hath never pressed!
Never! for from earth's deep valley
Still yon damsel dwelt afar;
Yon May-queen, who now before me
Rises like a new-found star.

Wo! could I renew my youth-hood,
Mine should be the minstrel's art;
Songs of love I oft would warble,
Striving for my fair one's heart.
In the merry days of spring-time,
When with flowers the fields are dight,
For the rose-wreath — prize of vigour —
Gladly would I race and fight.

Wo! for I was born too early!
Now the golden age is come;
Wrath and envy now have vanished,
Fadeless spring begins to bloom.
She, in yonder rosy arbour,
Shall — as queen — the kingdom own;
I to dust and night must hasten;
Falls on me the burial-stone. "

When the knight these words had spoken,
Close he pressed his pallid lips;
See! his eyes in death are failing,
Lifeless, from the horse he slips.
But the noble youths sustain him,
Lay him on the grassy plain;
Ah! no balsam e'er shall heal him,
Him no shouts shall rouse again!

Then the maid, her arbour quitting
Gay with flowers, steps slowly down,
Sadly to the old man stoopeth,
Lays on him the rosy-crown.
" Be thou king of May's rejoicings,
None like thee his life hath sped;
Though the wreath can little profit
Twined around a lifeless head. "