Part 3 (1/2)

He received the new guests with brotherly heartiness, in the midst of his noisy companions. The mother was conducted to the lady of the castle. The merchants and Henry were obliged to seat themselves at the merry table, where the beaker pa.s.sed bravely around. Henry, after much intreaty, was, in consideration of his youth, excused from pledging every time; the merchants, on the contrary, did not find it much against their tastes, and smacked the old Frank-wine with tolerable gusto. The conversation turned upon the adventures of past years. Henry listened attentively to what was said. The knights spoke of the holy land, of the wonders of the sacred tomb, of the adventures of their enterprise and voyage, of the Saracens in whose power some of them had been, and of the joyous and wonderful life of field and camp. They expressed with great animation their indignation, when they learned that the heavenly birth-place of Christendom was in the power of the unbelieving heathen. They exalted those great heroes, who had earned for themselves an immortal crown, by their persevering endeavors against this lawless people. The lord of the castle showed the rich sword, which he had taken from their leader with his own hand, after he had conquered his castle, slain him, and made his wife and children prisoners, which deeds, by the permission of the emperor, were represented on his coat of arms. All examined the splendid sword. Henry took it and felt suddenly inspired with warlike ardor. He kissed it with fervent devotion. The knight rejoiced at his sympathy with their feelings. The old man embraced him, and encouraged him to devote his hand also forever to the deliverance of the holy sepulchre, and to have affixed to his shoulder the marvel-working cross. He was enraptured, and seemed hardly able to release the sword. ”Think, my son,” cried the old knight, ”a new crusade is on the point of departure. The emperor himself will lead our forces into the land of the morning. Throughout all Europe the cry of the cross is sounding anew, and everywhere heroic devotion is excited. Who knows that we may not, a year hence, be sitting at each other's side in the great and far renowned city of Jerusalem, as joyful conquerors, and think of home over the wine of our fatherland? You will see here, at my house, a maiden from the holy land. Its maidens appear very charming to us of the West; and if you guide your sword skilfully, beauteous captives shall not be wanting.”

The knights sang with a loud voice the Crusade-song, which at that time was a favorite throughout Europe.

The grave in heathen hands remaineth; The grave, wherein the Savior lay, Their cruel mockery sustaineth, And is unhallowed every day.

Its sorrow comes in stifled plea,-- Who saves me from this injury?

Where bides each valorous adorer?

The zeal of Christendom has gone!

Where is the ancient Faith's restorer?

Who lifts the cross and beckons on?

Who'll free the grave and rend in twain The haughty foe's insulting chain?

A holy storm o'er earth and billow Is rus.h.i.+ng through the midnight hour; To stir the sleeper from his pillow, It roars round city, camp, and tower, In wailful cry from battlements,-- Up, tardy Christian, get thee hence.

Lo, angels everywhere commanding With solemn faces, voicelessly,-- And pilgrims at the gates are standing With tearful cheeks, appealingly!

They sadly mourn, those holy men, The fierceness of the Saracen.

There breaks a red and sullen morrow O'er Christendom's extended field; The grief, that springs from love and sorrow, In every bosom is revealed; The hearth is left in sudden zeal, And each one grasps the cross and steel.

The armed bands are chafing madly, To rescue the Redeemer's grave; Toward the sea they hasten gladly, The holy ground to reach and save.

And children too obey the spell, The consecrated ma.s.s to swell.

High waves the cross, its triumph flinging On scarred hosts that rally there, And Heaven, wide its portal swinging, Is all revealed in upper air; For Christ each warrior burns to pour His blood upon the sacred sh.o.r.e.

To battle, Christians! G.o.d's own legion Attends you to the promised land, Nor long before the Paynim region Will smoke beneath His terror-hand.

We soon shall drench in joyous mood The sacred grave with heathen blood.

The Holy Virgin hovers, lying On angel wings, above the plain.

Where all, by hostile weapon dying, Upon her bosom wake again.

She bends with cheeks serenely bright Amid the thunder of the fight.

Then over to the holy places!

That stifled plea is never dumb!

By prayer and conquest blot the traces, That mark the guilt of Christendom!

If first the Savior's grave we gain, No longer lasts the heathen reign.

Henry's whole soul was in commotion. The tomb rose before him like a youthful form, pale and stately, upon a ma.s.sive stone in the midst of a savage mult.i.tude, cruelly maltreated, and gazing with sad countenance upon a cross, which shone in the background with vivid outlines, and multiplied itself in the tossing waves of the ocean.

Just at this time, his mother sent for him to present him to the knight's lady. The knights were deep in the enjoyments of the banquet, and in their imaginations as to the impending crusade, and took no notice of Henry's departure. He found his mother in close conversation with the old, kindhearted lady of the castle, who welcomed him pleasantly. The evening was serene, the sun began to decline, and Henry, who was longing after solitude and was enticed by the golden distance, which stole through the narrow, deep-arched windows into the gloomy apartment, easily obtained permission to stroll beyond the castle. He hastened, his whole soul in a state of excitement, into the free air. He looked from the height of the old rock down into the woody valley, through which a little rivulet brawled along, turning several mills, the noise of which was scarcely audible from the greatness of the elevation. Then he gazed toward the immeasurable stretch of woods and mountain-pa.s.ses, and his restlessness was calmed, the warlike tumult died away, and there remained behind only a clear, imaginative longing; He felt the absence of a lute, little as he knew its nature and effects. The serene spectacle of the glorious evening soothed him to soft fancies; the blossom of his heart revealed itself momently like lightning-flashes. He rambled through the wild shrubbery, and clambered over fragments of rock; when suddenly there arose from a neighboring valley a tender and impressive song, in a female voice accompanied by wonderful music. He was sure that it was a lute, and standing full of admiration he heard the following song in broken German.

If the weary heart is living Yet, beneath a foreign sky; If a pallid Hope is giving Fitful glimpses to the eye; Can I still of home be dreaming?

Sorrow's tears adown are streaming, Till my heart is like to die.

Could I myrtle-garlands braid thee, And the cedar's sombre hair!

To the merry dances lead thee, That the youths and maidens share!

Hadst thou seen in robes the fairest, Glittering with gems the rarest, Thy belov'd, so happy there!