The Duchess was highly pleased. Ekkehard had never before given her any proof of his skill in art. Praxedis looked with an arch smile at the purple mantle, which the Duchess wore on the picture, as if she could tell something more about it. Dame Hadwig made a sign to Ekkehard, to read and explain the poem. So he read out the following verses; which rendered into English are as follows: "In nightly silence sat I once alone, deciphering some parchments old and deep; When suddenly, a bright unearthly light, Lit up my room. 'T was not the moon's pale ray, And then, a radiant figure did I see. Immortal smiles were playing round his mouth, And in his rich and sable-coloured locks, He wore a crown of everlasting bay. And with his finger pointing to the book, He then spoke thus; 'Be of good cheer, my friend, I am no spirit, come to rob thy peace, I merely came to wish thee all that's good. All that which the dead letters here relate, I once have written with my own heart's blood: The siege of Troy, and then Æneas' flight The wrath of Gods, and splendid Roma's birth. Almost a thousand years have since gone by. The singer died,--his nation died with him. My grave is still; but seldom do I hear The distant shouts, at merry vintage time Or roar of breakers from the Cape Misene. Yet lately was I call'd up from my rest, By some rough gale, which coming from the North Brought me the tidings, that in distant lands, Æneas' fate was being read again; And that a noble princess, proud and fair Had kindly deigned, to dress my epic song In the bold accents of her native tongue. We once believed, the land beyond the Alps Was peopled by a rough, uncultured race;-- But now at home we long have been forgot, And in the stranger land we live again. Therefore I come, to offer you my thanks; The greatest boon, a minstrel can obtain It is the praise from noble woman's lip. Hail to thy mistress, who in union rare, Has strength and wisdom, in herself enshrined, And like Minerva in the ranks of Gods, In steel-clad armour sitteth on the throne, Fair patron yet of all the peaceful arts. Yet many years may she the sceptre wield, Surrounded by a strong and loving race. And when you listen to the foreign strains, Like armour rattling, and the clash of steel,-- Then think of me, it is Italia's voice, 'Tis Virgil greets the rock of Hohentwiel.' Thus spoke he, waved his hand and disappear'd. But I wrote down, still on that very night What he had said; and to my mistress now I shyly venture to present these leaves, A humble gift, from faithful Ekkehard."