I think of that friend of the people that lady of long ago, That high-born dame of Hungary who felt the common woe— Who loved the work-worn multitude whose pillow is a stone, And felt beat in upon her heart their sorrow as her own. She bent to lift, for in her blood ran some heroic strain Of simple serving majesty strayed down from Charlemagne. Queen of a hundred legends, star of a misty past, While cities rise and cities fade, her memory will last. It was upon a Christmas eve, and all the world was white With snow that sent an awesome hush on hollow and on height; And green boughs bended with hoar weight, and under them the birds Huddled together, making friends with little hornèd herds. And far from soundless gorges in the soundless forest deep, The wild boar humped up closer in the hollow of his heap; And workers huddled in their huts among the stiffened trees, The doorstones blue with ice, the eaves with frosty filigrees. And Horsel’s peak hung ghostly still upon the wintry sky, But Wartburg’s castle-hall was filled with many a joyous cry, With hurrying feet and merry fleer of scullion, churl, and maid, For now within a happy hour the banquet must be laid. Pert pages in their purfled shoes went twinkling in and out, And from the towers came snatch of song and many a ruddy shout. Elizabeth was there above, among her maiden band, Spinning the new-cut wool to warm the naked of her land. (O serving queen, I honor thee—queen of a day gone down, Who carried dimly in thy heart the meaning of the crown!) And now the steward gave a sign, and on the frosty moats The sceptered heralds blew again their crisp and crinkling notes. There fell a momentary hush upon the corridors; Then stir of feet, then whisper of silk gowns across the floors Came onward like the tumult of white barley in the breeze; Then young Elizabeth the Moon, leading her Pleiades! Their robes were shot with thread of gold that into blossom broke, And jewels darkling in their hair at every motion woke— Yolinda, Bertrade, Thekla, Brune, Bertilla, Hildegarde, And Kinga, tallest of the seven, and by her side the bard, Gray Vogelweide, the lyric swan, telling with flash of youth, How once he stood against the world for Hungary and truth— How singing in this knightly hall, circled by courtly throng, He fought the star of Austria in Wartburg’s War of Song. Then the young sovereign Lewis and his guests swept glowing in— Lord, liegeman, shaggy baron, gallant knight and paladin, Each with a winsome lady and a wreath of storied days: Dark Rudolph home from Holy War with Lion Richard’s praise; Walter the Falconer, and Franz, the flower of Hesse’s men, Who brought Elizabeth a sword torn from a Saracen; Hellgraf with jewelled glove agleam high in his helmet’s hold,