And honour enow was his portion ere his manly courage bore The knight o'er the seas to conflict, for his journey I sorrow sore. For there came unto him true tidings, how the Baruch, his lord of old, Was beset by mighty foemen, by Babylon's princes bold: And the one he was called Ipomidon, and Pompey his brother's name 685 (For so hath the venture told me), a proud man of warlike fame. ('Twas not he whom Julius Cæsar had driven from Rome of yore). His uncle was Nebuchadnezzar, who in books found the lying lore That he himself should a god be, (o'er this would our folk make sport) And of noble race these brothers, nor of strength nor of gold spared aught. 690 From Ninus they came who was ruler ere ever Bagdad might be, Nineveh did he found--Now an insult and a shame vexed them bitterly, The Baruch as vassals claimed them--So the combat was won and lost, And bravely the heroes battled, and on each side they paid the cost. Thus Gamuret sailed the water, and aid to the Baruch brought, 695 And gladly he bade him welcome; tho' I weep that that land he sought! How it chanced there, how went the conflict, gain or loss, how the thing might be Naught of that knew Queen Herzeleide; and bright as the sun was she, And her form it was fair to look on, and both riches had she and youth, And more than too much her gladness! I think me in very truth 700 She had sped past the goal of all wishes--And on wisdom her heart was set, And she won from the whole world favour; her fair deeds with fair guerdon met, And all men praised Herzeleide, the queen, as both fair and true, And the queen of three kingdoms was she, of Waleis and fair Anjou, Of these twain was she aye the ruler; and beside them in far Norgals 705 Did she bear the crown and sceptre, in the city of Kingrivals. And so dear did she hold her husband, if never a maid might win So gallant a man, what recked she? She counted it not for sin. As for half a year he was absent she looked for his coming sure, For but in the thought of that meeting might the life of the queen endure. 710 Then brake the sword of her gladness thro' the midst of the hilt in twain, Ah me! and alas! for her mourning, that goodness should bear such pain And faith ever waken sorrow! Yea, so doth it run alway With the life of men, and to-morrow must they mourn who rejoice to-day!