Beneath the castle window Each night were heard the strains Of a poor love-smitten noble, Who lived away out on the plains, And walked ten weary miles each night, To woo the Baron’s daughter, Who lived in the gloomy castle That stood by the Rhine’s blue water. Oh, Kleinfelter burned with a desperate passion, And he fixed it in music somewhat to this fashion: “Oh transcendental Hinda, Look from thy latticed window, As here I sadly linger And with a trembling finger I thrum the strings Of my sad guitar, Or knock the ashes From my fragrant cigar Fairest of Heaven’s handiwork, Sweetest of nature’s candy-work, Here I pledge upon thine altar, Love that knows not how to falter. Grant, oh, grant some sweet return, Nor my deep devotion spurn; Let me have thy gentle heart or Even a buckle of your garter!” V. Now Kleinfelter’s singing Was undoubtedly splendid, And its musical ringing Could not easily be mended It was soft and sweet and then it was loud As a singing saint’s on a shining cloud; Clear as the lark’s own morning call, With a silvery chime like a waterfall. So he had scarcely uttered a note, When Hinda’s heart rose up in her throat, Her breast felt a pang and her head felt a dizziness, Oh, Kleinfelter’s serenade finished the business! VI. I know a maiden, Her eyes are black As the flying cloud Of the tempest’s rack, And the radiant glow Of their glorious fire Would quell and tame A lion’s ire. Sometimes they brighten And lighten in gladness, Sometimes their dark depths Are shadowed with sadness, But pensive or mirthful, A soul flashes through, That will silently charm you And win and subdue. Often have I heard her play On the guitar some roundelay, And as her white hands swept the strings, Melody unsealed its springs, And her sweet voice, though low and soft, Rose like a seraph’s hymn aloft, Rising and sinking in gentle swells; Like a murmuring brook with its liquid bells, Till the vanquished soul was borne along On the rushing tide of resistless song. VII.