Quite recently unto her Court have come Two men--unknown their names or native home, Their rank or race; but one plays well the lute, The other is a troubadour; both suit The taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve, 'Neath opened windows, they obtain her leave To sing upon the terrace, and relate The charming tales that do with music mate. In August the Moravians have their fête, But it is radiant June in which Lusace Must consecrate her noble Margrave race. Thus in the weird and old ancestral tower For Mahaud now has come the fateful hour, The lonely supper which her state decrees. What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees, And clouds and fountains? That the people may Still bear their yoke--have kings to rule alway? The water flows, the wind in passing by In murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry. VII. THE BANQUET HALL. The old stupendous hall has but one door, And in the dusk it seems that more and more The walls recede in space unlimited. At the far end there is a table spread That in the dreary void with splendor shines; For ceiling we behold but rafter lines. The table is arranged for one sole guest, A solitary chair doth near it rest, Throne-like, 'neath canopy that droopeth down From the black beams; upon the walls are shown The painted histories of the olden might, The King of the Wends Thassilo's stern fight On land with Nimrod, and on ocean wide With Neptune. Rivers too personified Appear--the Rhine as by the Meuse betrayed, And fading groups of Odin in the shade, And the wolf Fenrir and the Asgard snake. One might the place for dragons' stable take. The only lights that in the shed appear Spring from the table's giant chandelier With seven iron branches--brought from hell By Attila Archangel, people tell, When he had conquered Mammon--and they say That seven souls were the first flames that day. This banquet hall looks an abyss outlined With shadowy vagueness, though indeed we find In the far depth upon the table spread A sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed, Striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works, And on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks. Loaded the table is with viands cold, Ewers and flagons, all enough of old To make a love feast. All the napery Was Friesland's famous make; and fair to see The dishes, silver-gilt and bordered round With flowers; for fruit, here strawberries were found And citrons, apples too, and nectarines. The wooden bowls were carved in cunning lines By peasants of the Murg, whose skilful hands With patient toil reclaim the barren lands And make their gardens flourish on a rock, Or mountain where we see the hunters flock. Gold fountain-cup, with handles Florentine,