The bloom of the Minnesong passed away in the latter half of the thirteenth century. The songs became theological, didactic, political, more and more forced and complicated in form, more and more filled with quaint new figures, far-fetched conceits, and obscure allusions. Then gradually developed the school of the Meistersingers, who formed themselves into a guild of poets to which only those were admitted who passed examination upon the difficult technical rules that had been built up. The poetry of the Meistersinigers was, for the most part, tedious and artificial. The poets were not nobles and soldiers, but burghers and artisans. They reached their highest development in the sixteenth century. The most famous of them was Hans Sachs (1494-1575), who, in the space of fifty-three years, wrote 6181 pieces of verse. DIETMAR VON AIST. Twelfth Century. By the heath stood a lady All lonely and fair; As she watched for her lover, A falcon flew near. "Happy falcon!" she cried "Who can fly where he list, And can choose in the forest The tree he loves best! "Thus, too, had I chosen One knight for mine own, Him my eye had selected, Him prized I alone: But other fair ladies Have envied my joy, And why? for I sought not Their bliss to destroy. "As to thee, lovely summer, Returns the birds' strain, As on yonder green linden The leaves spring again, So constant doth grief At my eyes overflow, And wilt not thou, dearest, Return to me now?" "Yes, come, my own hero, All others desert! When first my eye saw thee, How graceful thou wert; How fair was thy presence, How graceful, how bright! Then think of me only, My own chosen knight!" . . . . . . There sat upon the linden-tree A bird and sang its strain; So sweet it sang, that, as I heard, My heart went back again: It went to one remembered spot, I saw the rose-trees grow, And thought again the thoughts of love There cherished long ago. A thousand years to me it seems Since by my fair I sat, Yet thus to have been a stranger long Was not my choice, but fate: Since then I have not seen the flowers, Nor heard the birds' sweet song; My joys have all too briefly passed, My griefs been all too long. --Tr. by Taylor. WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. Early nineteenth Century. UNDER THE LINDEN. Under the linden On the meadow Where our bed arrange'd was, There now you may find e'en In the shadow Broken flowers and crushe'd grass. Near the woods, down in the vale Tandaradi! Sweetly sang the nightingale. I, poor sorrowing one, Came to the prairie, Look, my lover had gone before. There he received me-- Gracious Mary!-- That now with bliss I am brimming o'er. Kissed he me? Ah, thousand hours! Tandaradi! See my mouth, how red it flowers!