“This is the holiest hour Of all the twenty-four, For the rush of day hath passed us, And the tide returns no more. “And the waves of toil and traffic, By dark argosies trod, Are lost through circling eddies In the mightiness of God. “This is the holiest hour When purest thoughts have birth, And I drink to the holiest maiden That ever dwelt on earth. “Her vesture falleth around her In folds of changeless white, And her holiness outshineth The jewels of the night. “She weareth a mantle of sadness, Her sorrows are her fame: She long hath been my chosen, But I will not name her name. “Ah! not with wine I pledge thee, All spotless as thou art, But with my life’s devotion, With the fulness of my heart. “Ah! not with wine I pledge thee, Nor one libation pour; Thou hold’st the bond that seals me, Thine own for evermore.” This with white brow uncovered, ’Neath the floating twilight skies; And angels might have marvelled At the beauty of his eyes. Then he turned his goblet downward, And waved the flask aside His comrades would have proffered To pledge such wondrous bride. “Friend, thou hast spoken strangely, But thou wert ever strange; Mayhap this matchless maiden Hath power thy mood to change.” Thus Adelbert spake, smiling, And shook his golden hair: “_I_ ask nor saint nor angel, But maiden fond and fair. “Then let us pledge each other, Since thy passion is too deep, With comrades tried and trusty, Its sacredness to keep. “What maiden like thy vision In all our fatherland?” “Ah! said I not,” cried Ludwig, “Ye would not understand?” “Come, let us pledge each other,” Said Otto, glass in hand-- “A right good draught of friendship That all may understand.” Then their glasses clashed together, “Firm may our fealty be!” And Ludwig’s voice of music Rang loudest of the three. * * * * * Seven times hath autumn gathered The vintage of the Rhine, Since the students pledged each other In draughts of golden wine. In a grand and lofty castle, The Danube’s stream beside, Count Otto dwells in splendor, The lord of acres wide. He has won the proudest maiden In all that German-land, And countless hosts of yeomen Obey his high command. But the haughty brow is clouded, And his eye is full of care, For the trace of many a heart-storm Hath left its impress there. Love had sought Adelbert, Young Beauty’s flow’ret blown, And the tendrils of its blossoms About his heart had grown. And joy had wrapped them softly In robes of radiant sheen, Till Death bent down, relentless, And sapped their living green.