Sir Oliver was not too glad; Upon his sword he'd stare: "For my own weal 'twere not so bad, I grieve, for good Old Clare." Said wicked Ganilon with gall (He said it 'neath his breath): "The devil come and take ye all-- Were I but spared this death!" Archbishop Turpin deeply sighed: "The knights of God are we. O come, our Savior, be our guide, And lead us o'er the sea!" Then spake Sir Richard Fearless stern: "Ye demons there in hell, I served ye many a goodly turn, Now serve ye me as well!" "My counsel often has been heard," Sir Naimes did remark. "Fresh water, though, and helpful word Are rare upon a bark." Then spake Sir Riol, old and gray: "An aged knight am I; And they shall lay my corpse away Where it is good and dry." And then Sir Guy began to sing-- He was a courtly knight: "Feign would I have a birdie's wing, And to my love take flight!" Then Count Garein, the noble, said: "God, danger from us keep! I'd rather drink the wine so red Than water in the deep." Sir Lambert spake, a sprightly youth: "May God behold our state! I'd rather eat good fish, forsooth, Than be myself a bait." Then quoth Sir Gottfried: "Be it so, I heed not how I fare; Whatever I must undergo, My brothers all would share." But at the helm King Charles sat by, And never said a word, And steered the ship with steadfast eye Till no more tempest stirred. * * * * * FREE ART[28] (1812) Thou, whom song was given, sing In the German poets' wood! When all boughs with music ring-- Then is life and pleasure good. Nay, this art doth not belong To a small and haughty band; Scattered are the seeds of song All about the German land. Music set thy passions free From the heart's confining cage; Let thy love like murmurs be, And like thunder-storm thy rage! Singest thou not all thy days, Joy of youth should make thee sing. Nightingales pour forth their lays In the blooming months of spring! Though in books they hold not fast What the hour to thee imparts, Leaves unto the breezes cast, To be seized by youthful hearts! Fare thou well, thou secret lore: Necromancy, Alchemy! Formulas shall bind no more, And our art is poesy. Names we deem but empty air; Spirits we revere alone; Though we honor masters rare. Art is free--it is our own! Not in haunts of marble chill, Temples drear where ancients trod-- Nay, in oaks on woody hill, Lives and moves the German God. * * * * * TAILLEFER[29] (1812) Duke William of the Normans spoke unto his servants all: "Who is it sings so sweetly in the court and in the hall? Who sings from early morn till the house is still at night So sweetly that he fills my heart with laughter and delight?"