On the seat the lady’s sitting, And the knight upon the footstool, And his head, by sleep o’erpower’d, On her darling knees is resting. From a golden flask some rose-oil Pours the lady, sadly musing, On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,-- From his inmost bosom sighs he. With her soft lips then the lady Gives a sweet kiss, sadly musing, On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,-- And his brow is clouded over. From her light eyes tears in torrents Weeps the lady, sadly musing, On Almansor’s dark-brown tresses,-- And his lips begin to quiver. And he dreams he’s once more standing With his head bent down and weeping In fair Cordova’s cathedral, Many gloomy voices hearing. All the lofty giant-columns Hears he murmuring full of anger,-- That no longer will they bear it, And they totter and they tremble. And they wildly fall together, Pale turn all the priests and people, Crashing falls the dome upon them, And the Christian gods wail loudly. THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR 1. The mother stood by the window, The son in bed lay he. “Wilt thou not rise up, William, “The fair procession to see?”-- “I am so ill, my mother, “I neither see nor hear; “I think of my poor dead Gretchen, “My heart is breaking near.” “Arise, let’s go to Kevlaar, “Take book and rosary too; “The mother of God will heal thee, “And cure thy sick heart anew.” In church-like tones they are singing, The banners flutter on high; At Cologne on the Rhine this happens, The proud procession moves by. The crowd the mother follows, Her son she leadeth now, And both of them sing in chorus: “O Mary, blessed be thou!” 2. The mother of God at Kevlaar Her best dress wears to-day; Full much hath she to accomplish, So great the sick folks’ array. The sick folk with them are bringing, As offerings fitting and meet, Strange limbs of wax all fashion’d, Yes, waxen hands and feet. And he who a wax hand offers, Finds cured in his hand the wound, And he who a wax foot proffers, Straight finds his foot grow sound. To Kevlaar went many on crutches Who now on the tight rope skip, And many a palsied finger O’er the viol doth merrily trip. The mother took a waxlight, And out of it fashion’d a heart: “My son, take that to God’s mother, “And she will cure thy smart.” The son took sighing the wax-heart, Went with sighs to the shrine so blest, The tears burst forth from his eyelids, The words burst forth from his breast: “Thou highly-favour’d blest one! “Thou pure and godlike maid! “Thou mighty queen of heaven, “To thee my woes be display’d!