Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID. VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Würtzburg's minster towers. And he gave the monks his treasures, Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted Day by day, o'er tower and turret, On the tree whose heavy branches On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the cross-bars of each window, There they sang their merry carols, Till at length the portly abbot Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests. Then in vain, with cries discordant, Time has long effaced the inscriptions Where repose the poet's bones. But around the vast cathedral, DRINKING SONG. INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. COME, old friend! sit down and listen! Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's Vineyards, sing delirious verses. Thus he won, through all the nations, Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, These are ancient ethnic revels, Now to rivulets from the mountains Claudius, though he sang of flagons Even Redi, though he chaunted Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables; Ne'er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus' tables. Come, old friend, sit down and listen! THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. The house commemorated in the poem is the Gold house, now known as the Plunkett mansion, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, the homestead of Mrs. Longfellow's maternal grandfather, whither Mr. Longfellow went after his marriage in the summer of 1843. The poem was not written, however, till November, 1845, when, under date of the 12th of the month, he wrote in his diary: "Began a poem on a clock, with the words 'Forever, never,' as the burden; suggested by the words of Bridaine, the old French missionary, who said of eternity, C'est une pendule dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux, -Toujours, jamais! Jamais, toujours! Et pendant ces effrayables révolutions, un réprouvé s'écrie, 'Quelle heure est-il ? ' et la voix d'un autre misérable lui répond, 'L'Eternité.'"' SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; An ancient timepiece says to all, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, |