I have wandered in the mountains, mist-bewildered,
And now a breeze comes, and the veil is lifted,
And priceless flowers, o'er which I trod unheeding,
Gleam ready for my grasp. She loves me then!
She who to me was as a nightingale
That sings in magic gardens, rock-beleaguered,
To passing angels melancholy music--
Whose dark eyes hung, like far-off evening stars,
Through rosy-cushioned windows coldly shining
Down from the cloud-world of her unknown fancy--
She, for whom holiest touch of holiest knight
Seemed all too gross--who might have been a saint
And companied with angels--thus to pluck
The spotless rose of her own maidenhood
To give it unto me!
Wal. You love her then?
Lewis. Look! if yon solid mountain were all gold,
And each particular tree a band of jewels,
And from its womb the Niebelungen hoard
With elfin wardens called me, 'Leave thy love
And be our Master'--I would turn away--
And know no wealth but her.
Wal. Shall I say this to her?
I am no carrier pigeon, Sir, by breed,
But now, between her friends and persecutors,
My life's a burden.
Lewis. Persecutors! Who?
Alas! I guess it--I had known my mother
Too light for that fair saint,--but who else dare wink
When she is by? My knights?
Wal.
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