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 To the halls where harps are ringing, Bards the praise of warriors singing, Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, Joyous voices mingling sweetly; Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, And the wine-cup brightly flowing, He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!

He came—he sought his Ella's bowers, He travers'd Lindheim's lonely towers; But voice and footstep thence had fled, As from the dwellings of the dead, And the sounds of human joy and woe Gave place to the moan of the wave below. The banner still the rampart crown'd, But the tall rank grass wav'd thick around; Still hung the arms of a race gone by, In the blazon'd halls of their ancestry; But they caught no more, at fall of night, The wavering flash of the torch's light; And they sent their echoes forth no more, To the Minnesinger's (2) tuneful lore, For the hands that touch'd the harp were gone, And the hearts were cold that lov'd its tone; And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, For life, and pow'r, and beauty gone.