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Rh Thus do the leaders of the Order's council Discourse of Konrad's virtues. But one fault Was his,—for who may spotless be from faults? Konrad loved not the riots of the world, Nor mingled Konrad in the drunken feast. Though truly, in his secret chamber locked, When weariness or sorrow tortured him, He sought for solace in a burning draught; And then he seemed a new form to indue, And then his visage pallid and severe A sickly red adorned, and his large eyes, Erst heavenly blue, but somewhat now by time Dulled and extinguished, shot the lightnings forth Of ancient fires, while sighs of grief escape From forth his breast, and with the pearly tear The laden eyelid swells; the hand the lute Seeks, the lips pour forth songs; the songs are sung In speech of a strange land, but yet the hearts Of the hearers understand them. 'Tis enough To list that grave-like music, 'tis enough The singer's form to contemplate, to see Memory's inspiration on that face. To view the lifted brows and sideward looks, Striving to snatch some object from deep darkness. What may the hidden thread be of the songs?