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Rh Then various singers all at once arose; A fat Italian here, with birdlike tones, Sings Konrad's valour and great piety; And there a troubadour from the Garonne, The stories of enamoured shepherds sings, Of maids enchanted and of wandering knights.

Wallenrod slept;—meanwhile the songs are o'er. Awakened sudden by the loss of sound, He to the Italian cast a purse of gold. "To me alone," he said, "thou didst sing praise. Another may not give thee recompense; Take and depart Let that young troubadour. Who serveth youth and beauty, pardon us That in the knightly throng we have no damsel, To fasten a vain rosebud to his breast.

"The roses here are faded. I would have Another bard,—the cloister knight desires Another song; but be it wild and harsh. Like to the voice of horns, the clash of swords. And be it gloomy as the cloister walls, And fiery as a solitary drunkard.

"Of us, who sanctify and murder men. Let song of murderous tone proclaim the saintship,