Poems (Waldenburg)/Otto III
OTTO III.
The body of Charlemagne was embalmed, clothed in imperial robes and in the cathedral vault a marble throne was built, upon which he sat with all the insignia of royalty, and the tomb was sealed.
Deep lies on garden, street and
The silence of the night, square
Save, from th'imperial palace, there
Streams forth a sea of light.
From open casement swells the sound
Of song and wildest laugh;
By laden tables gathered round,
The wine brimmed glass they quaff!
The silence of the night, square
Save, from th'imperial palace, there
Streams forth a sea of light.
From open casement swells the sound
Of song and wildest laugh;
By laden tables gathered round,
The wine brimmed glass they quaff!
Where shadows hide the archéd door
Gleams forth a sudden light,
And tramping o'er the marble floor
Gleams forth a sudden light,
And tramping o'er the marble floor
Sway out upon the night
With waving swords and brows aflame
A wine-wild reckless band!
Each owner of a noble name,
But now with boastful hand
By their young Sire insanely led
They seek a deed of shame,
To break the slumber of the dead—
Great Emperor, Charlemagne!
With waving swords and brows aflame
A wine-wild reckless band!
Each owner of a noble name,
But now with boastful hand
By their young Sire insanely led
They seek a deed of shame,
To break the slumber of the dead—
Great Emperor, Charlemagne!
Through the old minster marching down
Beneath its aisles they halt.
The massive walls in silence frown
Stern guardians of the vault!
Oh this a deed that well might doom
A knight; a deed profane
Thus to disturb the ancient tomb.
Of honored Charlemagne!
Beneath its aisles they halt.
The massive walls in silence frown
Stern guardians of the vault!
Oh this a deed that well might doom
A knight; a deed profane
Thus to disturb the ancient tomb.
Of honored Charlemagne!
But soon upon the time worn walls,
Their mortar and their stone,
Each sharpened weapon swinging falls,
Till; yielding with a groan,
The fragments lie beneath their feet,
The torches gleam blood red.
The knights press on, the deed complete,
To face the mighty Dead!
From out the gloom a perfume pours
An eastern rare perfume!
The flick'ring torch still higher soars
And fills with light the tomb.
Their mortar and their stone,
Each sharpened weapon swinging falls,
Till; yielding with a groan,
The fragments lie beneath their feet,
The torches gleam blood red.
The knights press on, the deed complete,
To face the mighty Dead!
From out the gloom a perfume pours
An eastern rare perfume!
The flick'ring torch still higher soars
And fills with light the tomb.
He sits upon the marble throne
So sad, so stern, so great!
Upon his head the glittering crown,
Clothed in his robes of state.
The sceptre in his withered hand,
The dead eyes seem to glance,
As though he still ruled o'er the land,
Great Charlemagne of France!
So sad, so stern, so great!
Upon his head the glittering crown,
Clothed in his robes of state.
The sceptre in his withered hand,
The dead eyes seem to glance,
As though he still ruled o'er the land,
Great Charlemagne of France!
Hush! See the knights are bending low
In humbled earnest prayer,
Their homage yielding pale they bow
Before the greatnesss there!
And Otto's haughty form reveals
He owns the Kingly power,
Out to the midnight air he reels
And seals, that very hour,
The vault anew; In silent gloom
They place each massive stone,
And once again, within his tomb,
The Emperor sits alone!
In humbled earnest prayer,
Their homage yielding pale they bow
Before the greatnesss there!
And Otto's haughty form reveals
He owns the Kingly power,
Out to the midnight air he reels
And seals, that very hour,
The vault anew; In silent gloom
They place each massive stone,
And once again, within his tomb,
The Emperor sits alone!
But since that awful midnight hour
The Emperor Otto seems
Dumb from some overshadowing power,
And dead to youth's bright dreams.
At last in death his eyes grow dim
And still each shuddering vein
For through his life it followed him—
The glance of Charlemagne!
The Emperor Otto seems
Dumb from some overshadowing power,
And dead to youth's bright dreams.
At last in death his eyes grow dim
And still each shuddering vein
For through his life it followed him—
The glance of Charlemagne!