Collected Works (Vol. I)

TANNHAUSER 249 Great lord, true knight, and honest gentle- man, So long who journeyed on the holy quest Forgotten of these younger days, and now Come back among us to receive reward For those long sufferings ; in days of peace, In fruitful love, and marriage happiness. So, to the poet’s tourney. HERALD. Sire, Lord Heinrich Craves your high pardon. LANDGRAVE. Ha! He is not here! WOLFRAM. Our sturdy lover will not be consoled For losing, as he phrases it, his friend. LANDGRAVE. Well, we forgive him the more readily Because of the occasion. One alone Of all themes possible may grace this hour ;— Love! Let the lots of precedence be drawn. Tannhauser, you will string us once again Your harp forgotten? TANNHAUSER. That will I, my lord. HERALD. On the Lord Wolfram falls it first to sing. WOLFRAM (s22g5). Tender the smile, and faint the lover’s sigh, When first love dawns in the blue maiden sky, Where happy peace is linked with purity. As sad spring’s sun starts on his daily race, Reddens the east, as if in sad disgrace ; So love first blushes on true maiden’s face. Soft, soft, the gaze of married folk, I think, Limpid and calm as pools where cattle drink ; And, when they kiss, most discontentments shrink ! Even as the stars together sing (we hear) So sings the married life, a tuneful sphere. Hushand is he, and she is very dear. How truly beautiful it is to see Old age in perfect unanimity, Affections smooth, and buzzing like a bee. The sun sets, in conjunction with the moon. Death comes at last, a pleasure and a boon, And they arrive in heaven very soon. [ /mmense, Spontaneous, uncontrollable applause sweeps like a whirlwind through the court. AN UNKNOWN MINSTREL (breaking tn unheralded), Tender the phrase, and faint the melody, When poets praise a maiden’s purity ; Platitude linked to imbecility. [Murmurs of surprise. As ’mongst spring’s sprigs sprouts sunshine’s constant face ; Or as a mill grinds on, with steady pace ; So sprouts, so grinds, the unblushing commonplace. Soft, soft the brain— [Zhe murmurs break into an indig- nant uproar. HERALD. Silence ! LANDGRAVE, Sir Minstrel, you are insolent ! We do not know you, yet have borne with you, Rudely uprising ere your turn was come :— And you abuse our patience to insult The noble minstrel whose impassioned song Touched every heart. Sing in your turn you may. Love is the theme, not imbecility !