A
rain as sharp as needle-points
Falls, icy cold and wetting;
The horses lash their dispirited tails,
And wade through the puddles, sweating.
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The
postillion tootles the good old tune—
I know every note that is in it—
"Three riders come galloping out through the gate;"
I grow drowsier every minute.
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Then
I fell asleep, and lo! in a dream,
The earth was cleft asunder,
And I stood by Barbarossa's side
In Kyffhäuser's cave of wonder.
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But
he was not sitting, a statue of stone,
By a stony chair and table;
Nor did he look quite so worthy of awe
As they picture him in the fable.
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He
showed me his rooms, and waddled about,
And chatted with intimate pleasure:
Like an antiquarian pointed out
Full many a curious treasure.
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In
the hall of armour he stopped to explain
How the club should be held and wielded;
And, using his ermine to polish some swords,
He rubbed till the rust had yielded.
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Then
he took up a pair of peacock's plumes,
And, adroit of hand, had quickly
Removed from the helmets and coats of mail
The dust that covered them thickly.
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"Of
the standard," he said, " I am proudest of
all;
Mark the wood; no worm has gnawed it.
And the silk, I maintain, is as good as new;
You will find not a moth has flawed it."
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When
we came to the hall, where the warriors armed
Lay asleep on their pallets lowly,
The old man said with a roguish grin,
"Hush ! Here we must walk more slowly,
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"And
talk in whispers in case they should hear;
For this, you must know, is a heyday;
Another hundred years have fled,
And brought us round to pay-day."
