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None dared with him the strife of keen-edged
swords,^[1]
By one accord the victor's garland yielding.
But not alone amid Crusading hosts
He with the sword had glorified his youth;
For many Christian graces him adorn,
Poverty, humbleness, of earth disdain.

But Konrad shone not in the courtly crowd
By polished speech, by well-turned reverence;
Nor e'er his sword for vile advantage sold
To service of disputing barons. He
Had consecrated to the cloister walls
His youthful years; all plaudits he disdained,
And ruler's place, even higher, sweeter meeds.
Nor minstrel's hymn, nor beauty's fair regard
Could speak to his cold spirit. Wallenrod
Listens unmoved to praise, and looks afar
On lovely cheeks, enchanting discourse flies.

Had Nature made him thus unfeeling, proud?
Or age? For albeit young in years, his locks
Were grey already, withered were his looks,
And sufferings sealed by age.—Twere hard to guess.
He would at times divide the sports of youth,

1. Note 3