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"Rejoice we in the Lord!" cried thousand voices.
The silver shone, the wine poured forth in streams.

Silent sat Wallenrod, upon his elbow
Leaning, and heard with scorn the unseemly
noise.
The uproar ceased; scarcely low-spoken jests
Alternate here and there the cup's light clash.

"Let us rejoice," he says. "How now, my
brethren!
Beseems it valiant knights to thus rejoice?
One time a drunken clamour, now low murmurs?
Must we then feast like bandits or like monks?

"There were far other customs in my time,
When on the battlefield with corpses piled,
On Castile's mountains or in Finland's woods,
We drank beside the camp-fire.

"Those were songs!
Is there no bard, no minstrel in the crowd?
Wine maketh glad indeed the heart of man,
But song it is that forms the spirit's wine."