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Then various singers all at once arose;
A fat Italian here, with birdlike tones,
Sings Konrad's valour and great piety;
And there a troubadour from the Garonne,
The stories of enamoured shepherds sings,
Of maids enchanted and of wandering knights.

Wallenrod slept;—meanwhile the songs are o'er.
Awakened sudden by the loss of sound,
He to the Italian cast a purse of gold.
"To me alone," he said, "thou didst sing praise.
Another may not give thee recompense;
Take and depart Let that young troubadour.
Who serveth youth and beauty, pardon us
That in the knightly throng we have no damsel,
To fasten a vain rosebud to his breast.

"The roses here are faded. I would have
Another bard,—the cloister knight desires
Another song; but be it wild and harsh.
Like to the voice of horns, the clash of swords.
And be it gloomy as the cloister walls,
And fiery as a solitary drunkard.

"Of us, who sanctify and murder men.
Let song of murderous tone proclaim the saintship,