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Where? vengeance upon whom?" the hearers cried.
The Master only, 'mid the murmuring crowd,
In silence sat with head bent down. He seemed
As deeply moved; each instant snatches cups
Of wine, and to the very bottom drains.
Upon him came a change of somewhat new,
Many emotions break in sudden lightnings,
And circle o'er his burning countenance;
His pale lips quiver, and his wandering eyes
Fly round like swallows in the midst of storm.
At last he cast his mantle off, and sprang
Into the midst. "Where is the story's end?
Sing me at once the end or give the lute.
Why stand'st thou trembling? Give the lute to me.
Fill up the goblets; I will sing the end
lf thou dost fear to sing it.

"I know ye. Every song the Wajdelote sings
Portendeth woe, as howls of dogs at night.
Murders and burnings ye delight to sing,
Ye leave to us—glory and sorrowing.
Yet in the cradle doth your traitorous song
Circle the infant's breast in reptile form,
And cruellest poison sheds into the soul,
Foolish desire of praise and patriot love.