this superb structure was burned in 1190, and since that period has,
from century to century, undergone some change.

I explored its interior, and was struck with awe on beholding
innumerable tombs, bearing dates as far back as the eighteenth century.
Under the galleries of the cloister I observed an obscure monument, a
bas-relief of the fourteenth century, and tried, in vain, to guess the
enigma. On one side are two men in chains, wildness in their looks, and
despair in their attitudes; on the other, an emperor, accompanied by a
bishop, and surrounded by a number of people, triumphing. Is it
Barbarossa? Is it Louis of Bavaria? Does it speak of the revolt of 1160,
or of the war between Mayence and Frankfort in 1332? I could not tell,
and therefore passed by.

As I was leaving the galleries, I discovered in the shade a sculptured
head, half protruding from the wall, surmounted by a crown of
flower-work, similar to that worn by the kings of the eleventh century.
I looked at it; it had a mild countenance; yet it possest something of
severity in it--a face imprinted with that august beauty which the
workings of a great mind give to the countenance of man. The hand of
some peasant had chalked the name "Frauenlob" above it, and I instantly
remembered the Tasso of Mayence, so calumniated during his life, so
venerated after his death. When Henry Frauenlob died, which was in the
year 1318, the females who had insulted him in life carried his coffin
to the tomb, which procession is chiseled on the tombstone beneath. I
again looked at that noble head. The sculptor had left the eyes open;
and thus, in that church of sepulchers--in that cloister of the
dead--the poet alone sees; he only is represented standing, and
observing all.