tires.

Another, a Nieder-Rheinischer, watches the moon rise over the
Lowenburg, and thinks upon his love within the castle hall, till he
breaks out in a strange, sad, tender melody--not without stateliness
and manly confidence in himself and in his beloved--in the true
strain of the nightingale:


'Verstohlen geht der Mond auf,
Blau, blau, Blumelein,
Durch Silberwolkchen fuhrt sein Lauf.
Rosen im Thal, Madel im Saal, O schonste Rosa!
* * *
Und siehst du mich,
Und siehst du sie,
Blau, blau, Blumelein,
Zwei treu're Herzen sah'st du nie;
Rosen im Thal u. s. w.'


There is little sense in the words, doubtless, according to our
modern notions of poetry; but they are like enough to the long,
plaintive notes of the nightingale to say all that the poet has to
say, again and again through all his stanzas.

Thus the birds were, to the mediaeval singers, their orchestra, or
rather their chorus; from the birds they caught their melodies; the
sounds which the birds gave them they rendered into words.