She to Christ was given."

Then the halls he leaves for ever
Of his ancestors;
Shield or sword sets eyes on never,
Or his faithful horse.
Down from Toggenburg he fareth,
None to see or care;
On his noble limbs he weareth
Sackcloth made of hair:

And himself a hovel buildeth
That same cloister nigh,
Where the lime-tree thicket yieldeth
Cover whence to spy.
There, from morning's earliest traces
Till red evening shone,
Thither turned his hoping face is,
There he sits alone.

On the walls so high above him,
His eyes waiting hang,
Waiting, though she would not love him,
For her lattice-clang--
Waiting till the loved should send her
Glance into the vale,
And, unthinking, toward it bend her
Visage, angel-pale.

Then he laid him, sadness scorning,