In Canossa’s castle courtyard
Stands the German Cæsar Henry,
Barefoot, clad in penitential
Shirt—the night is cold and rainy.
From the window high above him
Peep two figures, and the moonlight
Gregory’s bald head illumines
And the bosom of Mathilda.
Henry, with his lips all pallid,
Murmurs pious paternosters;
Yet in his imperial heart he
Secretly revolts and speaks thus:
“In my distant German country
“Upward rise the sturdy mountains;
“In the mountain-pits in silence
“Grows the iron for the war-axe.
“In my distant German country
“Upward rise the fine oak-forests;
“In the loftiest oak-stem ’mongst them
“Grows the handle for the war-axe.
“Thou, my dear and faithful country,
“Wilt beget the hero also
“Who in time will crush the serpent
“Of my sorrows with his war-axe.”