Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister’s funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet’s bones.
But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweide.
Walther’s lyrical poems are distinguished from those of most of his contemporaries by a strong impress of sincerity and a wide range of thought.
When he hails the coming of the spring after a long winter, he imitates in the gladness of his heart the carols of the birds, and goes on in melodious verses to speak of the beauty of the lady to whom he dedicates his song, but whom he never names. In the next song the reader, to his surprise, will find the minstrel changed into a satirist, who denounces the political and religious corruptions of his time, rebukes the Pope for his worldly ambition and predicts a speedy ruin of the world. These are not all the notes of the scale on which his songs are constructed. As a specimen of his lighter and more popular style, the following strophe in praise of German women may serve:
In many foreign lands I’ve been And knights and ladies there have seen; But here alone I find my rest— Old Germany is still the best; Some other lands have pleased me well; But here—’tis here I choose to dwell. German men have virtues rare, And German maids are angels fair.
He rises to a higher strain than this in other lyrics, where he places domestic virtue above external beauty, and speaks of _minne_ in the higher interpretation of the word. “Even where it can not be returned,” he says, “if devoted to one worthy of it, it ennobles a man’s life. His affection for one teaches him to be kind and generous to all.” Walther pleasantly describes himself as by no means good-looking, and censures all praise bestowed on men for their merely exterior advantages. And he is no fanatical worshiper of feminine beauty, affirming that it may sometimes be a thin mask worn over bad passions.
With regard to their moral and social purport the verses of Walther have a considerable historical interest. They show us how insecurely the Church held the faith and loyalty of German men in the thirteenth century.
Walther is bold and violent in his defiance and contempt of the Pope’s usurpation of temporal authority. Referring in one place to a fable commonly believed in his times, he says: “When Constantine gave the spear of temporal power, as well as the spear and the crown to the See of Rome, the angels in heaven lamented, and well they might; for that power is now abused to annoy the emperor and to stir up the princes, his vassals against him.” The poet was as earnest in dissuading the people from contributing money to support the Crusades. “Very little of it,” he says, “will ever find its way into the Holy Land. The Pope is now filling his Italian coffers with our German silver.” This saying seems to have been very popular for a tame moralist who lived in Walther’s time complains that, by making such statements, the poet was perverting the faith of many people. “All his fine verses,” the moralist adds, “will not atone for that bad libel on Rome.” Yet the author of it was quite orthodox in doctrine, and was enthusiastic in his zeal for rescuing the Holy Sepulcher from the Saracens.