Shades of his victims appeared to him,
Crowding in multitudes vast.

Long was this monster most obdurate, 300
Blind to the light from above,
Then flogged to death his chief satellite,
Cut off the head of his love,--

Scattered his gang in his penitence,
And to the churches of God
All his great riches distributed,
Buried his knife in the sod,

Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre,
Filled with repentance and grief;
Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage
Brought to his soul no relief. 311

When he returned to his Fatherland
Clad like a monk, old and bent,
'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite,
Life in the forest he spent.

There, from the Maker Omnipotent,
Grace day and night did he crave:
"Lord, though my body thou castigate,
Grant that my soul I may save!"

Pity had God on the penitent, 320
Showed him the pathway to take,