Classic Poem

Attend, I say, all ye who can!
I'll have you understand
That many a right worthy man,
And heroes ever in the van,
Were born in Suabia's land.

Edward and Charles I disregard:
Frederick and Louis—Tush!
Why, all the set I would discard:—
Give me our Count of Eberhard,
Fierce as the storm-cloud's rush.

And Ulrich too, his worthy son,
Who loved the clash of steel;
By Ulrich, fighting once begun,
No forward step was e'er undone
In battle's dread appeal.

The Reutlingers at our array
Vow vengeance loud and deep,
Keen for the laurels of the day;
Right valiantly their sabres play,
Or from their girdles peep.

He fell upon them—but in vain,
And came bespattered home.
His father glanced in fierce disdain;
The youthful warrior fled amain,
And tears began to come.
Abide, ye rogues! he cried, beware!
(Ashamed and smarting sore)
For by my father's beard I swear
This trifling error to repair
And steep in burghers' gore.

And soon the tumult raged again,
And men and horses pressed
To Doffingen with clanging train:
Scarce could the youth his fury chain,
And shouted with the best.

Passed was the watchword of the day—
It was “the battle lost.”—
Like whirlwinds whistled round the fray,
And smeared with blood we forced our way
Amid the Lancer host.

With lion rage the youthful knight
Tosses his gleaming brand;
Before him wildly heaves the fight,
Behind him oaths and groans unite,
Lo, death on every hand.

Ah! woe is me, a sabre slash
Full on his neck descends.
His comrades haste to tend the gash
In vain.—His teeth unconscious gnash,
And his last breath he spends.

The victor's onward path was stayed,
Wept friend and foe alike.
Then did the Count his knights upbraid:
“Like other men my son is made!
Forward, my sons, and strike!”

With doubled rage the lances ply,
All hearts for vengeance thrill;
Heap upon heap the bodies lie,
Until pell-mell the burghers fly
O'er wood and dale and hill.

Then back with merry trumpet sound
Into the camp we came;
And old and young with joyful bound
Danced, as the foaming cup went round,
Our triumph to proclaim.

But our old Count—ay, what of him,
Confronted with his dead?
Within his tent, alone and grim,
He sits and views with eyelids dim
The son whose soul has fled.

And thus it is we deeply rue
Our lord, whom we have lost;
The thunders did his arms endue,
Him as our country's star we knew
—Himself a hero-host!

Then, hearken to me all who can!
I'll have you understand
That many a right worthy man,
And heroes ever in the van,
Were born in Suabia's land.