Out Ulrick went and beat them not-- To Eberhard back he came-- A lowering look young Ulrick got-- Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot-- He hung his head for shame.
"Ho--ho"--thought he--"ye rogues beware, Nor you nor I forget-- For by my father's beard I swear Your blood shall wash the blot I bear, And Ulrick pay you yet!"
Soon came the hour! with steeds and men The battle-field was gay; Steel closed in steel at Duffingen-- And joyous was our stripling then, And joyous the hurra!
"The battle lost" our battle-cry; The foe once more advances: As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky, We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by, Amidst a night of lances!
On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps-- Bright shines his hero-glaive-- Her chase before him Fury keeps, Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps, And round him--is the Grave!
Woe--woe! it gleams--the sabre-blow-- Swift-sheering down it sped-- Around, brave hearts the buckler throw-- Alas! our boast in dust is low! Count Eberhard's boy is dead!
Grief checks the rushing Victor-van-- Fierce eyes strange moisture know-- On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan, "My son is like another man-- March, children, on the Foe!"
And fiery lances whirr'd around, Revenge, at least, undying-- Above the blood-red clay we bound-- Hurrah! the burghers break their ground, Through vale and woodland flying!
Back to the camp, behold us throng, Flags stream, and bugles play-- Woman and child with choral song, And men, with dance and wine, prolong The warrior's holyday.
And our old Count--and what doth he? Before him lies his son, Within his lone tent, lonelily, The old man sits with eyes that see Through one dim tear--his son!
So heart and soul, a loyal band, Count Eberhard's band, we are! His front the tower that guards the land, A thunderbolt his red right hand-- His eye a guiding star!
Then take ye heed--Aha! take heed, Ye knaves both South and North! For many a man, both bold in deed And wise in peace, the land to lead, Old Swabia has brought forth!
[10] Of the two opening lines we subjoin the original--to the vivacity and spirit of which it is, perhaps, impossible to do justice in translation:--
"Ihr--Ihr dort aussen in der Welt, Die Nasen einges pannt!"
Eberhard, Count of Wurtemberg, reigned from 1344 to 1392. Schiller was a Swabian, and this poem seems a patriotic effusion to exalt one of the heroes of his country, of whose fame (to judge by the lines we have just quoted) the rest of the Germans might be less reverentially aware.