'Swift, swift, good steed, death's on thy speed,
Gain Isenburg ere morn;
Though far the way, there lodged our prey,
We laugh the Prince to scorn.
'There Konrad's den and merry men
Will safely hold the boys--
The Prince shall grieve long ere we leave
Our hold upon his joys.
'But hark! but hark! how through the dark
The castle bell is tolling,
From tower and town o'er wood and down,
The like alarm notes rolling.
'The peal rings out! echoes the shout!
All Saxony's astir;
Groom, turn aside, swift must we ride
Through the lone wood of fir.'
Far on before, of men a score
Prince Ernst bore still sleeping;
Thundering as fast, Kunz came the last,
Carrying young Albrecht weeping.
The clanging bell with distant swell
Dies on the morning air,
Bohemia's ground another bound
Will reach, and safety there.
The morn's fresh beam lights a cool stream,
Charger and knight are weary,
He draws his rein, the child's sad plain
He meets with accents cheery.
'Sir Konrad good, be mild of mood,
A fearsome giant thou!
For love of heaven, one drop be given
To cool my throbbing brow!'
Kunz' savage heart feels pity's smart,
He soothes the worn-out child,
Bathes his hot cheeks, and bending seeks
For woodland berries wild.
A deep-toned bark! A figure dark,
Smoke grimed and sun embrowned,
Comes through the wood in wondering mood,
And by his side a hound.
'Oh, to my aid, I am betrayed,
The Elector's son forlorn,
From out my bed these men of dread
Have this night hither borne!'
'Peace, if thou 'rt wise,' the false groom cries,
And aims a murderous blow;
His pole-axe long, his arm so strong,
Must lay young Albrecht low.
See, turned aside, the weapon glide
The woodman's pole along,
To Albrecht's clasp his friendly grasp
Pledges redress from wrong.
Loud the hound's note as at the throat
Of the false groom he flies;
Back at the sounds Sir Konrad bounds:
'Off hands, base churl,' he cries.
The robber lord with mighty sword,
Mailed limbs of giant strength--
The woodman stout, all arms without,
Save his pole's timber length--
Unequal fight! Yet for the right
The woodman holds the field;
Now left, now right, repels the knight,
His pole full stoutly wields.
His whistle clear rings full of cheer,
And lo! his comrades true,
All swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty,
Burst on Sir Konrad's view.
His horse's rein he grasps amain
Into his selle to spring,
His gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel
Has caught, his weapons ring.
His frightened steed with wildest speed
Careers with many a bound;
Sir Konrad's heel fast holds the steel,
His head is on the ground.
The peasants round lift from the ground
His form in woeful plight,
To convent cell, for keeping well,
Bear back the robber knight.
'Our dear young lord, what may afford
A charcoal-burners' store
We freely spread, milk, honey, bread,
Our heated kiln before!'