| |
| O’ER a low couch the setting sun | |
| Had thrown its latest ray, | |
| Where in his last strong agony | |
| A dying warrior lay,— | |
| The stern old Baron Rudiger, | 5 |
| Whose frame had ne’er been bent | |
| By wasting pain, till time and toil | |
| Its iron strength had spent. | |
| |
| “They come around me here, and say | |
| My days of life are o’er, | 10 |
| That I shall mount my noble steed | |
| And lead my band no more; | |
| They come, and to my beard they dare | |
| To tell me now, that I, | |
| Their own liege lord and master born,— | 15 |
| That I—ha! ha!—must die. | |
| |
| “And what is Death? I ’ve dared him oft | |
| Before the Paynim spear— | |
| Think ye he ’s entered at my gate, | |
| Has come to seek me here? | 20 |
| I ’ve met him, faced him, scorned him, | |
| When the fight was raging hot,— | |
| I ’ll try his might—I ’ll brave his power; | |
| Defy, and fear him not. | |
| |
| “Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,— | 25 |
| And fire the culverin,— | |
| Bid each retainer arm with speed,— | |
| Call every vassal in; | |
| Up with my banner on the wall,— | |
| The banquet-board prepare,— | 30 |
| Throw wide the portal of my hall, | |
| And bring my armor there!” | |
| |
| A hundred hands were busy then,— | |
| The banquet forth was spread,— | |
| And rung the heavy oaken floor | 35 |
| With many a martial tread, | |
| While from the rich, dark tracery | |
| Along the vaulted wall, | |
| Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, | |
| O’er the proud old Gothic hall. | 40 |
| |
| Fast hurrying through the outer gate, | |
| The mailed retainers poured, | |
| On through the portal’s frowning arch, | |
| And thronged around the board. | |
| While at its head, within his dark, | 45 |
| Carved oaken chair of state, | |
| Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, | |
| With girded falchion, sate. | |
| |
| “Fill every beaker up, my men, | |
| Pour forth the cheering wine; | 50 |
| There ’s life and strength in every drop,— | |
| Thanksgiving to the vine! | |
| Are ye all there, my vassals true?— | |
| Mine eyes are waxing dim;— | |
| Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, | 55 |
| Each goblet to the brim. | |
| |
| “Ye ’re there, but yet I see ye not. | |
| Draw forth each trusty sword,— | |
| And let me hear your faithful steel | |
| Clash once around my board: | 60 |
| I hear it faintly:—Louder yet!— | |
| What clogs my heavy breath? | |
| Up, all,—and shout for Rudiger, | |
| ‘Defiance unto Death!’” | |
| |
| Bowl rang to bowl,—steel clanged to steel, | 65 |
| And rose a deafening cry | |
| That made the torches flare around, | |
| And shook the flags on high:— | |
| “Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?— | |
| Slaves, traitors! have ye flown? | 70 |
| Ho! cowards, have ye left me | |
| To meet him here alone? | |
| |
| “But I defy him:—let him come!” | |
| Down rang the massy cup, | |
| While from its sheath the ready blade | 75 |
| Came flashing half-way up; | |
| And, with the black and heavy plumes | |
| Scarce trembling on his head, | |
| There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, | |
| Old Rudiger sat, dead. | 80 |
| |
