The Song of Hildebrand.
“I must be up and riding,” spoke Master Hildebrand,
“’Tis long since I have greeted the distant Berner land;
For many a pleasant summer in foreign lands we‘ve been,
But thirty years have vanished since I my wife have seen.”
“Wilt thou be up and riding?” outspoke Duke Amelung;
“Beware! since one should meet thee—a rider brave and young.
Right by the Berner market—the brave Sir Alebrand;
If twelve men‘s strength were in thee, he‘d throw thee to the sand!”
“And doth he scorn the country in such a haughty mood?
I‘ll cleave in twain his buckler—‘twill do him little good;
I‘ll cleave in twain his armor with a resistless blow,
Which for a long year after shall cause his mother woe.”
Outspoke of Bern, Sir Dietrich, “now let that counsel be,
And slay him not, old hero, but take advice from me:
Speak gently to the Ritter, a kind word soonest mends;
And let your path be peaceful, so shall ye both be friends!”
And as he reached the garden, right by the mart of Berne;
There came against him riding, a warrior fierce and stern.
A brave young knight in armor, against Sir Hildebrand;
“What seekest thou, old Ritter, in this, thy father‘s land?”
“Thou bearest splendid armor, like one of royal kind;
So bright thy glit‘ering corselet, mine eyes are stricken blind;
Thou, who at home should‘st rest thee, and shun a warrior‘s stroke,
And slumber by the fireside,” the old man laughed and spoke.
“Should I at firesides rest me, and nurse me well at home,
Full many a fight awaits me, to many a field I‘ll come.
In many a rattling foray, shall I be known and feared;
Believe my word, thou youngster, ’twas thus I blanched my beard.”
“That beard will I tear from thee, though great may be thy pain.
Until the blood-drops trickling, have sprinkled all the plain;
Thy fair green shield and armor, must thou resign to me,
Than seek the town, contented my prisoner to be.
“My armor and my fair green shield have warded many a blow;
I trust that God in Heaven still will guard me from my foe.”
No more they spoke together, but grasped their weapons keen,
And what the two most longed for, soon came to pass, I ween!
With glittering sword, the younger struck such a sudden blow,
That with its force the warrior, Sir Hildebrand, bent low;
The youth in haste recoiling, sprang twelve good steps behind,
“Such leaps,” exclaimed the gray-beard, “were learned of womankind.”
“Had I learned ought of woman, it were to me a shame,
Within my father‘s castle are many knights of fame;
Full many knights and riders about my father throng,
And what as yet, I know not, I trust to learn ere long.”
Sir Hildebrand was cunning, the old gray bearded man,
For when the youth uplifted, beneath his sword he ran;
Around the Ritter‘s girdle his arms he tightly bound,
And on the ground he cast him—there lies he on the ground!
“Who rubs against the kittles, may spotless keep who can—
How fares it now, young hero, against the old gray man?
Now quickly speak and shrive thee, for I thy priest will be;
Say, art thou a young Wolfing? perhaps I‘ll let thee free.”
“Like wolves are all the Wolfing, they ran wild in the wood,
But I‘m a Grecian warrior, a rider brave and good;
Frau Ute is my mother, she dwelleth near this spot,
And Hildebrand, my father, albeit he knows us not!”
“Is Ute then thy mother, that monarch‘s daughter free?
Seekest thou thy father, Hildebrand? then know that I am he!”
Uplifted he his golden helm, and kissed him on the mouth;
Now God be praised that both are safe! the old man and the youth.
“Oh, father dear, those bloody wounds!” ’twas thus the young knight said:
“Now would I three times rather bear those blows upon my head.”
“Be still, be still, my own dear son! the wounds will soon be past;
And God in Heaven above be praised, that we have met at last!”
This lasted from the noonday well to the vesper tide,
Then back into the city Sir Alebrand did ride.
What bears he on his helmet? a little cross of gold;
Who is he that rides beside him? his own dear father old.
And with him to his castle, old Hildebrand he bore,
And with his own hands served him—the mother grieved full sore—
“Ah, son, my ever dearest son, the cause I fain would know,
Why a strange prisoner, like this, should e‘er be honored so?”
“Now, silence, dearest mother, and list to what I say!
He almost slew me on the heath in open light to-day;
He ne‘er shall wear, good mother, a prisoner‘s attire,
‘Tis Hildebrand, the valient, thy husband and my sire!
Oh, mother, dearest mother, do him all honor now;”
Then flew she to her husband, and served him well, I trow;
What holds the brave old father? a glittering ring of gold;
He drops it in the wine cup—it is her husband old!
We congratulate our readers on having survived the reading of the above poem, written a thousand years ago, about old Dietrich, the “father Abraham” of all the Hildebrands; but he must not forget that he is subject to a relapse, for here are two verses not taken from the “Book of Heroes,” but from an old popular song in use to this day among the peasantry in South Germany: