I cannot hold the field—
I faint! My strength, my pride,
Has left me here to yield—
True Eckart's from my side.
It was not thus of old,
When war raged fierce and strong—
The last to have it told,
He loved his home too long.
Now, see they trooping come—
Not long my sword is mine:
Flight's made for the base groom—
I'll die as died my line."
With that he raised his sword,
And would have smote his breast;
When, truer than his word,
Good Eckart forward prest.
Back spurn'd the vaunting foe,
And dashed into the throng;
Nor was his bold son slow
To bring his knights along.
The bold duke saw the sign,
And cried, "Now, God be praised!
Now tremble, foemen mine,
My drooping hopes be raised!"
Again he charged and cheer'd,
True Eckart wins the fight;
"But where's his boy?" he heard;
"No more he sees the light."
When now the foe was fled,
Out spoke the duke aloud;
"Well hath it with me sped,
Yet Eckart's head is bow'd.
Though many thou hast slain,
For country and for life;
Thy son lies on the plain,
No more to join the strife."
Then Eckart's tears flow'd fast,
Low stoop'd the warrior down;
Embraced and kiss'd his last,
And sadly made his moan.