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!"