In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale,
For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung,
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung,
'Twas her own dear warrior's horn!
. . . . . .
"She died! he sought the battle plain;
Her image fill'd his dying brain,
When he fell and wish'd to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,