The fields, when the harvest is o’er. 
    Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle-roar,
    Whose banners stream’d upon the startled wind
      A thunder-storm,—­before whose thunder tread
    The mountains trembled,—­in soft sleep reclined,
      By the sweet brook that o’er its pebbly bed
    In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,
    Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more! 
    Here the true Spouse the lost-beloved regains,
    And on the enamell’d couch of summer-plains
      Mingles sweet kisses with the west-wind’s breath. 
    Here, crown’d at last—­Love never knows decay,
    Living through ages its one BRIDAL DAY,
    Safe from the stroke of Death!

* * * * *

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GRUMBLER, OF WURTEMBERG.

    Ha, ha I take heed—­ha, ha! take heed,[10]
      Ye knaves both South and North! 
    For many a man both bold in deed
    And wise in peace, the land to lead,
      Old Swabia has brought forth.

    Proud boasts your Edward and your Charles,
      Your Ludwig, Frederick—­are! 
    Yet Eberhard’s worth, ye bragging carles! 
    Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles—­
      A thunder-storm in war.

    And Ulrick, too, his noble son,
      Ha, ha! his might ye know;
    Old Eberhard’s boast, his noble son,
    Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run,
      How stout soe’er the foe!

    The Reutling lads with envy saw
      Our glories, day by day;
    The Reutling lads shall give the law—­
    The Reutling lads the sword shall draw—­
      O Lord—­how hot were they!

    Out Ulrick went and beat them not—­
      To Eberhard back he came—­
    A lowering look young Ulrick got—­
    Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot—­
      He hung his head for shame.

    “Ho—­ho”—­thought he—­“ye rogues beware,
      Nor you nor I forget—­
    For by my father’s beard I swear
    Your blood shall wash the blot I bear,
      And Ulrick pay you yet!”

    Soon came the hour! with steeds and men
      The battle-field was gay;
    Steel closed in steel at Duffingen—­
    And joyous was our stripling then,
      And joyous the hurra!

    “The battle lost” our battle-cry;
      The foe once more advances: 
    As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky,
    We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by,
      Amidst a night of lances!

    On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps—­
      Bright shines his hero-glaive—­
    Her chase before him Fury keeps,
    Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps,
      And round him—­is the Grave!

    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!