'Peace, if thou 'rt wise,' the false groom cries, And aims a murderous blow; His pole-axe long, his arm so strong, Must lay young Albrecht low. See, turned aside, the weapon glide The woodman's pole along, To Albrecht's clasp his friendly grasp Pledges redress from wrong. Loud the hound's note as at the throat Of the false groom he flies; Back at the sounds Sir Konrad bounds: 'Off hands, base churl,' he cries. The robber lord with mighty sword, Mailed limbs of giant strength-- The woodman stout, all arms without, Save his pole's timber length-- Unequal fight! Yet for the right The woodman holds the field; Now left, now right, repels the knight, His pole full stoutly wields. His whistle clear rings full of cheer, And lo! his comrades true, All swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty, Burst on Sir Konrad's view. His horse's rein he grasps amain Into his selle to spring, His gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel Has caught, his weapons ring. His frightened steed with wildest speed Careers with many a bound; Sir Konrad's heel fast holds the steel, His head is on the ground. The peasants round lift from the ground His form in woeful plight, To convent cell, for keeping well, Bear back the robber knight. 'Our dear young lord, what may afford A charcoal-burners' store We freely spread, milk, honey, bread, Our heated kiln before!' IV. Three mournful days the mother prays, And weeps the children's fate; The prince in vain has scoured the plain-- A sound is at the gate. The mother hears, her head she rears, She lifts her eager finger-- 'Rejoice, rejoice, 't is Albrecht's voice, Open! Oh, wherefore linger?' See, cap in hand the woodman stand-- Mother, no more of weeping-- His hound well tried is at his side, Before him Albrecht leaping, Cries, 'Father dear, my friend is here! My mother! Oh, my mother! The giant knight he put to flight, The good dog tore the other.' Oh! who the joy that greets the boy, Or who the thanks may tell, Oh how they hail the woodman's tale, How he had 'trilled him well!' [Footnote: Trillen, to shake; a word analogous to our rill, to shake the voice in singing] 'I trilled him well,' he still will tell In homely phrase his story, To those who sought to know how wrought An unarmed hand such glory. That mother sad again is glad, Her home no more bereft; For news is brought Ernst may be sought Within the Devil's Cleft. That cave within, these men of sin Had learnt their leader's fall, The prince to sell they proffered well At price of grace to all.