And so his mind's in armour, And hope is conquering fear; When see, the fiendish Charmer Himself comes piping near! His sword to draw he essayeth, And smite the caitiff dead; But as the music playeth, His strength is from him fled. And from the mountains issue Crowds of distorted forms, Of Dwarfs a boundless tissue Come simmering round in swarms. The youths, possess'd, are running As frantic in the crowd: In vain is force or cunning; In vain to call aloud. And hurries on by castle, By tower and town, the rout; Like imps in hellish wassail, With cackling laugh and shout. He too is in the rabble; May not resist their force, Must hear their deafening babble, Attend their frantic course. But now the Hill appeareth, And music comes thereout; And as the Phantoms hear it, They halt, and raise a shout. The Mountain starts asunder, A motley crowd is seen; This way and that they wander, In red unearthly sheen. Then his broad-sword he drew it, And says: "Still true, though lost!" And with mad force he heweth Through that Infernal host. His youths he sees (how gladly!) Escaping through the vale; The Fiends are fighting madly, And threatening to prevail. The Dwarfs, when hurt, fly downward, And rise up cured again; And other crowds rush onward, And fight with might and main. Then saw he from a distance The children safe, and cried: "They need not my assistance, I care not what betide." His good broad-sword doth glitter And flash i' th' noontide ray; The Dwarfs, with wailing bitter, And howls, depart away. Safe at the valley's ending, The youths far off he spies; Then faint and wounded, bending, The hero falls and dies. So his last hour o'ertook him, Fighting like lion brave; His truth, it ne'er forsook him, He was faithful to the grave. Now Eckart having perish'd, The eldest son bore sway; His memory still he cherish'd, With grateful heart would say: "From foes and wreck to save me, Like lion grim he fought; My throne, my life, he gave me, And with his heart's blood bought." And soon a wondrous rumour The country round did fill, That when a desp'rate humour Doth send one to the Hill, There straight a Shape will meet him, The Trusty Eckart's ghost, And wistfully entreat him To turn, and not be lost. There he, though dead, yet ever True watch and ward doth hold; Upon the Earth shall never Be man so true and bold. PART II.