Classic Poem

" Sir Otto vom Bühl, the need is dread,
Your lealty now may show;
The field is red, the brothers are dead,
Behind us presses the foe.
I grieve for many a shattered shield
And many a good spear broken,
But more for the cup in my cloak concealed,
The sacrament's holy token.
On battlefields its rim we kissed
Our peace with God to make;
In scorn, at their dissolute victory-feast
Shall pagans that chalice take?
Sir Otto, if young and strong you feel,
Yet once more turn your horse,
And seek with your sharp, swinging steel
To check the rabble's course.
If only so long you hold it there
As an Ave you repeat,
The cup, for which you so much dare
Is saved by my charger fleet. "
Sir Otto of danger took slight heed,
Said " Aye, " and nothing more;
The master's steed shot thence with speed,
The moonlight streaming o'er;
And as the white cloak's broidered cross
To sight was nearly lost,
Came rushing on, with foam-flecked horse,
The Lithuanian host.
And, far away, as the mantle rose
And sank like a swan in flight,
They fell with fast and furious blows
Upon the brave young knight.
Incessant flashed their scimitars' sheen
And hollow their clubs resounded,
And raging battle-cries between
Like hungry wolf-howls sounded.
Sir Otto vom Bühl cried " Ave Marie! "
Nor swung his sword in vain;
The leader fell from saddle to knee,
His temple cleft in twain.
And still to his text the hero kept,
His aim was sure and dread;
The standard-bearer downward swept,
The banner over him spread.
Thus, word by word and stroke by stroke,
A brave prayer that to pray!
At every word the hero spoke,
Mowed down, a heathen lay.
Wide gaps were rent in his shirt of mail,
Its rings were tinged with red;
Yet never once did his spirit fail,
Each stroke laid one more dead.
His horse sank down, his shield was sprung,
On foot he fought anew;
His heavy sword with both hands swung
And prayed the Greeting through.
And as to an end the Ave came
He struck a last, fierce blow,
Then, in a towering, corpse-piled frame,
Bleeding and pale, sank low.
His tongue grew dumb, his arm grew weak,
His heart stood still in death;
His latest pang — he could not speak
And give the Amen breath.
The foe, in haste, their steeds swung round
No more such work to see;
The holy relic asylum found
Through the brave knight's " Ave Marie! "
May God award him blissful rest,
Thus battle-tempest driven;
He who on earth that prayer addressed
May say the Amen in Heaven.