“I must to the field, my daughter dear!
An evil fate from the stars I fear;
Then make me, girl! with thy tender hand,
A tunic that may all blows withstand.”

“How shall a maid's weak hand avail
To make thee, my father, a shirt of mail?
O'er the stubborn steel have I no power,
I spin and weave in the maiden's bower.”

“Yes! daughter—spin in the silent night
With threads that are steeled by hell's dread might,
And weave me a tunic, wide and long,
To guard me from harm in the battle's throng.”

I' the sacred night, as the full moon shines,
Alone, the maiden the threads entwines;
“In the name of hell”—she mutters low,
Swift doth the whirling spindle go.

From thence to the loom in haste she goes,
With trembling hand the shuttle throws;
As quickly the rustling work she plied
As if spirit-fingers wove beside.

When the host rode out to the battle-press,
The Duke had donned an unwonted dress;
A waving tunic, wide and white,
With awful figures and emblems dight.

All shun his arm as they'd shun a sprite;
For who so bold as to brave his might,
'Gainst whom is shivered the staunchest brand,
And the arrow rebounds to the archer's hand?

Before him standeth a youngster bold:
“Thou frayest me not! hold, murderer, hold!
Not thee shall the arts of hell bestead,
Thy charms are as mist, thy labour dead!”

Stern are the strokes on either side;
The tunic of proof with gore is dyed;
They fight till they fall on the crimsoned sand,
And either curseth the other's hand.

The daughter seeketh the field of blood:
“Where lieth the duke, that hero good?”
She finds the wounded and dying twain,
Shrilly she raises a shriek of pain.

“Is't thou, my daughter, O child unblest?
How didst thou spin the faithless vest?
Didst thou not seek hell's mighty aid?
Is not thine hand the hand of a maid?”—

“I sought, as thou saidst, hell's mighty aid,
But my hand is not the hand of a maid;
Thy slayer is not unknown to me,
So wove I—alas!—but a shroud for thee!”