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Updated: May 23, 2025
His highness landed, and was riding on Across a fresh-ploughed field where once, they say, A mighty city stood in Pagan times With Hapsburg's ancient turrets full in sight, Where all the grandeur of his line had birth When Duke John plunged a dagger in his throat, Palm ran him through the body with his lance, Eschenbach cleft his skull at one fell blow, And down he sank, all weltering in his blood, On his own soil, by his own kinsmen slain.
Think you the heart that's stirring here can brook, While all the young nobility around Are reaping honor under Hapsburg's banner, That I should loiter, in inglorious ease, Here on the heritage my fathers left, And, in the dull routine of vulgar toil, Lose all life's glorious spring? In other lands Deeds are achieved. A world of fair renown Beyond these mountains stirs in martial pomp.
STAUFFACHER. The assassins reap no profit by their crime; But we shall pluck with unpolluted hands The teeming fruits of their most bloody deed, For we are ransomed from our heaviest fear; The direst foe of liberty has fallen, And, 'tis reported, that the crown will pass From Hapsburg's house into another line. The empire is determined to assert Its old prerogative of choice, I hear.
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