In the dark lap of the mountain
For nigh a thousand years already
Sleeps Charlemagne
With his horde of heroes.

He sits upon a throne
As if withdrawn into himself,
Upon his head is the crown
And upon his knees his sword.

The heroic body is begirded
By well-made armour,
And unto the ground flows
His beard like red gold.

The trolls of the mountain work
And forge with great consideration
Much rare weaponry
For the great battle of the nations.

They fasten therein carbuncles
And gold and precious stones;
In the darkness of the mountain,
That casts a wondrous radiance.

The oldest of the dwarves,
He examines precisely and measures
How long there in the mountain
The emperor's beard has grown.

And hark! a muffled roar
Drones through the shaft from far away,
Like mighty thunder growling
In the dark spring night.

At that the imperial hero
Starts up from his dream
And calls out: "Already there is a roaring in the tree
Yonder upon the field of the Walser;

"The fresh sap is rising
Up the dried out trunk,
Soon from all the branches
Shall burst forth the adornment of blossoms.

"I hear distant roaring,
Battle cries and the stamping of horses;
That last national battle for
Germany’s greatness nears.

"Therefore I shall awaken you,
You sleepers in the night:
You paladins and warriors,
The emperor calls, awake!

"Now is the time to ride [forth]
With your weapons in your hand,
To win freedom in battle
For the German people and country."