Shuddering he deem'd, that, far on high,
'Twas the wild huntsman rushing by,
Riding the blast with phantom speed,
With cry of hound, and tramp of steed,
While his fierce train, as on they flew,
Their horns in savage chorus blew,
Till rock, and tower, and convent round,
Rung to the shrill unearthly sound.

Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced
The forest paths, in secret haste;
Far other sounds were on the night,
Though lost amidst the tempest's might,
That filTd the echoing earth and sky,
With its own awful harmony.
There stood a lone and ruin'd fane,
Far in the Odenwald's domain,
'Midst wood and rock, a deep recess
Of still and shadowy loneliness.
Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown,
The wild-flower waved o'er the altar-stone,
The night-wind rock'd the tottering pile,
As it swept along the roofless aisle,
For the forest-boughs, and the stormy sky,
Were all that minster's canopy.

Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted O'er trophies of the long departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty, slumber'd, with their praise:

'Twas long since aught but the dews of Heaven
A tribute to their bier had given,
Long since a sound but the moaning blast
Above their voiceless home had pass'd.

So slept the proud, and with them all
The records of their fame and fall;
Helmet, and shield, and sculptured crest,
Adorn'd the dwelling of their rest,
And emblems of the Holy Land
Were carved by some forgotten hand;
But the helm was broke, the shield defaced,
And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced;
And the scatter'd leaves of the northern pine
Half hid the palm of Palestine.
So slept the glorious—lowly laid,
As the peasant in his native shade;
Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme,
All that high deeds could win from time!

What footsteps move, with measured tread,
Amid those chambers of the dead?
What silent, shadowy beings glide
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside,
Peopling the wild and solemn scene
With forms well suited to its mien?
Wanderer, away! let none intrude
On their mysterious solitude!
Lo! these are they, that awful band,
The secret Watchers of the land,
They that, unknown and uncontroll'd,
Their dark and dread tribunal hold.

They meet not in the monarch's dome, They meet not in the chieftain's home; But where, unbounded o'er their heads, All heaven magnificently spreads, And from its depths of cloudless blue The eternal stars their deeds may view! Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod By roving foot are seldom trod; Where'er the pathless forest waves, Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves; Where'er wild legends mark a spot, By mortals shunn'd, but unforgot, There, circled by the shades of night, They judge of crimes that shrink from light, And guilt, that deems its secret known To the One unslumbering eye alone, Yet hears their name with a sudden start, As an icy touch had chilPd its heart, % For the shadow of th' avenger's hand

Rests dark and heavy on the land.

There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom
And woke the echoes of the tomb,
As if the noble hearts beneath
Sent forth deep answers to its breath.

"When the midnight stars are burning,
And the dead to earth returning;
When the spirits of the blest
Rise upon the good man's rest;
When each whisper of the gale
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale;

In the shadow of the hour

That o'er the soul hath deepest power,

Why thus meet we, but to call

For judgment on the criminal?

Why, but the doom of guilt to seal,

And point th' avenger's holy steel?

A fearful oath has bound our souls,

A fearful power our arm controls!

There is an ear, awake on high,

E'en to thought's whispers, ere they die;

There is an eye, whose beam pervades

All depths, all deserts, and all shades;

That ear hath heard our awful vow,

That searching eye is on us now!

Let him whose heart is unprofaned,

Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain'd—

Let him, whose thoughts no record keep

Of crimes, in silence buried deep,

Here, in the face of Heaven, accuse

The guilty whom its wrath pursues!"

'Twas hushed—that voice of thrilling sound, And a dead silence reign'd around. Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form, Tower'd like a phantom in the storm; Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, With its dark folds his face to shroud, Through pillar'd arches on he pass'd, With stately step, and paused at last, Where, on the altar's mouldering stone, The fitful moonbeam brightly shone;

VOL. III. C

Then on the fearful stillness hroke
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke:

"Before that eye, whose glance pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades;
Heard by that ear awake on high
Een to thought's whispers ere they die;
With all a mortal's awe I stand,
Yet with pure heart, and stainless hand.
To Hea ven I lift that nand and call
For judgment on the criminal;
The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues,
It cries for vengeance—I accuse!"

"Name thou the guilty ! say for whom Thou claim'st th' inevitable doom!

"Albert of Lindheim—to the skies The voice of blood against him cries; A brother's blood—his hand is dyed With the deep stain of fratricide. One hour, one moment, hath reveal'd, What years in darkness had conceal'd, But all in vain—the gulf of time Refused to close upon his crime; And guilt that slept on flowers, shall know, The earthquake was but hush'd below!

Here, where amidst the noble dead, Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; Where, left by him to dark decay,