w my smouldering vengeance to a flame.
Now seems my destiny to near its end;
Nought the Crusaders can withhold from war.
A messenger from Rome came yesterday.
From the world's every quarter, clouds unnumbered
A pious zeal hath gathered in the field,
And all call out to me to lead them on
With sword and cross upon the walls of Wilna.
And yet--with shame I must confess--ev'n now,
While destinies of mighty nations pend,
I think of thee, and still invent delays,
That we may pass together one more day.
O youth! how fearful was thy sacrifice!
When young, love, happiness, a very heaven,
I for a nation's cause could sacrifice
With grief, but courage;--and to-day, grown old,--
To-day despair, my duty, and God's will
Compel me to the field, and still I dare not
Tear my grey head from these walls' pedestal,
That I may not forego thy sweet conversing.

He ceased. Groans only issued from the tower.
Long hours flowed by in silence. Now the night
Reddened, and now the water's stilly face
Blushed with the ray of dawn. Among the leaves
Of sleeping bushes with a rustling murmur
The morning freshness flew. The birds awoke
With their soft notes, then once again they ceased,
And by long-during silence gave to know
They had too early woken. Konrad rose,
Lifted his eyes unto the tower, and looked
With anguish on the grate. The nightingale
Awoke in song, then Konrad looked around.
'Tis morning! and he let his visor down,
And in his cloak's wide folds concealed his face.
With beckoning of his hand he signs adieu,
And in the bushes how is lost
Ev'n thus,
A spirit infernal from a hermit's door
Doth vanish at the sound of matin bell.

IV.

THE FESTIVAL.

IT was the Patron's day, a solemn feast;
Komturs and brethren to the city ride;
White banners wave upon the castle towers:
Konrad invites the knights to festival.

A hundred white cloaks wave around the board,
On every mantle is the long black cross,--These
are the brethren, and behind them stand
The young esquires to serve them, in a ring.

Konrad sat at the top; upon his left
The place was Witold's,8 with his leaders brave,--
One time their foe, to-day the Order's guest,
Leagued against Litwa as their firm ally.

The Master, rising, gives the festal word,
"Rejoice we in the Lord!" The goblets gleamed.
"Rejoice we in the Lord!" cried thousand voices.
The silver shone, the wine poured forth in streams.

Silent sat Wallenrod, upon his elbow
Leaning