d be."

She has faithfully followed the counsel. The three years have expired,
but still no tidings have come. As she appeals to the Virgin to bring him
back, the picture moves, the flame of the lamp upleaps, there is an
ominous knock at the door, and the voice of the apparition is heard
urging her to cease praying and follow him to his home. She implores him
to wait until the night is past, but the importunate Spectre bids her go
with him, and she consents. On they speed over rough bowlders, through
thorny brakes and swamps, attended by the baying of wolves, the
screeching of owls, the croaking of frogs, and the fitful glow of
corpse-candles. One by one he compels her to throw away her prayer-book,
chaplet, and cross, and resisting all her appeals to stop and rest, at
last they reach the churchyard wall. He calms her fears with the
assurance that the church is his castle and the yard his garden, and bids
her leap the wall with him. She promises to follow him, but after he has
cleared it, sudden fear seizes her; she flies to a tiny house near by and
enters. A ghastly scene takes place; spectres are dancing before the
door, and the moonlight reveals to her a corpse lying upon a plank. As
she gazes, horror-stricken, a knock is heard, and a voice bids the dead
arise and thrust the living one out. Thrice the summons is repeated, and
then as the corpse opens its eyes and glares upon her, she prays once
more to the Virgin. At this instant the crowing of a cock is heard. The
dead man falls back, the ghastly, spectral crew disappear, and night
gives way to a peaceful morning.

"All who to Mass at morning went
Stood still in great astonishment;
One tomb there was to ruin gone,
And in the dead-house a maiden wan;
On looking round, amazed were they,
On every grave a garment lay.

"Well was it, maiden, that thy mind
Turned unto God, defence to find,
For He thy foes did harmless bind;
Had'st thou thyself, too, nothing done,
Ill with thy soul it then had gone;
Thy body, as the garments were,
Mangled had been, and scattered there."

Such is the horrible story which forms the theme of Dvorak's cantata. It
was written for the Birmingham Festival of 1884, and the text was
translated by the Rev. Dr. Troutbeck, from a German translation of the
original poem made by K. J. Mueller. It contains eighteen numbers, each of
considerable length, of which eleven are descriptive, the barytone, with
chorus response,