like the serpent's were thy body changed,
Yet of the past would in thy soul remain
Many things still,--truly they cleave to me.
Though after burial thou shouldst return,
Then, even then, would the Crusaders know thee!"
The knights attend,--'tis the recluse's voice;
They look upon the grate; she bending seems,
Towards the earth she seems her arms to stretch.
To whom? The region is all desert round;
Only from far strikes an uncertain gleam,
In likeness of a steely helmet's flame,
A shadow on the earth, a knightly cloak;--
Already it has vanished. Certainly
'Twas an illusion of the eyes, most certain
It was the rosy glance of morn that gleamed.
For morning's clouds now rolled away from earth.

"Brothers!" spoke Halban, "give we thanks to Heaven,
For certain Heaven's decree hath led us here;
Trust we to the recluse's prophet voice.
Heard ye? She made a prophecy of Konrad,--
Konrad, the name of valiant Wallenrod!
Let brother unto brother give the hand,
And knightly word, and in to-morrow's council
Our Master he!"6--"Agreed," they cried, "agreed!"

And shouting went they. Far along the vale
Resounds the voice of triumph and of joy;
"Long Konrad live! long the Grand-Master live!
Long live the Order! perish heathenesse!"

Halban remained behind, in deep thought plunged;
He on the shouters cast an eye of scorn
He looked towards the tower, and in low tones,
This song he sang, departing from the place:--

SONG.

Wilija, thou parent of streams in our land,
Heaven-blue is thy visage and golden thy sand;
But, lovely Litwinka,(1) who drinkest its wave,
Far purer thy heart, and thy beauty more brave.

Wilija, thou flowest through Kowno's fair vale,
Amid the gay tulips and narcissus pale.
At the feet of the maiden, the flower of our youth,
Than roses, than tulips, far fairer in sooth.

The Wilija despiseth the valley of flowers,
She seeks to the Niemen, her lover, to rove;
The Litwinka listens no love-tale of ours,
The youth of the strangers has filled her with love.

In powerful embrace doth the Niemen enfold,
And beareth o'er rocks and o'er wild deserts lone;
He presses his love to his bosom so cold,
They perish together in sea-depths unknown.

Thee too, poor Litwinka, the stranger shall call
Away from the joys of that sweet native vale;
Thou deep in Forgetfulness' billows must fall,
But sadder thy fate, for alone thou must fail.

For streamlet and heart by no warning are cro