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;
Then on the fearful stillness broke
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
E'en to thought's whispers ere they die;
With all a mortal's awe I stand,

Yet with pure heart, and stainless hand..
To Heaven I lift that hand, 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,
Their trophies moulder fast away;
Around us and beneath us lie
The relics of his ancestry;

The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race,
Each in his last low dwelling-place:

But one is absent-o'er his grave
The palmy shades of Syria wave;
Far distant from his native Rhine,
He died unmourn'd, in Palestine;
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land,
To perish by a brother's hand!
Peace to his soul! though o'er his bed
No dirge be pour'd, no tear be shed,
Though all he loved his name forget,
They live who shall avenge him yet!"

"Accuser! how to thee alone

Became the fearful secret, known?"

"There is an hour when vain remorse First wakes in her eternal force; When pardon may not be retrieved, When conscience will not be deceived. He that beheld the victim bleed, Beheld, and aided in the deedWhen earthly fears had lost their power Reveal'd the tale in such an hour, Unfolding, with his latest breath,

All that gave keener pangs to death.”

66

By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been,

And by th' Atoner's cross adored,
And by th' avenger's holy sword,
By truth eternal and divine,
Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?"

"The cross upon my heart is prest, I hold the dagger to my breast;

If false the tale whose truth I swear,
Be mine the murderer's doom to bear!"

Then sternly rose the dread reply-
"His days are number'd-he must die!
There is no shadow of the night,
So deep as to conceal his flight;
Earth doth not hold so lone a waste,
But there his footstep shall be traced;
Devotion hath no shrine so blest,
That there in safety he may rest.
Where'er he treads, let Vengeance there
Around him spread her secret snare!
In the busy haunts of men,
In the still and shadowy glen,
When the social board is crown'd,
When the wine-cup sparkles round;
When his couch of sleep is prest,
And a dream his spirit's guest;
When his bosom knows no fear,
Let the dagger still be near,
Till, sudden as the lightning's dart,
Silent and swift it reach his heart!
One warning voice, one fearful word,
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard,
Then vainly may the guilty fly,

Unseen, unaided, he must die!

Let those he loves prepare his tomb,
Let friendship lure him to his doom!
Perish his deeds, his name,

his race,
Without a record or a trace!
Away! be watchful, swift, and free,
To wreak th' invisible's decree.

-

'Tis pass'd th' avenger claims his prey, On to the chase of death

away!"

And all was still- the sweeping blast
Caught not a whisper as it pass'd;
The shadowy forms were seen no more,
The tombs deserted as before;

And the wide forest waved immense,

In dark and lone magnificence.

In Lindheim's towers the feast had closed;
The song was hush'd, the bard reposed;
Sleep settled on the weary guest,
And the castle's lord retired to rest.
To rest! the captive doom'd to die,
May slumber, when his hour is nigh;
The seaman, when the billows foam,
Rock'd on the mast, may dream of home;
The warrior, on the battle's eve,
May win from care a short reprieve;
But earth and heaven alike deny
Their peace to guilt's o'erwearied eye;
And night, that brings to grief a calm,
To toil a pause, to pain a balm,
Hath spells terrific in her course,
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse,
Voices, that long from earth had fled,
And steps and echoes from the dead;
And many a dream, whose forms arise,
Like a darker world's realities!

Call them not vain illusions — born,
But for the wise and brave to scorn!
Heaven, that the penal doom defers,
Hath yet its thousand ministers,