A Tale of the Secret Tribunal

Title Page

A Tale of the Secret Tribunal

By

Felicia Hemans

Preface

A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.

The Secret Tribunal*, which attained such formidable power towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and were bound, by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence cognizable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death, wherever he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons obnoxious to it were some times accused and condemned without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees of the order with the most devoted obedience, even should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their order in his council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow-branch, to the first tree; but, if circumstances obliged them to dispatch him with a poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions of the Sages, or Seers, (as they called themselves,) were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at length successful.

The following account of this extraordinary association is given by Madame de Staël:—"Des juges mysterieux inconnus l'un à l’autre, toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu'ils enforçoient dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Its prévenoient le condamné, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l'infortuné savoit que par-tout, dans l'étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On conçoit comment cette terrible institution pouvoit être necessaire, dans un temps où chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel avant qu'il pût s'en defendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein même d'un ami, frappoit d’une invincible terreur."

L'Allemagne. Vol. II.

Part I

A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.

Night veil'd the mountains of the vine, And storms had rous'd the foaming Rhine, And, mingling with the pinewood's roar, Its billows hoarsely chaf'd the shore, While glen and cavern, to their moans, Gave answer, with a thousand tones: Then, as the voice of storms appall'd The peasant of the Odenwald*, 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 trac'd The forest paths, in secret haste; Far other sounds were on the night, Though lost amidst the tempest's might, That fill'd the echoing earth and sky, With its own awful harmony.

There stood alone 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 wav'd 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 sculptur'd crest, Adorn'd the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carv'd 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 measur'd tread, Amidst 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 chill'd 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 unprofan'd, 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 hush'd—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 paus'd 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 car, 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 Those 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 gulph of time Refus'd 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, Aw'd 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 lov’d 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 retriev'd, When conscience will not be deceiv'd. He that beheld the victim bleed, Beheld, and aided in the deed— When 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."

"By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been, And by th' Atoner's cross ador'd, And by th' Avenger’s holy sword, By truth eternal and divine, Amuser! 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 trac'd; 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; Tho shadowy forms were seen no more, The tombs deserted as before; And the wide forest wav'd immense, In dark and lone magnificence In Lindheim’s towers the feast had clos'd; The song was hush'd, the bard repos'd; Sleep settled on the weary guest, And the castle's lord retir'd 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, To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, In shade, in silence, and alone, Concentrating, in one brief hour, Ages of retribution's power!

If thou wouldst know the lot of those, Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng Are listening to the voice of song; Seek them not where the banquet glows, And the red vineyard's nectar flows; There mirth may flush the hollow cheek, The eye of feverish joy may speak, And smiles, the ready mask of pride, The canker-worm within may hide: Heed not those signs! they but delude; Follow, and mark their solitude!

The song is hush'd, the feast is done, And Lindheim's lord remains alone. Alone, in silence and unrest, With the dread secret of his breast; Alone with anguish and with fear; —There needs not an avenger here! Behold him!—Why that sudden start? Thou hear'st the beating of thy heart! Thou hear'st the night-wind's hollow sigh, Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry! No sound but these may near thee be; Sleep! all things earthly sleep—but thee.

No! there are murmurs on the air, And a voice is heard that cries—"Despair!" And he who trembles fain would deem 'Twas the whisper of a waking dream. Was it but this?—again ’tis there, Again is heard—"Despair! Despair!" 'Tis past—its tones have slowly died In echoes on the mountain side; Heard but by him, they rose, they fell, He knew their fearful meaning well, And, shrinking from the midnight gloom, As from the shadow of the tomb, Yet shuddering, turn'd in pale dismay, When broke the dawn's first kindling ray, And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade, where sunbeam never smil'd.

Yes! hide thee, Guilt!—the laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born! The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting, as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day, And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory flows the monarch Rhine;

And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant-bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell; And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms; And woods around, and waves below, Catch the red Orient's deepening glow, That lends each tower, and convent-spire, A tinge of its ethereal fire.

Swell high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o'er the waters breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love's own hue is bright, The fair-hair'd maid of Lindheim's hall, Wakes to her nuptial festival. Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o'er her thought is shining, Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye, Was all one beam of extacy? Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before? Whose smile, undimm'd by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying?

E'en thus—a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm had bow'd, Whose leaves ne'er droop'd beneath a cloud; Thus, by the world unstain'd, untried, Seem'd that belov'd and lovely Bride; A being all too soft and fair, One breath of earthly woe to bear! Yet lives there many a lofty mind, In light and fragile form enshrin'd; And oft smooth cheek, and smiling eye, Hide strength to suffer and to die! Judge not of woman's heart in hours That strew her path with summer-flowers, When joy's full cup is mantling high, When flattery's blandishments are nigh; Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest! They wait their call—and grief alone May make the soul's deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile, midst pleasure's train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr's blood; Her voice the patriot's heart hath steel'd, Her spirit glow'd on battle-field; Her courage freed, from dungeon's gloom, The captive brooding o'er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch sav'd, Her love the tyrant's fury brav'd;

No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there!

Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness borne! Far other lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air, Parts on thy brow the sunny hair; Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide, Bears thy lov'd warrior to his bride, He, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow'd with a thousand lays.

He came—that youthful chief—he came That favour'd lord of love and fame! His step was hurried—as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express'd The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious—doubt, and dread, And a stern grief, might there be read; Yet all that mark'd his alter'd mien Seem'd struggling to be still unseen.

With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seem'd to fly The timid welcome of her eye. Was that a lover's gaze, which chill'd The soul, its awful sadness thrill'd? A lover's brow, so darkly fraught, With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled—ne'er to grief inur'd, By its dread lessons ne'er matur'd; Unus’d to meet a glance of less Than all a parent's tenderness, Shuddering she felt, through every sense, The death-like faintness of suspense.

High o'er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim's terrac'd rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray, O'er that imperial River's way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, Midst Nature's noblest pageantry. But they, o'er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gaz'd:—for Ella's heart Fear'd its own terrors to impart; And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior's pride, Seem'd gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale that must be told.

At length his mien, his voice, obtain'd A calm, that seem'd by conflicts gain'd, As thus he spoke—"Yes! gaze a while On the bright scenes that round thee smile;

For if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! A fate hangs o'er us, whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee; Our path is one of snares and fear, I lose thee if I linger here! Droop not, belov'd: thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and when yon hallow'd shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own lov'd mountain-shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile's lot?"

"Ulric! thou know'st how dearly lov'd The scenes where first my childhood rov'd; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream, The halls where first my heartbeat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear—yet these are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Lov'd though they be, where'er thou art, There is the country of my heart! Yet, is there one, who, 'reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hop'd my hand should close His eyes, in Nature's last repose; Eve gathers round him—on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care, His faded eye hath lost its fire; Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire? Yet tell me all—thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far—oh! doubt not this— Would share thy pangs, than others' bliss."

"Ella, what wouldst thou?—'tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told—prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear! But I—Oh! was it then for me The herald of thy woes to be; Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive!—I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known, I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies! Better 'twere mine—that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear.

"Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men;

Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secresy? Th' unknown avengers, whose decree 'Tis fruitless to resist or flee? Whose name hath cast a spell of pow'r, O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tow'r? Thy sire—Oh, Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, their's, hath seal'd his doom, And thou may'st weep as o'er his tomb! Yes, weep! relieve thy heart opprest, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast! Thy cheek is cold—thy tearless eye Seems fix'd in frozen vacancy; Oh! gaze not thus—thy silence break, Speak! if 'tis but in anguish—speak!"

She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: —"He doom'd to perish! He decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! He, the renown'd in holy fight, The Paynim's scourge, the Christian’s might ! Ulric! What mean'st thou?—not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say, for which glorious trophy won, Which deed of martial prowess done; Which battle-field, in days gone by, Gain’d by his valour, must he die? Away! 'tis not his lofty name Their sentence hath consign'd to shame; 'Tis not his life they seek—recall Thy words, or say, he shall not fall!"

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: "And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love," she cries, "By all my soul hath fix'd on thee, Of cherish'd hope for years to be, Wilt thou not aid him? wilt not thou Shield his grey head from danger now? And didst thou not, in childhood's morn, That saw our young affection born, Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, Sharing his parent-smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best-belov’d! Now be thy faith in danger prov’d! Though snares and terrors round him wait, Thou wilt not leave him to his fate! Turn not away in cold disdain! —Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How art thou chang'd! and must I bear That frown, that stern, averted air? What mean they?"

"Maiden! need'st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask!

Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This—this is anguish!—can it be? And plead'st thou for thy sire to me? Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight—and live! Well may'st thou shudder!—of the Band Who watch in secret o'er the land, Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun, Th' unknown, th' unslumb’ring—I am one! My arm defend him!—what were then Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal'd By rites that may not be reveal'd? —A breeze's breath, an echo's tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone! Nay, shrink not from me—I would fly, That he by other hands may die! What! think'st thou I would live to trace, Abhorrence in that angel-face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father's life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view; Look on me, love! now all is known, O Ella! must I fly alone?"

But she was chang'd; scarce heav'd her breath; She stood like one prepar'd for death, And wept no more; then, casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy's last vision from her heart, Cried with sad firmness—"We must part! 'Tis past—these bridal flow'rs, so frail, They may not brook one stormy gale. Survive—too dear as still thou art, Each hope they imag'd—we must part! One struggle yet—and all is o'er— We love—and may we meet no more! Oh! little know'st thou of the pow'r Affection lends in danger's hour, To deem that fate should thus divide My footsteps from a father's side! Speed thou to other shores—I go To share his wand'rings and his woe; Where'er his path of thorns may lead, Whate'er his doom, by Heaven decreed, If there be guardian Powers above, To nerve the heart of filial love; If courage may be won by pray'r, Or strength by duty—I can bear! Farewell!—though in that sound be years Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, Though the soul vibrate to its knell Of joys departed—yet, farewell!"

Was this the maid who seem’d, ere-while, Born but to meet life's vernal smile? A being, almost on the wing, As an embodied breeze of spring?

A child of beauty and of bliss, Sent from some purer sphere to this, Not, in her exile, to sustain The trial of one earthly pain; But, as a sunbeam, on to move, Wak'ning all hearts to joy and love? That airy form, with footsteps free, And radiant glance—could this be she? From her fair cheek the rose was gone, Her eye's blue sparkle thence had flown, Of all its vivid glow bereft, Each playful charm her lip had left; But what were these? on that young face? Far nobler beauty fill'd their place! 'Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, Though all the bolts of Heaven descend; Not the fierce grandeur of despair, That half exults its fate to dare; Nor that wild energy which leads Th' enthusiast to fanatic deeds; Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued, Was fix'd in silent fortitude; Not in its haughty strength elate, But calmly, mournfully sedate. 'Twas strange, yet lovely to behold That spirit in so fair a mould, As if a rose-tree's tender form, Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm.

One look she cast, where firmness strove With the deep pangs of parting love; One tear a moment in her eye Dimm'd the pure light of constancy; And pressing, as to still her heart, She tum'd in silence to depart. But Ulric, as to phrenzy wrought, Then started from his trance of thought: "Stay thee, oh! stay—it must not be— All, all were well resign'd for thee! Stay! till my soul each vow disown, But those which make me thine alone! If there be guilt—there is no shrine More holy than that heart of thine; There be my crime absolv'd—I take The cup of shame for thy dear sake. Of shame! oh no! to virtue true, Where thou art, there is glory too! Go now! and to thy sire impart, He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart, And thou a home!—remain, or flee, In life, in death—I follow Thee!"

"There shall not rest one cloud of shame, Oh Ulric! on thy lofty name; There shall not one accusing word Against thy spotless faith he heard! Thy path is where the brave rush on, Thy course must be where palms are won; Where banners wave, and falchions glare, Son of the mighty! be thou there!

Think on the glorious names that shine Along thy sire's majestic line; Oh, last of that illustrious race! Thou wert not born to meet disgrace! Well, well I know each grief, each pain, Thy spirit nobly could sustain; E'en I unshrinking see them near, And what hast thou to do with fear? But when hath warriors calmly borne The cold and bitter smile of scorn? 'Tis not for thee—thy soul hath force To cope with all things—but remorse; And this my brightest thought shall be, Thou hast not brav'd its pangs for me. Go! break thou not one solemn vow; Clos'd be the fearful conflict now; Go! but forget not how my heart Still at thy name will proudly start, When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell Thy deeds of glory—fare thee well!"

And thus they parted—why recall The scene of anguish known to all? The burst of tears, the blush of pride, That fain those fruitless tears would hide; The lingering look, the last embrace, Oh! what avails it to retrace? They parted—in that bitter word A thousand tones of grief are heard, Whose deeply-seated echoes rest In the far cells of every breast; Who hath not known, who shall not know That keen, yet most familiar woe? Where'er affection‘s home is found, It meets her on the holy ground; The cloud of every summer-hour, The canker'd worm of every flower; Who but hath prov'd, or yet shall prove, That mortal agony of love?