Conflicting thoughts. The stars of night

Look down like keen accusing eyes,

And haunt him with their mocking glance.

The poplars hug their branches close,

And shake their tops, and whisper low

To list ning boughs their sentence stern.

The balmy air of summer night

Chokes him, like damp of prison cell.

Sudden, as from the castle near,

He hears a cry... a speechless moan.

Is it the coinage of mad brain,

The owlet's hoot, or wild beast's growl,

Or tortured groan? He cannot tell.

But he is powerless, the slave

Of some strong will, and in reply

Shouts back the wail... his fierce, loud cry

He raised when in the battle's din,

With Zabel, or with Hamelei,

Or oft with him... with Kotzubei,

He rushed to meet the foe's wild charge.

The first faint streaks of russet dawn

Have bathed the sky in new-born light;

I ne vales, and hills, and meadows gleam;

! be tufted groves and rippling streams

Awake to sing their morning hymn,

And summon men to daily toil.

Still lying on her couch, Marie

In slumber dozing, thinks she hears

In her light sleep some one approach,

And touch her foot with timid hand.

She wakes, bat quickly with a smile

Her eyes are closed, as from the glare

Of day they shrink. And in her sleep