But all the field is wrapt in sleep

The moon is hid behind the clouds

And twinkling light of stars is dim.

The faintest track of steps, the dews

Have nigh effaced, still show the way

That leads up to the burial mounds.

With eager pace he makes his way,

By demon urged along the path,

And stands before the long-ranged heaps,

That rear their pale and spectral tops.

And, filled with sense of coming ill,

Scarce his aching limbs can bear him:

With quivering lips and trembling knees

He pushes on - and does he dream?

He sees two shadows close to him,

And hears the murmured whisper near,

That floats above the lonely mounds.

FIRST VOICE.

'Tis time!

SECOND VOICE.

Why this haste?

FIRST VOICE.

I must away!

SECOND VOICE.

Nay, rather let us wait the day!

FIRST VOICE.

'Tis late!

SECOND VOICE.

How timid is thy love!

One minute!

FIRST VOICE.

Wilt thou be my death?

SECOND VOICE.