There’s still a dark wood, and a winding stream, Where the cold, bright stars, and the moon’s pale beam, Light up a low path, by the underbrush hid, And gild the smooth plate on the coffer’s dull lid. There are hurrying footsteps and stifled tones In that lonely ravine of earth and stones; ’Tis the hiding-place of a pirate band, Who came from a distant, brilliant land, And their burden of spoils from the broad, high seas They have borne to that forest of woodland trees, Where the wild wolf howls in his dismal den Or makes his home in that pirate’s glen. They are startled now, those men so brave, And are taking their treasure to Dungeon Cave. Away through the woods that once skirted the vale They had made for themselves an invisible trail; And, now that the night was so dark and still, They were moving their spoils from the glen to the hill. An iron bound box, with its shining gold, And a limestone fossil, pure and cold, On its soft, white cotton, was resting there, Treasured with superstitious care. There are noble hearts in that lonely home, And Harris, the leader, is soon to come. They hear him now, as they firmly tread O’er the fallen leaves and the flowers dead: “Halt”--the low, deep summons is soon obeyed, And Harris moves out from the tall tree’s shade. There’s a light in his eye, and a stern command In the haughty wave of his ungloved hand, As he lifts the cap from his high, white brow, And says, “My men, be ready now. Have you ta’en the strong box from the vessel’s hold, And well secured it, with all its gold? Have you counted the diamonds we stole from the berth Of the fair Cristelle, on that night of mirth? Have you closed my coffers? In short, my men, Have you cleared all the trash from our silent glen? For I have an inkling, from what I have heard, By the foundery, to-night, that the settlers have stirred, And will soon be for finding the men of ease, That dare to murder on God’s high seas.” “We have moved them all,” was the men’s reply, As Harris gazed at the moonlit sky; “We have moved them all; but what, your honor, Shall we do, to-night, with our fair Madonna? Shall we leave her alone in the glen to abide? Will she make for Sir Wolf a fitting bride? Or, will she tell tales when they come to look? For I’ll risk a woman to find our nook.” “Peace!” thundered Harris, “and no more fun; Ye are seven in number, in purpose one.” He added, more kindly, “But now, move on, For to-night our labor must all be done.” Then he quickly turned toward the lonely glen, And left in the darkness that band of men. We can tell no more. But the lady fair, Ere the next day’s sunshine reached her there, Had followed the winding, woody road, And found on the hill-side a new abode.