High hangs that blade above my chamber-door— The fiend that from my heart its idol tore, Before my gaze displays the unwiped steel, And feeds his vengeance on the pangs I feel. There must I see, each morning’s life begun, Thy best blood rusting in the rising sun; By night—by night, whene’er the moonbeams pale Have wreathed the chamber in their mystic veil, Through the dim haze, like spectral lamp, it gleams, Or fills with baleful light my midnight dreams. From hideous sleep with quivering limbs I start— That blade seems rusting in my throbbing heart; Like a red cloud it shuts the light away, And glooms with horror all the joys of day. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I know thou didst not die—this much I know From him who wert thou dead were still thy foe; I know thy dwelling, in the deep recess Of the greenwood’s remotest wilderness, And he can tell, who bears this scroll from me, How my heart bounded at the thought of thee. Fame speaks thee fierce of heart, of deadly hand, The outlawed leader of an outlawed band; I heed not that, I only joy to hear Thy name as one the boldest hearts must fear; Would only pray, that fate would kindly twine. In life or death, my destiny with thine. Alas, how vain! my love, my spirit’s pride, A hunted lion, roves the mountain-side. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .