'My tribe,' said she, 'the next day found The cottage levelled with the ground, And searching, found me lying Some distance from the ruined heap, From numbing pain sunk deep in sleep, Worn out with rage and crying. They raised this hut above my head, Spread under me this heather bed. And tended me with care. When, strange to say, I soon revived, Pains sharper e'en than death survived, And had of health my share. But still I lived here, lest a fresh attack Might trip up my heels if I turned my back, And stretch me again on the painful rack. And I nursed revenge, till with rage imprest. I dreamed of revenge when I sank to rest. My thoughts were revenge from the dawn of day, Till the darkness scattered the light away. Oh, I pined for revenge as a maiden pines For her lover returning from distant climes; Who expects every day till remorseless eve Makes her hope for next morn--for the present, grieve. All hope worse than hopeless appeared to be When fate, fiends, or fortune befriended me. 'Twas a gala day, and the loathsome glen Resounded with laughter from joyful men. I could see the grand tents where the flags waved high, And I gathered the news from a passer-by. 'Twas the christ'ning-day of the son and heir Of the Baron's estates and castles fair; And guests without end were invited there, To a sumptuous feast in the open air. But, oh! 'twas a dreadful day for me; 'Must ever my rage then fruitless be?' I said, and felt I could have willing died, Had the means of revenge then been supplied. But again the sun sank swift away, And twilight attended expiring day. All nature appears preparing for sleep, While wakeful alone mine eyelids keep. But, hark, what's that?--the tramp of horse! Who hitherward can bend his course? There's no highroad this way. 'Tis some one who, by yonder light, Where revels turn to day the night, Has here been led astray. But, lo! he knocks, and straight walks in, A gloomy figure tall and thin, A bundle on his arm! Who quickly gazed around to see If any one abode with me. His eye bespoke alarm. 'Your pleasure, Sir?' I rising said. 'I live alone in this poor shed; If you the bridle-path would seek, 'Tis hidden by yon dark hill's peak. If 'tis the Baron's stately hall, Yon lights will guide, where rout and ball--' 'Stop, dame, 'tis none of these, but you I seek, and what I'd have you do I quick must tell, for time away Flies fast, and long I dare not stay. This babe,' he said, 'so young and fair, I leave a nursling to your care For five short hours; when three times told Their number--I will pay you gold-- The child myself I'll fetch, till then Preserve it from all earthly ken.'