It was at this dark and silent hour, that Wolfstein, unheeding the surrounding objects,--objects which might have touched with awe, or heightened to devotion, any other breast,--wandered alone--pensively he wandered--dark images for futurity possessed his soul: he shuddered when he reflected upon what had passed; nor was his present situation calculated to satisfy a mind eagerly panting for liberty and independence. Conscience too, awakened conscience, upbraided him for the life which he had selected, and, with silent whisperings, stung his soul to madness. Oppressed by thoughts such as these, Wolfstein yet proceeded, forgetful that he was to return before the arrival of their destined victim--forgetful indeed was he of every external existence; and, absorbed in himself, with arms folded, and eyes fixed upon the earth, he yet advanced. At last he sank on a mossy bank, and, guided by the impulse of the moment, inscribed on a tablet the following lines; for the inaccuracy of which, the perturbation of him who wrote them, may account; he thought of past times while he marked the paper with-- ’Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,-- They bodingly presaged destruction and woe. ’Twas then that I started!--the wild storm was howling. Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky; Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by. My heart sank within me: unheeded the war Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke; Unheeded the thunder-peal crash’d in mine ear-- This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke. ’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, The ghost of the murder’d Victoria strode; In her right hand a shadowy shroud she was holding, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode. I wildly then call’d on the tempest to bear me----