"Mother what now are joys to me? "With William, Hell a Heaven could be, "Without him, Heaven a Hell. "Fade, fade away, thou hated light, "Death bear me hence to endless night, "With love all hope farewell." Thus rashly, Leonora strove To doubt the truth of heavenly love. She wept, and beat her breast; She pray'd for death, until the moon With all the stars with silence shone, And sooth'd the world to rest. When, hark! without, what sudden sound! She hears a trampling o'er the ground, Some horseman must be near! He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise Dies soft away, a well-known voice Thus greets her list'ning ear. "Wake, Leonora;--dost thou sleep, "Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep, "Is William welcome home?" "Dear William, you!--return'd, and well! "I've wak'd and wept--but why, ah! tell, "So late--at night you come?" "At midnight only dare we roam, "For thee from Prague, though late, I come." "For me!--stay here and rest; "The wild winds whistle o'er the waste, "Ah, dear William! why such haste? "First warm thee in my breast." "Let the winds whistle o'er the waste, "My duty bids me be in haste; "Quick, mount upon my steed: "Let the winds whistle far and wide, "Ere morn, two hundred leagues we'll ride, "To reach our marriage bed." "What, William! for a bridal room, "Travel to night so far from home?" "Leonora, 'tis decreed. "Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear, "The dead ride swiftly; never fear, "We'll reach our marriage bed." "Ah, William! whither would'st thou speed, "What! where! this distant marriage bed?" "Leonora, no delay. "'Tis far from hence; still--cold--and small: "Six planks, no more, compose it all; "Our guests await, away!" She lightly on the courser sprung, And her white arms round William flung, Like to a lily wreath. In swiftest gallop off they go, The stones and sparks around them throw, And pant the way for breath. The objects fly on every side, The bridges thunder as they ride; "Art thou my love afraid? "Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear, "The dead doth Leonora fear?" "Ah, no! why name the dead?" Hark! as their rapid course they urge, A passing bell, a solemn dirge; Hoarse ravens join the strain. They see a coffin on a bier, A priest and mourners too appear, Slow moving o'er the plain. And sad was heard the funeral lay; "What the Lord gives, he takes away; "Life's but a fleeting shade. "A tale that's told,--a flower that falls; "Death, when the least expected, calls, "And bears us to his bed."