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 " lord is Count Borowský—not unknown

Perchance to thee, sir knight !—this very day

He to the castle of his sires is gone,

It was but yesterday he pass'd this way:

Here in a horrid gulph our mountain river

Is lost—it rushes raging, thundering ever—

Hence to the gloomy spot, the gloomy name

Of 'Desolation' from gone ages came."

" is thy name, fair daughter?"—"Božena;

And Křižin is my sire."—"Oh happy he,

Sweet maiden—happy—and all-honor'd they

Who have been favored with a gem like thee."

Nay, sir! to trifle with the poor is cruel!"

"O say not trifle! thou court-worthy jewel—

Blush not—thou need'st not blush, but now farewell,

For time will have another tale to tell."

steed sprang forward, as a falling star

Seems thro' the quiet vault of heaven to spring;

And they are gone—gone all—and heard afar

The dying echoes of their horse-hoofs ring.