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has darken'd o'er the market-place: 'Tis shadowy and deserted. Those who pass Go hurrying by, with pale and anxious looks, That fear to meet each other. She is there, The gentle maiden whom Count Egmont loves. An hour has changed her more than many years. Her wild eyes wander round, and in their gaze Flashes the lightning of despair that hopes— Hope, agony's brief fever. Her white lip Is eloquent, and passionate with fear— Fear born of love, forgetful of itself. Her cheek is flushed—'tis with the eagerness Of the young warrior—but they heed her not. A selfish fear has paralysed the crowd— The future is not with them—and they seek Precarious safety by its sacrifice.

Return, beloved one! Wherefore are you here? To free him, Brackenberg. A little word Will bid his fellow citizens awake To strength and action. Strong in every heart, Though secret is the wish to set him free. What do we hazard but our useless lives, That are not worth the keeping, if he perish. Come, come, there only wants the gathering voice! Unhappy one! you do not see the power That fetters our desire with iron band. But not unconquerable. See, they come, Men, tried and true, his fellow citizens. Oh, friends, what now of Egmont?

Hush! child, hush!