260
"Our 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."
"What 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."
His 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.
