In white, upon her brow a wreath of flame,—
Her brow the trees of Bialowiez[11] outbraves,—
And in her hand a blood-stained cloth she waves.
The castle guards in terror veil their eyes,
The peasants’ dogs, deep burrowing in the ground,
Scent death approaching, howl with fearful cries
The maid’s ill-boding step, o’er all is found;
O’er hamlets, castles, and rich towns she goes.
Oft as she waves the bloody cloth, no less
A palace changes to a wilderness;