Rose beating lustrous wings, but Ilsabe—
"God's wrath! the sight!"—fell smitten, and the blood
Sprang red from shattered brow and silent hair—
That bullet strangely thro' her brow and brain....
And what of Rudolf? ah! of him you ask?
That proud Franconian who would scoff at Fate
And scorn all state; who cried black Satan friend
Sooner than our white Christ;—why, he went mad
O' the moment, and into the haunted Harz
Fled, an unholy thing, and perished there