What stealthy steps the slumbering echoes wake?
“Stand, on thy life!” His knife hath left its sheath,
And the poised pistol grimly threatens death.
No answer comes—but light as forest fawn
Glides a slight female o’er the dewy lawn.
Why tempts that tender form the midnight air?
What makes she here so fragile and so fair?
Had the earth yawned, and from the shades below
A demon sprung, it had not moved him so.
To earth the deadly weapons wild he dashed;