XXIII.
Regardless of that Lady's woes,
The wild and reckless tumult rose;
And on the blasts of night that roared,
The unruly song they loudly poured—
Song of the Robbers.
1
Throughout the World, one robs another;
Each hath his separate Villainy:
Friend beggars friend; and brother, brother!—
Then, tell us, what are we?
2
When the wild night is black with storms,
And lightnings blast the Traveller lone;
We are the fearful spectral forms,
That make their horrors all our own.
3
The Spirits of Heaven's vengeance we!
That awe him to confess his guilt,
And do its work of equity!
He dies!—a Sinner's blood is spilt!