Is loud upon the roof and window-pane,
As if the wild Huntsman of Rodenstein,
Boding evil to me and mine,
Were abroad to-night with his ghostly train!
In the brief lulls of the tempest wild,
The dogs howl in the yard; and hark!
Some one is sobbing in the dark,
Here in the chamber.
It is I.
Elsie! What ails thee, my poor child?
I am disturbed and much distressed,
In thinking our dear Prince must die;
I can not close my eyes, nor rest.
What wouldst thou? In the Power Divine
His healing lies, not in our own;
It is in the hand of God alone.
Nay, He has put it into mine,
And into