University of Virginia Library

ACT FOURTH.

The Sultan's Bedchamber.
Soliman asleep under a canopy. Enter the Court Fool, with a plaster on his forehead. He goes up to the bed and shakes the Sultan.
Fool.
Ho, Sultan, Sultan! king of kings! What, ho!
Hast thou not taken upon thyself the task,
The giant's task, of watching for the realm?
Is it lawful, then, thus to go dozing on
Until high noon? For shame, your Highness, shame!

Soliman
(waking).
What would the fool?

Fool.
Would? Wake the wise man. There!

Soliman.
Is it so late?

Fool.
So late, it soon will be
Too early. There is comfort to your hand.

Soliman.
How came you by that plaster on your head?

Fool.
My liege, I come for justice.

Soliman.
What has happened?

Fool.
Oh mighty monarch, thou, whose crest doth tower
O'er Caucasus—yea, even o'er Ararat,
Which, some geographers protest, is higher,
Because 'twas there that Noah's ark stuck fast;
Thou, that dost stretch thy right hand to the Ganges,
And to the Black Sea puttest forth thy left;
Oh thou, whose foot, so nobly broad and firm,
Toucheth the hidden treasures of the earth;
Thou, whose eye lives on most familiar terms
With stars and planets,—hear thy servant's cry,
And grant him justice!

Soliman.
Who has done thee wrong?

Fool.
Cursed be all piles of such capricious moods,
Which at their pleasure come and disappear.
Are we to change the notions that, till now,
We've entertained of houses, palaces?
Are they immoveable property no longer,
But changed to simple moveables? The deuce!
This is directly contrary to law.

Soliman.
Speak plainly.

Fool.
I am a poor fool, my liege,
But not the wisest man in all the land—
No, not thyself in thy most royal person,
Could ward off such catastrophe as this.

Soliman.
Speak, or beware my wrath!

Fool.
Well, speak I do.
I am a bird, thou art an elephant;
A poor sheep I, and thou a lordly stag!
So push thy royal nightcap off thine ears,
And summon all thy powers of comprehension!
This morning forth I started for a walk,
To exercise my limbs, and glad my soul
With looking at the sunrise;—the red streaks
Across the saffron hemisphere of sky
Resembled most uncommonly the blood,
Which, for your royal health, was yesterday
Breathed from your Highness' arm.

Soliman.
Good God in heaven!
What strange comparisons the fellow makes!

Fool.
This is the very quintessence of flattery!
Another man would, in some bungling way,
Thy blood have likened to the glorious sun;
But I can see no aptitude in that,
And therefore to thy blood compare the sun.

Soliman.
Say on, or I'll compare it with thine own.

Fool.
From natural historians thou hast learned,
That eyes grow blind with gazing at the sun:
Well, then, as I, delighted with the blaze
Of his fair glittering ball, began to muse,
How all things hang together in the world,
I started off full swing, quite pleased to think
The universe had let itself be caulked
So thoroughly, without remonstrance. Well!
On I went running, sire, in full career;
And in the Grand Square there was nought, I knew—
At least I thought so—to impede my course!
But, as it proved, this notion cost me dear,
For, lo! before I could collect my wits,
Bump something came, my liege, with such a bang
Against my pate, that, were a Greek to see me,
He would suppose me Jupiter himself,
With Pallas ready from my brain to start.

Soliman.
What was it you had run against?

Fool.
There, now,
What should it be, but that same madcap palace,
Which comes and goes without a “By your leave,”
Upon the spur of its capricious whims?

Soliman.
Aladdin's Palace? Oh, great Heaven! My daughter!
Is she there, too?

Fool.
That's what I cannot say;
For it was not on her, alas! I bump'd.
But here's a roll of parchment, good my liege,
The porter gave me for your royal hands.

Soliman.
Read, read, good fool, aloud, and spare your jests.

Fool
(reads).

“Praise be to God alone! The land of the King of Kings, the
Imperial Sovereignty, and the Realm, as it is exalted above all
others in excellence, so may God cause it to flourish for ever!”

I do protest, this is no jest of mine;
'Tis here, in black and white, upon the scroll.

Soliman.
Go to! 'Tis sensibly and soundly put;
'Tis thus all letters sent to me begin.
Proceed, proceed! This is preamble merely!

Fool
(reads).

“The meanest of your subjects, who is even as a great gnat
fluttering in the air, Aladdin, Mustapha's son, announces to his
most high and mighty Master, great as Solomon, the Shadow of
the Almighty, the Ruler of the Merciful, the Dispenser of Persia's
Benefits, the Lord of the Earth, Soliman, Sultan!”

(Wipes the sweat from his forehead.)
Why, now a murrain on this chancery style!
The man's all plain enough, as he goes on.

Soliman.
This must be so; my dignity requires it.
It is not every man dare prate to me
In such a free and easy style as thou.
But on, knave, on; all this is still preamble.

Fool
(reads).

“As the favour of the Eternal God came to your faithful servant,
and left him alike incomprehensibly, so has it been shown to him
once more. The palace before your eyes upon the old spot may
serve as a sufficient evidence of this. So soon as thy slave, to whom
thy grace and goodness vouchsafed thine own daughter to wife, hath
returned with her from a pilgrimage to Mecca, and they have
shaken from their souls the dust caught up upon the journey of
life, he will cast himself at thy feet with a lightened heart, and
restore the daughter to her father's arms.

“The Star of Dominion and Majesty illumine thee evermore
with its lustre and resplendence!”

Soliman.
How! Is it true? Is all this in the letter?

Fool.
Now, could I match this high poetic style?

Soliman.
Oh, help me, then, this instant out of bed,
And let me see and judge with my own eyes.

Fool.
Surely thou see'st this plaster on my pate!

Soliman.
Delay another second, and thou diest!

Fool.
And if I don't delay, my foolish life
Is equally at stake. What would my liege?

Soliman.
Help me this instant to get out of bed.

Fool.
Come, then, old gentleman, accept my help.
Thou waxest frail apace. Here is thy robe!
Wilt doff thy nightcap and put on the crown?
Crowns are in general soft and warmly lined,
And predispose to comfortable sleep.
Thy sceptre, where has it gone wandering?
Fallen down, we shan't say where, beneath the bed,
And drenched, by all that's ammoniacal!
No matter—it is gold, and will not rust.

Soliman.
Oh, gracious heavens! Gulnare! My child, my child!

[Exit, followed by the Fool.
Another Apartment in the Palace.
The Fool, surrounded by retainers of the Court.
First Courtier.
Good gentle fool, and is it really true?
And is the palace actually come back?

Fool.
You see it there!

First Courtier.
Oh yes, no doubt I see it.
But, now-a-days, what man can trust his eyes?

Fool.
Wouldst thou prefer to trust another's, hey?

First Courtier.
Four eyes see more than two.

Fool.
Then hie thee, friend,
And of a spider question; it has eight.

Another Courtier
(running in).
Sir Fool, 'tis something quite miraculous!
All back again? What is a man to think?

Fool.
He is to be well-bred, and hold his peace;
He's not to try to comprehend the things,
Which are not to be comprehended; he
Is not to fill with cries and idle prate
The palace of his Majesty, as though
It were an hospital of aged crones.
He is, though, to betake him to his room,
To be a man, and be of hopeful cheer.

Courtier.
How can one be a man of hopeful cheer?

Fool.
That's for your wisdoms, gentlemen, to solve.

[Exeunt Courtiers.
An old Servant of the Court
(entering).
Friend, hast thou seen it?

Fool.
Ay, and been rejoiced.

Servant.
Aladdin, friend, is fortune's favourite child,
And he deserves to be so. What a world
Of rich warm life is centred in that man!
All a child's grace with manhood's vigour blended,
Gracious and loving as he's proud and brave.

Fool.
I grew so doleful after his mishap.
My part became mere child's play then; for misery,
Storm, and disaster always lead to wit;
Therefore there's none so witty as the devil.
I like to jest from gamesome wantonness;
Yet do I find my task grow burdensome,
When all around are busy, gay and strong.
The Sultan grows too feeble and good-natured.
Were he but splenetic, my quips and gibes
Might do the office of a shield, at least,
Against severity or hasty wrong.
But he is not; and all my pointed saws
Are lost upon him. Once Aladdin comes,
I'll not be such a fool as be his fool.

Servant.
Your task must always grow a bore at last.
One can't be always in the mood for jest,
And irksome is the fool's vocation,—his
Especially, who's not a born buffoon,
And who has pride, as thou hast, and a heart
To nobler issues touched. Genius may stoop
To play the wag and zany for a while;
But soon the eagle finds the moorland dull,
Feels all his pinions' strength, and soars away.

Fool.
A true word hast thou spoken, friend, in that.

[Exeunt.
MECCA.
A great Square; in the background, the Mosque. A vast concourse of Pilgrims, Dervishes, Abdallahs, and Calenders; in the foreground, Aladdin and Gulnare, attired as pilgrims, with staves in their hands.
Gulnare.
What mighty multitudes are gathered here!

Aladdin.
And all, my love, are here to edify
Themselves, and not for gain or selfish ends.
The world's pervading soul, humanity,
Has summoned them. Is't not a blesseèd thing,
Thus with commingling hearts to worship God?

Gulnare.
Oh glorious! The multitude's full voice
Strengthens the heart and spirit; and man feels,
Borne on the swelling cadence of the hymn,
Himself a link in the eternal whole.

Aladdin.
Life needs its days of rest, as well as work.
The man, who squanders all his days on toil,
Is but a clod of dull and soulless clay.

Gulnare.
Oh, look, love, at the young man standing there,
Neither as pilgrim nor as dervish dress'd,
Nor as a Calender nor Abdallah!

Aladdin.
Where, sweetest wife?

Gulnare.
Dost thou not see him, then?
Yonder!—his under garment all of white,
Open at the throat, and with full hanging sleeves;
Whilst his close-fitting gaberdine has none.
A high cap, not a turban, crowns his head.
He wears a pocket fastened at his waist,
And in it paper, inkhorn, and some books;
And a light kerchief, gay with woven flowers,
From his right shoulder droops to his left arm.

Aladdin.
I see him now—'tis an Arabian poet.

Gulnare.
Now he sits down; and see, they fetch a lute.

Aladdin.
Come, love! We, too, shall listen to his lay.
Who does not love the poet's art divine?
The rocks themselves, in echoings low, declare
How sweet to them is song. The rose expands
Her bosom to the bulbul's throbbing note,
The camel foots it lightly through the vale,
Soon as the fluting of the guide begins;
Shall man, then, man, who bears a reasoning soul,
Not find enjoyment in the poet's song?
Then were he harder than the insensate stones.

The Minstrel
(strikes a few chords: the crowd form a wide circle round him. When all is quiet, he sings as follows.)

(He rises and goes into the mosque; the crowd repeat with a loud voice the concluding stanza of his chaunt, and follow him).
Another Place in Mecca.
Hindbad and Fatima, an aged woman in a pilgrim's garb.
Hindbad.
Allah be with thee!

Fatima.
And with thee, good pilgrim!

Hindbad.
Good is a title which I may not claim,
Thou holy woman, in thy company.

Fatima.
Allah is holy, and the prophet holy;
I am a frail and sinful woman, friend.

Hindbad.
I know well what thou art. The fame of saints
Spreads, like the liberal sunshine, wide and far,
And lures the sons of darkness forth to warm
Their blood's thick current in the radiant glow.

Fatima.
Whence comest thou?

Hindbad.
I am from Africa.
Yet though between us lay the streams of Nile,
The Red Sea, and Arabia's desert sands,
The glory of thy name hath reached my ears.

Fatima.
I must attribute this to chance alone.

Hindbad.
Thy home's in Persia, is it not?

Fatima.
It is.
In the great forest, hard by Ispahan,
Where peasants kind have built a hut for me.

Hindbad.
And daily to thy hermitage repair,
To reap instruction, comfort, wisdom, strength,
From thy discourse. I have been told, besides,
The Prophet hath endowed thee with the power
To heal the sick, by merely with thy hand
Touching the head of such as need thy aid.

Fatima.
The powers of nature, friend, are fathomless,—
Still more the goodness of the Eternal Father.
A poor weak woman I; yet I fear God:
To do his pleasure is my life's sole aim.
When man for years has rendered up himself,
To drift where'er his yeasty passions flow,
With him earth's baser things grow paramount;
The head, which should erect itself to heaven,
Drops, weighted down by sin, its craven front.
But if, alarmed by conscience' warning voice,
His heart, repentant, turns to virtue back,
Then, then, indeed, a loving human hand
Can smooth away the wrinkles from his brow,
And by its pressure give his spirit ease.

Hindbad.
Is't true, that Prince Aladdin and his bride
Are 'mongst the pilgrims here in Mecca now?

Fatima.
He and his bride were here but yesterday,
But left this morning with the caravan.

Hindbad
(with visible disquietude).
What! is he gone?

Fatima.
Why should this trouble you?

Hindbad.
I am from Africa, as thou hast heard.
I wished to speak with him—we had, besides,
Much urgent business to transact. I am
A merchant, and he owes me certain monies.
Now he's gone back again, and 'tis, you know,
A weary way from Persia to Mecca.

Fatima.
My friend, thou rather shouldst give Allah thanks,
That things have so fallen out. The Prophet's city
Is destined only as a rendezvous
For pious pilgrims; 'tis no khan, no mart.

Hindbad.
Rebuke well merited; forgive me, pray!
Ay, thus it is, the vanities of the world
Hold us, despite our will, within their thrall.
I thank thee; thou hast made me see my sin.
I will beguile the time with holy thoughts,
And with the earliest caravan depart
For Persia. Perhaps we go together?

Fatima.
No, friend, I go not with the caravan.
I make the journey tardily on foot;
It is a fancy that I have. I've gone
The road repeatedly; it does me good.
Somehow, I feel this journey is my last.
Depart thou with the caravan in peace!
I will set out to-morrow with the dawn.
But if, when thou to Ispahan shalt come,
Thou carest to visit me in my poor cot,
Thou'lt find me there beneath my forest shades,
And of my milk and fruits thou shalt partake.

Hindbad.
I thank thee; may all happiness attend thee!

Fatima.
The pilgrimage to God is always happy.

(They part.)
ARABIAN DESERT.
Night; nothing but sand and sky; the moon in mid heaven.
Caravan
(passes slowly across; singing).
Through the noontide's glare, along the desert sand,
Home we travel cheerly to our fatherland,
Bearing back a treasure priceless—peace of heart—
Peace and hope, that never from our eyes shall part.
Allah, guide thy faithful pilgrims as they go;
Give our camels vigour, crystal fountains show!
Sweetly falls the dew, the sultry day is fled,
Cool is now the ground beneath our camels' tread:
Everywhere is sand and sky. Oh, lovely night!
On us from afar the crescent moon smiles bright.
With what wondrous radiance through the cooling dew
Beams the Prophet's symbol from the welkin blue!
Onward, then, push on, with lusty hearts and gay!
To our home Mohammed's moon shall light our way!

(Passes on.)
A WILD FOREST IN PERSIA.
Night. In the foreground a heap of stones, in the background Fatima's cottage.
Hindbad.
(The moon breaks out, the owls hoot far off in the wood, and he reads)
(Starts back in terror, and stands gazing fixedly at the heap of stones.)
(Looks round, and suddenly descries Fatima's cottage.)

(Is about to enter. Suddenly the figure of a man, ashy pale, in a blood-red dress, appears before the door, and bars his entrance.)
Hindbad.
Ha, who art thou?

Spirit
(with a hollow voice).
Away, away, away!

Hindbad.
Who art thou, darest to bar my passage thus?
Who art thou? Answer me!

Spirit.
Thy brother's spirit.

Hindbad.
Noureddin, thou?

Spirit.
His spirit. My bones lie there.

(Points to the heap of stones.)
Hindbad.
How comest thou in this garb of fiery red?

Spirit
(sighs).
Alas! alas!

Hindbad.
What means that sigh? And why
Shinest thou like lurid flame against the dark?

Spirit.
Oh! oh!

Hindbad.
Answer me!

Spirit.
Oh! oh!

Hindbad.
Answer, I say!

Spirit.
The red—which burneth here—so ghastily!
Is—

Hindbad.
Well, what is it?

Spirit.
Is the fire of hell!

(Vanishes. Hindbad sinks upon the heap of stones in a swoon. When he recovers, he looks round him, and descries an old venerable man by his side, in a black gaberdine, smoking a short tobacco-pipe, which gives out great puffs of smoke.)
Hindbad
(springs up).
Ha, here again? And black as cinders now?
Burnt out already, eh?

The Old Man
(with a soft, gracious voice).
My worthy friend,
What may all this fantastic foolery mean?
I live hard by, and, as I passed along,
I heard you talking to yourself aloud
In a strange fashion: of a lamp you spoke,
That could accomplish wonders, which had been
Stolen from you, and you wanted to regain.
You thought you saw a spirit, and fell down
Upon the heap of stones there in a swoon.
Are you come off a journey?

Hindbad.
Yes, I am.

The Old Man.
It very often happens, at such times,
One's wits get out of order. But take heart!
You don't look weakly—quite the contrary;
This is a passing spasm—no more—and you
Bear an undaunted spirit, I'll be bound.

Hindbad.
There you are right. I very rarely dream,
Am no ways superstitious, see no spirits
At other times. But now! He stood there, there!

The Old Man
(smiling).
'Twas only in your head he stood, good sir!
Had anything been standing there, of course
I must have seen it also, as I passed!

Hindbad.
Then you saw nothing?

The Old Man.
Nothing but yourself,
A wandering pilgrim, talking to the trees.

Hindbad.
By Heaven, I too believe it was a dream.

The Old Man
(uneasily).
You should not swear! Don't name that name to me
I cannot bear it. For the rest, be calm!
That you should wish to have your lamp again,
Appears but fair; 'tis your inheritance.
I've heard all sorts of tales about that lamp,
And how Aladdin oft misuses it.
We suffer from it all, we Persians here;
And I should be quite overjoy'd, could you
But clip that upstart's wings.

Hindbad.
Ay, ay; but how?

The Old Man.
That is the question; for that plan of yours
(I heard you mention it some minutes since)
Will never do. She's a long-headed woman,
And, trust me, would discover at a glance
What you were after, hide it how you might.
No, no, that scheme is much too shallow—much!

Hindbad.
Were you in my place, now, what would you do?

The Old Man.
Brush the old woman fairly from my path—
Be Fatima myself.

Hindbad.
But how?

The Old Man.
I know,
The princess wishes to converse with her;
But she has never seen her; neither have
The people very plainly, for she is
Always enveloped in a close thick veil.
If I were in your place, I'd very soon
Effect an entrance to the palace.

Hindbad.
How?

The Old Man.
Your face and figure, sir, are plastic; you
Can counterfeit most rarely, I am sure.

Hindbad.
And if I can?

The Old Man.
Why, then, good sir, you must
Enact the part of Fatima.

Hindbad.
And she?

The Old Man.
Oh, she is—old—and surfeited with life!
I hope, my excellent friend, tobacco-smoke
Is not unpleasant, very, to you—eh?
I am a sturdy smoker.

Hindbad.
Smoke away!

The Old Man
(smokes vehemently, and puffs fire from the pipe every now and then).
Well, she is old, and looking on for death.
But death comes tardily with aches and pains.
It would be doing her a kindness, quite,
Should you forestall her pains, and gratify
The wish at once which she has cherished long.

Hindbad.
You'd have me murder the old lady, then?

The Old Man.
Who talks of murder? Sir, I am no friend
To strong expressions of that nature. No!
To her long yearning you but put an end,
And that's the whole affair! No more at all!
Go to!—what's to be done, do, and at once!
There the old woman sleeps. Employ your dagger,
Put on her dress, and bury her anon.
Then, when the people come to-morrow morning,
You must preach to them. You are Fatima,
And will, as Fatima, presently be summoned
Before the princess. Then you can regain
The lamp with ease. Farewell. We meet again.

(Retires into the wood.)
Hindbad
(gazes after him for a considerable time, then speaks).
That was the devil himself, or I'm deceived.
(Leans against a tree, and presses his hands upon his head.)
I drank somewhat too freely at the khan,
And therein lies the secret! Devils and ghosts
Are the mere creatures of hot blood and wine;
But all that fell from that old fellow's lips
Are the suggestions of my better brain;
I'll be no mummer, I! Here is the hut!
The crazy door half off its hinges. Hist!
Is she asleep? She sings! I'll pause and hear.


Song (from the cottage).

Hindbad.
She sleeps! 'Tis well. She says herself, good soul,
She will not quail before the blight of death.
She longs for it. Good. She shall have her wish.

(Enters the cottage.)
Interior of the Cottage.
Fatima asleep on the couch. Hindbad enters.
Hindbad.
I'm glad the moonshine lights the hut so well!
There she lies sleeping on her bed of leaves,
Scantily mantled by her old worn cloak,
Her thin white hands clasped close, as though she prayed.
It is unlucky, that her clothes are on;
I must awake her, not to stain her dress
With blood, for I must use it afterwards.
(Presents his dagger to her breast.)
Come, Fatima, awake!

Fatima.
Oh Heaven! Who's there?
Are you a robber? Say, what do you want
In my poor cottage? There is nothing here,
Is worth your taking!—nothing! Oh, have pity,
Upon an aged woman; blow not out
The flame, which soon must of itself expire!

Hindbad.
Rise up!

Fatima.
Oh Allah!—Wherefore do you come,
At dead midnight, with this assassin's knife,
That gleams as wild and wrathful as your eyes?

Hindbad.
Rise up, and do not fear! Rise up, I say!
Take off your dress—be quick—and give it me;
Give me your robe, your veil, and now your crutch!
And there's my cloak instead, which you can keep,
Until I give you back your clothes again.
Only be quick, and do not waste the time
With questions.

Fatima.
Oh, sir, you are surely crazed?
What would you? You are feverish; come, sit down.
Travel has raised a tumult in your blood.
Your speech is wild. I'll tend you, and my care
Shall bring health back to you and calm your brain.
There's bread and fruit in yonder basket. Wait,
And I will fetch you water from the spring.

Hindbad.
I am not weary, neither have I lost
My senses. Quick, obey me instantly!
Off with your clothes! There is my mantle. Quick!
Do what I bid you, or into your heart
I plunge my dagger!

Fatima.
Oh Eternal God!
I fear not death;—but—to be wakened up
From sleep, to be despatched so suddenly—
Have mercy on me!

Hindbad.
Come, your clothes, I say!
By Allah's mercy, by my hopes of grace,
I will not harm you.

Fatima
(gives him her clothes).
Take them, there they are!

Hindbad
(hands her a little box).
Now, lay this colour here upon my face!
'Twill make the skin look brown, and wrinkled, like
Your own.

Fatima.
My hands tremble for fear. There are
Wrinkles enough already on your brow.

Hindbad.
Now, by thy God did I not swear to thee—

Fatima
(dyes his face).
'Tis done.

Hindbad.
You're sure, you've done it thoroughly?

Fatima.
Indeed, indeed I have.

Hindbad.
Say, is it true,
That you have ne'er been with Aladdin's wife,
The princess?

Fatima.
Yes! But she has often wished,
That I should wait upon her, gentle soul!

Hindbad.
I'll pay that visit for you. (Stabs her.)
Get ye hence
Unto your God—you've lived quite long enough!

Fatima.
Even while he lives the godless man is dead;
But he lives after death, who fears his God.

(Dies.)
Hindbad.
Gone with antitheses upon her lips.
Cant to the last! Now must I stow this corpse
Deep in the earth. The morning after next
I'll wait upon the princess, and she shall
Persuade her husband a request to urge,
Shall so incense the Spirit of the Lamp,
That he is like to crush him on the spot.
Your spirits have a weak side of their own,
Like other people; they can show their teeth.
Then I will straight possess me of the lamp.
But I must preach to-morrow,—well bethought!—
To make the people think I'm Fatima.

Moorland.
Night. Moonshine. Two Elves.
First Elf.
Come hither! See what I have found, beneath
The brushwood, near the brook, upon the heath!

Second Elf.
A corpse! Now out on thee, foul-fingered wight!

First.
Dost thou not know it, then? Oh woful sight!

Second.
What do I see? Oh bloody deed of shame!
They've murdered our true friend, the aged dame,
Who dwelt there in the forest, and o'nights
With lute and song regaled us elvish sprites,
When, in the cool and watery moonshine, we
Our roundels danced about the alder tree.

First.
She was so good! through all the country round
She was for worth and gentle heart renown'd.
Though we, poor tiny elves, are held in scorn
By well-nigh all that are of woman born,
She in the ground stuck crosswise sprigs of wood,
With cobwebs twined, and thereon laid us food,
And sat and smiled on us, as we drew nigh,
And sipp'd at ease the dainty furmenty.

Second.
Come, let us call our sisters from the hill!—
None will disturb us, for 'tis midnight still,—
To help us make a grave, both soft and deep,
Where she that loved us well in peace may sleep.

First
(calls).
Come hither, hither, elves!

Second.
As quick as thought,
Behold them!

Elves.
They are here. What's to be wrought?

First.
You see this aged dame?

Elves.
Oh direful pass!
The holy Fatima? Dead? Alas, alas!

First.
Go, make for her a grave by yonder spring,
And thither we the while the corpse shall bring.

Some.
We'll follow.

Others.
We shall go before and sing.

Others.
We at her side shall walk with drooping wing.

Others.
And from the brook the lily we shall bring,
Which upward straight to heaven its head doth fling,
While blossoms manifold its stem doth bear.
These shall be emblems of her silvery hair,
And of her cheeks, with sorrow wan and thin,
And of her soul serene, and pure from sin.

First.
We must go round, we that the bearers are,
Lest the magician's ghost our task should mar;
For he lies yonder, shatter'd flesh and bone,
Among the trees, beneath the pile of stone.

Those who are in the Front.
Now we shall sing. Pace tenderly along.

Nightingale
(in a tree overhead).
Ye elves! may I, too, mingle with your song?

Elves.
Sing on, sweet bird! Thy note is clear as fire.
Chief chorister be thou, and we the choir.

Dirge of the Elves.
(The nightingale's note is heard in the pauses of the song, and the faint tinkle of a bell at a distance.)