And midway an old man of threescore, With a wife and children that caress him. Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it With a merry, echoing blast of my cornet! Goes out blowing his horn. SCENE:-THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE. PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE standing on the terrace at evening. The sound of bells heard from a distance. PRINCE HENRY. WE are alone. The wedding guests Ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks, And the descending dark invests The Niederwald, and all the nests Among its hoar and haunted oaks. ELSIE. What bells are those, that ring so slow, So mellow, musical, and low? PRINCE HENRY. They are the bells of Geisenheim, ELSIE. Listen, beloved. PRINCE HENRY. They are done! Dear Elsie! many years ago As, seated by Fastrada's side At Ingelheim, in all his pride He heard their sound with secret pain. ELSIE. Their voices only speak to me Of peace and deep tranquillity, And endless confidence in thee! PRINCE HENRY. Thou knowest the story of her ring, How, when the court went back to Aix, Fastrada died; and how the king Sat watching by her night and day, Till into one of the blue lakes, That water that delicious land, They cast the ring, drawn from her hand; And the great monarch sat serene And sad beside the fated shore, Nor left the land for ever more. That was true love. ELSIE. PRINCE HENRY. For him the queen Ne'er did what thou hast done for me. ELSIE. Wilt thou as fond and faithful be? Wilt thou so love me after death? PRINCE HENRY. In life's delight, in death's dismay, Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath And, undisturbed by this world's breath, Is but a symbol and a semblance, Of what thou wearest within unseen, my Fastrada, O my queen! Behold! the hill-tops all aglow With purple and with amethyst ; While the whole valley deep below Is filled, and seems to overflow, With a fast-rising tide of mist. The evening air grows damp and chill; Let us go in. ELSIE. Ah, not so soon. See yonder fire! It is the moon Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. And through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, And makes the heart in love with night. PRINCE HENRY. Oft on this terrace, when the day Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand, A beautiful, but bearded face, That now is in the Holy Land, Is shining on us like a star. A sheeted spectre white and tall, They go in. |