HUGO, THORA, and ERIC

Hugo: That letter that came from Palestine, By the hands of yon wandering Dane, Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine.

Thora: Wilt thou travel so soon again?

Hugo: I can scarce refuse the dying request Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; His bones are dust. May his soul find rest He once made a foolish vow, That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care Of the Abbess, his child should stay, For a season at least. To escort her there I must start at the break of day.

Thora: Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare?

Hugo: Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain With her spouse.

Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain.

Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter?

Hugo: Aye, years ago. I should scarcely know her now. It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil.

Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight— I forget the name.

Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night.

Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed.

Hugo: That is no affair of mine. My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. Come, Thora, sing.

Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could. Sing thou.

Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude. (Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken— Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.

Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years? Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears.