Thy martial tread no more will grace my hall—
Thine arms shall hang sad relics on the wall—
And Priam's race of godlike heroes fade!
Oh, thou wilt go where Phoebus sheds no light—
Where black Cocytus wails in endless night
Thy love will die in Lethe's gloomy shade.
HECTOR.
Though I in Lethe's darksome wave should sink,
And cease on other mortal ties to think,
Yet thy true love shall never be forgot!
Hark! on the walls I hear the battle roar—
Gird on my armor—and, oh, weep no more.
Thy Hector's love in Lethe dieth not!
(Enter FRANCIS, HERMANN in disguise, DANIEL.)
FRANCIS. Here is the man. He says that he brings terrible news. Can you bear the recital!
OLD M. I know but one thing terrible to hear. Come hither, friend, and spare me not! Hand him a cup of wine!
HERMANN (in a feigned voice). Most gracious Sir? Let not a poor man be visited with your displeasure, if against his will he lacerates your heart. I am a stranger in these parts, but I know you well; you are the father of Charles von Moor.
OLD M. How know you that?
HERMANN. I knew your son
AMELIA (starting up). He lives then? He lives! You know him? Where is he? Where? (About to rush out.)