"Beloved, hear'st thou that distant wail,
That sad and mournful knelling?"
"Sweetheart, 'tis but the nightingale,
That her tale of love is telling."
"No, no, 'tis not the nightingale,
I feel a dire foreboding,
The night spreads o'er her dusky veil,
Our joys of love corroding."
"Nay, loved one; banish idle fears,
The moon is bright and beaming,
Seek not to drown thy joy in tears,
When thy star above is gleaming."
"See here this flower," (he plucked a rose),
"How beautious is its blossom.
Wear this for me, for it but grows,
To deck thy snow white bosom."
Then out and shrieked the nightingale,
"Oh spare, oh spare, my lover.
Too late!" she cries, with dismal wail,
Beneath the greenwood cover.
"Ah me!" outshrieked that bird of night,
"My love is gone for ever,
But vengeance waits thee, cruel knight;
Thou from thy love shalt sever."
Too true, alas! the night bird's curse,
For 'neath the trees did hover,
An envious wight with arquebus,
T'await his rival lover.
Scarce had the gloomy prophecy
Died on his ears unheeding,
When the foe a poisoned shaft let fly,
And the knight fell pale and bleeding.
A lady mourns her love deceased,
Her eyes in death are rolling,
The distant tolling knell had ceased,
But again the knell is tolling.
"Thank you, Helen, thank you; very well sung," said several voices at once.