Edith alone.
Edith. Morn once again! Morn in the lone, dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner’s fever-dream;
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner’s home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird,
That in the lime’s transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage-lattice—he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight