ESMERALDA.
An orphan am I,
Child of woe,
To you I turn
And flowers throw!
In my wild joy
Sad sighs abide;
I show a smile,
The tears I hide.
Poor girl—I dance
Where brooklets run,
As chirp the birds
My song flows on:
I am the dove
Which, hurt, must fall;
Over my cradle
Hangs death's pall.
CHORUS.
Young girl, dance on!
More gentle you make us.
Take us for family,
And play with us,
As stoops the nightingale
Unto the sea,
Teasing its waves
To ecstasy.
'Tis the young girl—
Child of woe,
When beams her eye
Grief must go.
She's like the bee
Which trembling flies
To the flower's heart,
Its Paradise.
Young girl, dance on!
More gentle you make us.
Take us for family,
And play with us!
CLAUDE FROLLO (aside).
Tremble, young girl—
The priest is jealous.
[Claude attempts to draw near to Esmeralda; she turns away from him with a kind of horror. The procession of the Pope of Fools enters. Torches, lanterns and music. In the middle of the procession, upon a litter surrounded with candles, Quasimodo, decked with cope and miter, is carried.