love me,—­more, indeed,
     Than my poor merits claim.  Yet, even though
     They raised me to my Asdolf’s royal throne,
     As being the last of all his line,—­ah me! 
     No solace could it bring;—­for then far less
     Might I reveal the sorrow of my soul! 
     A helpless maiden’s tears like raindrops fall,
     Which in a July night, ere harvest-time,
     Bedew the flowers, and, trembling, stand within
     Their half-closed eyes unnumbered and unknown.

     [She rises.]

     Yet One there is, who counts the maiden’s tears;—­
     But when will their sad number be fulfilled?—­

     [Walking to and fro.]

     How calm was I in former days!—­I now
     Am so no more!  My heart beats heavily,
     Oppressed within its prison-cave.  Ah! fain
     Would I that it might burst its bonds, so that
     ’Twere conscious, Asdolf, I sometimes had seemed
     Not all unworthy in thine eyes.

     [She takes the guitar.]

     A gentle friend—­the Master from Vallandia—­
     Has taught me how I may converse with thee,
     Thou cherished token of my Asdolf’s love! 
     I have been told of far-off lakes, around
     Whose shores the cypress and the willow wave,
     And make a mournful shade above the stream. 
     Which, dark, and narrow on the surface, swells
     Broad and unfathomably deep below;—­
     From these dark lakes at certain times, and most
     On Sabbath morns and eves of festivals. 
     Uprising from the depths, is heard a sound
     Most strange and wild, as of the tuneful bells
     Of churches and of castles long since sunk;
     And as the wanderer’s steps approach the shore,
     He hears more plainly the lamenting tone
     Of the dark waters, whilst the surface still
     Continues motionless and calm, and seems
     To listen with a melancholy joy,
     While thus the dim mysterious depths resound;
     So let me strive to soften and subdue
     My heart’s dark swelling with a soothful song.

     [She plays and sings.]

     The maiden bound her hunting-net
       At morning fresh and fair—­

     Ah, no! that lay doth ever make me grieve. 
     Another, then! that of the hapless flower,
     Surprised by frost and snow in early spring.

     [Sings.]

       Hush thee, oh, hush thee,
     Slumber from snow and stormy sky,
       Lovely and lone one! 
     Now is the time for thee to die,
     When vale and streamlet frozen lie. 
       Hush thee, oh, hush thee!

       Hours hasten onward;—­
     For thee the last will soon be o’er. 
       Rest thee, oh, rest thee! 
     Flowers have withered thus before,—­
     And, my poor heart, what wouldst thou more? 
       Rest thee, oh, rest thee!