Prince Henry. O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! 
The life which is, and that which is to come,
Suspended hang in such nice equipoise
A breath disturbs the balance; and that scale
In which we throw our hearts preponderates,
And the other, like an empty one, flies up,
And is accounted vanity and air! 
To me the thought of death is terrible,
Having such hold on life.  To thee it is not
So much even as the lifting of a latch;
Only a step into the open air
Out of a tent already luminous
With light that shines through its transparent walls! 
O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow
Lilies, upon whose petals will be written
“Ave Maria” in characters of gold!

III.

A STREET IN STRASBURG.

* * * * *

Night. PRINCE HENRY wandering alone, wrapped in a cloak.

Prince Henry. Still is the night.  The sound of feet
Has died away from the empty street,
And like an artisan, bending down
His head on his anvil, the dark town
Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. 
Sleepless and restless, I alone,
In the dusk and damp of these wails of stone,
Wander and weep in my remorse!

  Crier of the dead (ringing a bell). Wake! wake! 
                                             All ye that sleep! 
                                             Pray for the Dead! 
                                             Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Hark! with what accents loud and hoarse
This warder on the walls of death
Sends forth the challenge of his breath! 
I see the dead that sleep in the grave! 
They rise up and their garments wave,
Dimly and spectral, as they rise,
With the light of another world in their eyes!

Crier of the dead. Wake! wake! 
All ye that sleep! 
Pray for the Dead! 
Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Why for the dead, who are at rest? 
Pray for the living, in whose breast
The struggle between right and wrong
Is raging terrible and strong,
As when good angels war with devils! 
This is the Master of the Revels,
Who, at Life’s flowing feast, proposes
The health of absent friends, and pledges,
Not in bright goblets crowned with roses,
And tinkling as we touch their edges,
But with his dismal, tinkling bell,
That mocks and mimics their funeral knell!

Crier of the dead. Wake! wake! 
All ye that sleep! 
Pray for the Dead! 
Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Wake not, beloved! be thy sleep
Silent as night is, and as deep! 
There walks a sentinel at thy gate
Whose heart is heavy and desolate,
And the heavings of whose bosom number
The respirations of thy slumber,
As if some strange, mysterious fate
Had linked two hearts in one, and mine
Went madly wheeling about thine,
Only with wider and wilder sweep!