Elsie. Listen, beloved.

Prince Henry. They are done! 
Dear Elsie! many years ago
Those same soft bells at eventide
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne,
As, seated by Fastrada’s side
At Ingelheim, in all his pride
He heard their sound with secret pain.

Elsie. Their voices only speak to me
Of peace and deep tranquillity,
And endless confidence in thee!

Prince Henry. Thou knowest the story of her ring,
How, when the court went back to Aix,
Fastrada died; and how the king
Sat watching by her night and day,
Till into one of the blue lakes,
That water that delicious land,
They cast the ring, drawn from her hand;
And the great monarch sat serene
And sad beside the fated shore,
Nor left the land forever more.

  Elsie. That was true love.

Prince Henry. For him the queen Ne’er did what thou hast done for me.

Elsie. Wilt thou as fond and faithful be?  Wilt thou so love me after death?

Prince Henry. In life’s delight, in death’s dismay,
In storm and sunshine, night and day,
In health, in sickness, in decay,
Here and hereafter, I am thine! 
Thou hast Fastrada’s ring.  Beneath
The calm, blue waters of thine eyes
Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies,
And, undisturbed by this world’s breath,
With magic light its jewels shine! 
This golden ring, which thou hast worn
Upon thy finger since the morn,
Is but a symbol and a semblance,
An outward fashion, a remembrance,
Of what thou wearest within unseen,
O my Fastrada, O my queen! 
Behold! the hilltops all aglow
With purple and with amethyst;
While the whole valley deep below
Is filled, and seems to overflow,
With a fast-rising tide of mist. 
The evening air grows damp and chill;
Let us go in.

Elsie. Ah, not so soon. 
See yonder fire!  It is the moon
Slow rising o’er the eastern hill. 
It glimmers on the forest tips,
And through the dewy foliage drips
In little rivulets of light,
And makes the heart in love with night.

Prince Henry. Oft on this terrace, when the day
Was closing, have I stood and gazed,
And seen the landscape fade away,
And the white vapors rise and drown
Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town
While far above the hilltops blazed. 
But men another hand than thine
Was gently held and clasped in mine;
Another head upon my breast
Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. 
Why dost thou lift those tender eyes
With so much sorrow and surprise? 
A minstrel’s, not a maiden’s hand,
Was that which in my own was pressed. 
A manly form usurped thy place,
A beautiful, but bearded face,
That now is in the Holy Land,
Yet in my memory from afar
Is shining on us like a star. 
But linger not.  For while I speak,
A sheeted spectre white and tall,
The cold mist climbs the castle wall,
And lays his hand upon thy cheek!