SABALLIDIN: 
    To-morrow?

RUAHMAH: 
                Yes, for I will tarry here,
    While you conduct him to Elisha’s house
    To find the promised healing.  I forebode
    A sudden danger from the craven King
    Of Israel, or else a secret ambush
    From those who hate us in Damascus.  Go,
    But leave me twenty men:  this mountain-pass
    Protects the road behind you.  Make my lord
    Obey the prophet’s word, whatever he commands,
    And come again in peace.  Farewell!

[Exit SABALLIDIN.  RUAHMAH goes toward the tent, then
pauses and turns back.  She takes her lute and sings.]

SONG

Above the edge of dark appear the lances of the sun;
Along the mountain-ridges clear his rosy heralds run;
The vapours down the valley go
Like broken armies, dark and low. 
Look up, my heart, from every hill
In folds of rose and daffodil
The sunrise banners flow.

   O fly away on silent wing, ye boding owls of night! 
    O welcome little birds that sing the coming-in of light! 
        For new, and new, and ever-new,
        The golden bud within the blue;
        And every morning seems to say: 
        “There’s something happy on the way,
        And God sends love to you!"

NAAMAN:  [Appearing at the entrance of his tent.]
    O let me ever wake to music!  For the soul
    Returns most gently then, and finds its way
    By the soft, winding clue of melody,
    Out of the dusky labyrinth of sleep,
    Into the light.  My body feels the sun
    Though I behold naught that his rays reveal. 
    Come, thou who art my daydawn and my sight,
    Sweet eyes, come close, and make the sunrise mine!

RUAHMAH:  [Coming near.]
    A fairer day, dear lord, was never born
    In Paradise!  The sapphire cup of heaven
    Is filled with golden wine:  the earth, adorned
    With jewel-drops of dew, unveils her face
    A joyful bride, in welcome to her king. 
    And look!  He leaps upon the Eastern hills
    All ruddy fire, and claims her with a kiss. 
    Yonder the snowy peaks of Hermon float
    Unmoving as a wind-dropt cloud.  The gulf
    Of Jordan, filled with violet haze, conceals
    The river’s winding trail with wreaths of mist. 
    Below us, marble-crowned Samaria thrones
    Upon her emerald hill amid the Vale
    Of Barley, while the plains to northward change
    Their colour like the shimmering necks of doves. 
    The lark springs up, with morning on her wings,
    To climb her singing stairway in the blue,
    And all the fields are sprinkled with her joy!

NAAMAN: 
    Thy voice is magical:  thy words are visions! 
    I must content myself with them, for now
    My only hope is lost:  Samaria’s King
    Rejects our monarch’s message,—­hast thou heard? 
    “Am I a god that I should cure a leper?”
    He sends me home unhealed, with angry words,
    Back to Damascus and the lingering death.