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 lyre 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 rivers 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.