[Sings again; mysteriously.
"What vision of dreaming,
Thou fire-hearted Night,
Death's minion dark-gleaming,
Hast thou sent in thy might?
And his soul was no soul, and the Murk was his mother, a horror to sight!
Black dead was his robe, and his eyes
All blood, and the claws of him great;
Ye maidens, strike fire and arise;
Take pails to the well by the gate,
Yea, bring me a cruse of hot water, to wash off this vision of fate.
Thou Sprite of the Sea,
It is e'en as I feared!
Fellow-lodgers of me,
What dread thing hath appeared?
Lo, Glykê hath stolen my cock, and away from the neighbourhood cleared!
[Wildly.
(Ye Nymphs of the Mountain give aid!
And what's come to the scullery-maid?)
[Tearfully.
And I—ah, would I were dead!—
To my work had given my mind;
A spindle heavy with thread
My hands did wi-i-i-ind,
And I meant to go early to market, a suitable buyer to find!
