276
CROMWELL
The clock's not yet struck twelve. 'Tis someone passing.
[The voice of someone singing; the words cannot be distinguished.
Singing! The knave has kept his fast but ill!
[The voice approaches, and the following words can be heard, sung to a monotonous air:
When the sun's in the west,
Thou who goest in quest
Of gold,
Beware lest thou fall—
Soon thee will night's pall
Enfold
With mist like a cloud
Doth old Ocean enshroud
The dune.
By eyes the most keen
Not a house can be seen,—
No, none.
Bold thieves thee pursue;
So they commonly do
By night:
The elves of the wood,
They wish us no good,
For spite.
They go hither and yon;
Lest thou haply meet one,
Beware!
In the moon's pale rays
Dance the frolicsome fays
Of the air.
