low I bend,Who have neither kin nor friend;Let me here a shelter find,Shield the shorn lamb from the wind.

Jesu, Lord, my heart will break:Save me for Thy great love’s sake!

[Enter Isentrudis.]

Isen. Aha! I had missed my little bird from the nest,And judged that she was here. What’s this? fie, tears?

Eliz. Go! you despise me like the rest.

Isen. Despise you?What’s here? King Andrew’s child? St. John’s sworn maid?Who dares despise you? Out upon these Saxons!They sang another note when I was younger,When from the rich East came my queenly pearl,Lapt on this fluttering heart, while mighty heroesRode by her side, and far behind us stretchedThe barbs and sumpter mules, a royal train,Laden with silks and furs, and priceless gems,Wedges of gold, and furniture of silver,Fit for my princess.

Eliz. Hush now, I’ve heard all, nurse,A thousand times.

Isen. Oh, how their hungry mouthsDid water at the booty! Such a prize,Since the three Kings came wandering into Cöln,They ne’er saw, nor their fathers;—well they knew it!Oh, how they fawned on us! ‘Great Isentrudis!’‘Sweet babe!’ The Landgravine did thank her saintsAs if you, or your silks, had fallen from heaven;And now she wears your furs, and calls us gipsies.Come tell your nurse your griefs; we’ll weep together,Strangers in this strange land.

Eliz. I am most friendless.The Landgravine and Agnes—you may see themBegrudge the food I eat, and call me friendOf knaves and serving-maids; the burly knightsFreeze me with cold blue eyes: no saucy pageBut points and whispers, ‘There goes our pet nun;Would but her saintship leave her gold behind,We’d give herself her furlough.’ Save me! save me!All here are ghastly dreams; dead masks of stone,And you and I, and Guta, only live:Your eyes alone have souls. I shall go mad!Oh that they would but leave me all aloneTo teach poor girls, and work within my chamber,With mine own thoughts, and all the gentle angelsWhich glance about my dreams at morning-tide!Then I should be as happy as the birdsWhich sing at my bower window. Once I longedTo be beloved,—now would they but forget me!Most vile I must be, or they could not hate me!

Isen. They are of this world, thou art not, poor child,Therefore they hate thee, as they did thy betters.

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