_Sa._ Almeh. Sweet’st Almeh O nay, she is dead. Ah, loveliest child of earth, Is thy young bloom perished? Alas! alas! Is this thy end? O miserable king, What hast thou done? CHORUS. Alma is dead! Alma the fair!— By love of Ferdinand whelmed in his fate.— Lament her, O lament. (1.) Joy of our heavy prison; _Ch._ Rescued too late— Beauty too fair. (1.) Ah! surely in earth’s prison.... _Ch._ A mortal as immortal made— 2302 O unforeseen her end! Lament, lament! (1.) Our woe is a storm, our hope the fringe of a shade, The smile of a cloud by tempest rent. _Ch._ A dawn in vain arisen— Alma is dead: And we, to our superfluous prayer Permitted still, our lives have won,— Shaking in fear to be untimely undone,— 2310 By long misdoing undone, unworthy who were;— Saved by her, but saved too late. Alma the fair, Our Alma is dead. _En._ What mean these words? _Sa._ O prince, The woes so suddenly befallen us here Make a long tale. In brief, these whom thou seest Embraced in death, were drawn in life together By love’s o’ermastering bond. Fate’s stroke at me Is that I live to tell it. _En._ And was’t for that 2320 Thy king slew Ferdinand? _Sa._ That was not all: For Satan did persuade our thwarteous king To make a godless bargain of their loves: He would have given his daughter to the Prince As Ceuta’s price. When he refused, ’twas then In pride and wrath he slew him. _En._ Alas, my brother. Inflexible in honour against thyself. If but for a day thou hadst seemed to make consent, All had been well. _Sa._ Not well for him. He lived And died with tongue as faithful as his soul. 2330 _Ch._ He tells not all. Maybe he doth not know. _En._ What’s more to tell? _Ch._ O sir, the princess here, Who loved thy brother, learned the faith of us. Her name is Alma. She is a Christian. _Sa._ Yea, ’Tis true. I knew it. I would have hidden it from thee. In this we are shamèd most. Prince Ferdinand Conquered us here. His love and not his arms Wove our disaster. _Ch._ Love and faith have conquered. Yet did his sword no less avenge his death. 2339 See, prince, ’tis here, wet with the murderer’s blood. It savèd thee. For this we may rejoice: And that we shall return. _En._ Ye shall return. But now ’tis not an hour For your rejoicing. Still your tongues. And, Sala, It lies with thee in place of thy king dead To treat with me. Here is thy sword: and thus [_Giving._