And in Springtime from the windows of the tower I can see the wild horses in the plain, Treading stately but so lightly that they never break the flower, And they fade at speed to westward and they never come again. And in Springtime at the quays the men of Tyre Set their ships towards the west and hoist their sail, And our hearts cry “Take us with you to the land of our desire!” And they hear our cry but will not take the crier: The crying of a slave can be of no avail. Birds, horses, sailors, all are free to go To seek their homes beyond the wilderness: But we, the homeless, only know Weariful days of wearing-out distress. O lamentation, misery, woe, woe! Shall we be ever exiled, must it be That we must pass our days as slaves for ever? Far from our pleasant land, and never see Our sacred Hills and Jordan’s blessed river? Shall we not see again thy ramparts rise, O Zion, and thy splendid towers rebuilt, And God’s great Temple set for sacrifice By this our race, atoning for our guilt? Or must our weary footsteps no more tread The land we love, where those we loved are dead? No, we shall see that lovely land no more, Nor anything we loved there, place or friend, Nor do, nor know, the things we hungered for. Like darts out of God’s Hand our deaths descend To make an end. Now we can crouch and pray and count the hours Until our murderers’ feet are on the stair, And bright steel spirts the blood upon our hair And lays us motionless among the flowers, White things that do not care. And afterwards, who knows what moths we’ll be Flying about the lamps of life at night In death’s great darkness, blindly, blunderingly? The brook that sings in the grass knows more delight, The ox that the men pole-axe has more peace Than prisoners’ souls; but now there comes release; We shall go home, to death, to-morrow night. O lamentation, misery, woe, woe! CURTAIN. ACT II [AHASUERUS _on his couch_.] AHASUERUS. What is the time? I hear the water drip Telling the time; and all the Court is still, Still as the midnight; not a footstep stirs Save the slow sentry on the palace wall. No glow of light is in the eastern heaven; The barren, dwindled moon her ruddy horn Heaves o’er the tree-tops; it is midnight, sure. I see Orion falling, and the Dog Bright at his heels. Deep midnight. Not a sound Save the most patient mouse that gnaws the wainscot. [_He rises and walks._]