In my dear father's distant house, where I can dwell apart. "There I will live a maid again, and keep my true troth plight; There I will rear this infant, and guard him from all sin; Though sorrow lies between us two, he 'll be my dear delight, And I'll be faithful to my love as I have always been." "How can that be, my best beloved, it is the king's black will Within that gilded basin there to see your severed head." "Wait, wait, Count Yanno, kill me not, I have a refuge still; The cloistered nuns will guard me, when to their cells I've fled. "My bread be measured by the ounce, my drink quench not my thirst, Then speedily my death will come, nor will the princess know." "How can that be, my best beloved, since in that basin curst I must thy severed head before the king and princess show." "Enclose me in a dungeon dark, where neither sun nor moon Shall light the hours I count by sighs until my life has fled." "How can that be, my best beloved? the hour will come full soon When in that gilded basin there the king must see your head." The king knocked harshly at the door as these last words were said: "If the Countess still is living, quick, quick, make haste to slay." "The Countess says her orisons, but soon she will be dead, And in a single moment's space her soul will pass away." "Oh, let me say a final prayer to bid the world good-night." "Make haste to say it, my beloved, for daybreak I can see." "Oh, God and Virgin Mary blest, I cannot pray aright; It is not death afflicts me so, but shameful treachery. "I pity you more than myself, for your base cowardice; With your own hand you take my life, though reason there is none Except the wicked princess' hand will pay the shameful price. May God forgive you at the hour you stand before his throne! "Oh, let me say my last farewell to all I've loved so dear, The flower of Alexandria, the roses red and white, The little tender violets, the fountain waters clear, I've tended you with love and care; the princess' hand will blight. "Give me my child, fruit of my womb, in my weak arms to hold, That he may feed upon the breast that swells with its last breath. It is my blood that he will drink, that runs so faint and cold. Drink, little infant, drink the milk that's tinged with bitter death. To-day you have a mother dear, who loves you tenderly, To-morrow a step-mother harsh, of loftiest degree." The great church bell tolls heavily. Ah, Jesus, who is dead? The infant's lips by miracle this wondrous answer made: