Hastily with line and rule Work they out the cloister’s plan; Hastily with eager tool Delve foundations in the sod, Where shall stand the house of God. Never resting night or day, Building, ever building, they Hurry on the work alway. But what in the day has grown, In the night is overthrown. Next day, next, and next again, What within the hours of light They have reared with toil and pain, Falls to ruin in the night, And all labor is in vain; For the pile will not remain, Falling nightly down again. Wondering and wrathful then Doth the prince the builders call, Raging, threatens once again He will build them, build them all, Build them in beneath the wall. And the master builders nine, Thus, their wretched lives at stake, Quaking toil, and toiling quake, All throughout the summer light, Till the day gives way to night. But Manoll upon a day Puts the irksome task away, Lays him down to sleep, and thus Dream he dreameth marvellous, Which, awak’ning from repose, Straightway doth he then disclose: “Hear my story, masters mine, Ye my fellow-craftsmen nine; Hearken to me while I tell Dream in sleep that me befell: From the height of heaven clear Was it borne upon my ear. Ever we shall build in vain, Crumbling still our work again, Till together swear we all To immure within the wall Her who at the peep of day Chances first to come this way Hither, who is sent by fate, Bearing food for swain or mate, Wife or sweetheart though it be, Maid or matron equally. Therefore listen, comrades mine: Would you build this holy shrine— Would you to enduring fame Evermore transmit your name— Vow we all a solemn vow, As we stand together now, Whosoever it shall be That his lovèd one shall see, Chancing here her way to take When the morrow’s light doth break, Will as victim bid her fall, Buried living in the wall!” III. Smiling doth the morning break; With the dawn Manoll, awake, Scaling the enclosure’s bound, Mounts the scaffold; all around, Hill and dale, with glance of fear, Anxious searcheth far and near. What is this that greets his eyes? Who is it that hither hies? ’Tis his wife he doth behold, Sweetest blossom of the wold; She it is that hasteth here, Bringing for her husband dear Meat and wine his heart to cheer. Sure too awful is the sight! Can his senses witness right? Leaps his heart and reels his brain In an agony of pain. Then on bended knees he falls, Desperate on Heaven calls: