[_Sings from a distance._]
Taut is the air and tied the trees,
The leaves lie as on a hand;
God’s unthinkable imagination
Invents new tortures for nature.
And when the air is soft and the leaves
Feel free and push and tremble,
Will they not remember and say
How wonderful to have lived?
[_The_ OLD HEBREW _is agitated and murmurs_.]
Messiah, Messiah.... That voice....
O, he has beaten my sight out.... I see
Like a rain about a devouring fire....
[_The Minstrel sings._]
Ye who best God awhile, O hear: your wealth
Is but His cunning to see to make death more hard,
Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking;
And he has made the market for your beauty
Too poor to buy although you die to sell.