'Twas as though a strange, irresistible call
Summoned me forth from the worshipping flock,
Over hill and dale, over mead and rock.
'Mid the silver birches I listening trod,
Moving as though in a dream;
Behind me stood empty the house of God;
Priest and people were lured by the magic 'twould seem,
Of the tones that still through the air did stream.
No sound they made; they were quiet as death;
To hearken the song-birds held their breath,
The lark dropped earthward, the cuckoo was still,
As the voice re-echoed from hill to hill.
MARGIT.
Go on.
SIGNE.
They crossed themselves, women and men;
[Pressing her hands to her breast.
But strange thoughts arose within me then;
For the heavenly song familiar grew:
Gudmund oft sang it to me and you--
Ofttimes has Gudmund carolled it,
And all he e'er sang in my heart is writ.
MARGIT.
And you think that it may be--?
SIGNE.
I know it is he! I know it? I know it! You soon shall see!
[Laughing.
From far-off lands, at the last, in the end,
Each song-bird homeward his flight doth bend!
I am so happy--though why I scarce know--!
Margit, what say you? I'll quickly go
And take down his harp, that has hung so long
In there on the wall that 'tis rusted quite;
Its golden strings I will polish bright,
And tune them to ring and to sing with his song.
MARGIT. [Absently.]
Do as you will--
SIGNE. [Reproachfully.]
Nay, this in not right.
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