Man . A LITTLE further on,
And thou shalt find a safe sad resting-place.
It is a fallen palace, through whose gates,
Arches and flapping casements, the wild rain
And gusty winds pour in. Long years ago,
It was the mansion of a Count of Spain;
Who dealt with the dark Spirits, as 'tis told,
And met a sudden doom. I have heard that he
Encountered his dusk master, as he sate
At supper by himself one winter's night,
And died in madness.
  Arm. Is the place so lonely:
  M. Ay, is it. The stork hath left it; and no thing
Comes there, beside the snake; save when, hard pressed
By savage hunters, or relentless cold,
The wild fox makes 't his dwelling through the night,
And flies at morning.
  A. I am ready, now:
Give me our boy, and I will carry him.
  M. Not so: I'm stouter,—nay, I feel no pain.
He sleeps. Look on him,—little famished wretch!
Hunger disdains to tear him. Now, let's on:
This way, beneath the pines. There is no track;
But I have sported here in brighter days,
And know the thickets.
  A. Ha! you stagger? stay:
Now, give me thy sweet burthen.
  M. Tush! 'twas chance;
A straggling root from yon old chesnut tree.
We 'll tread with greater care.
  A. I 'll sing to thee;
And cheer thee on our melancholy march.
'Tis said men fight the better when they hear
Sweet music; ay, endure fatigue and thirst,
Hunger and such poor wants. If so, I 'll strain
My throat until it shame the nightingale,
But I 'll do thee some service. Listen then.
  M. Go on: it cheers me. Well?
  A. I had forgot.
The rest is sad: we'll have't another time.
  M. Now, now: —although 't be darker than our lot;
Let 's hear it. When we cannot feel the sun,
Or hear the spring wind laugh, or babbling river,
There's music in the rain.