with fresh vigour in the emperor's veins and through his feeble limbs.
Even Death himself listened to the song and said, 'Go on, little
nightingale, go on!'

'Yes, if you give me the gorgeous golden sword; yes, if you give me the
imperial banner; yes, if you give me the emperor's crown.'

And Death gave back each of these treasures for a song, and the
nightingale went on singing. It sang about the quiet churchyard, when
the roses bloom, where the elder flower scents the air, and where the
fresh grass is ever moistened anew by the tears of the mourner. This
song brought to Death a longing for his own garden, and, like a cold
grey mist, he passed out of the window.

'Thanks, thanks!' said the emperor; 'you heavenly little bird, I know
you! I banished you from my kingdom, and yet you have charmed the evil
visions away from my bed by your song, and even Death away from my
heart! How can I ever repay you?'

'You have rewarded me,' said the nightingale. 'I brought the tears to
your eyes, the very first time I ever sang to you, and I shall never
forget it! Those are the jewels which gladden the heart of a
singer;--but sleep now, and wake up fresh and strong! I will sing to
you!'

Then it sang again, and the emperor fell into a sweet refreshing sleep.
The sun shone in at his window, when he woke refreshed and well; none of
his attendants had yet come back to him, for they thought he was dead,
but the nightingale still sat there singing.