for the poor fond bride!
The song told me so,
Long, long ago,
How the maid chose the white lily;
But the bride she chose
The red red rose,
And by its thorn died she.
Well--in my Father's house are many mansions--
I have trodden the waste howling ocean-foam,
Till I stand upon Canaan's shore,
Where Crusaders from Zion's towers call me home,
To the saints who are gone before.

Con. Still on Crusaders? [Aside.]

Abbess. What was that sweet song, which just now, my Princess,
You murmured to yourself?

Eliz. Did you not hear
A little bird between me and the wall,
That sang and sang?

Abbess. We heard him not, fair Saint.

Eliz. I heard him, and his merry carol revelled
Through all my brain, and woke my parched throat
To join his song: then angel melodies
Burst through the dull dark, and the mad air quivered
Unutterable music. Nay, you heard him.

Abbess. Nought save yourself.

Eliz. Slow hours! Was that the cock-crow?

Woman. St. Peter's bird did call.

Eliz. Then I must up--
To matins, and to work--No, my work's over.
And what is it, what?
One drop of oil on the salt seething ocean!
Thank God, that one was born at this same hour,
Who did our work for us: we'll talk of Him:
We shall go mad with thinking of ourselves--
We'll talk of Him, and of that new-made star,
Which, as he stooped into the Virgin's side,
From off His finger, like a signet-gem,
He dropped in the empyrean for a sign.
But the first tear He shed at this His birth-hour,
When He crept weeping forth to see our woe,
Fled up to Heaven in mist, and hid for ever
Our sins, our works, and that same new-made star.

Woman. Poor soul! she wanders!

Con. Wanders, fool? her madness
Is worth a million of your paters, mumbled
At every station between--

Eliz. Oh! thank God
Our eyes are dim! What should we do, if he,
The sneering fiend, who laughs at all our toil,
Should meet us face to face?

Con. We'd call him fool.

Eliz. There! There! Fly, Satan, fly! 'Tis gone!

Con. The victory's gained at last!
The fiend is baffled, and her saintship sure!
O people blest of Heaven!

Eliz. O master, master,
You will not let the mob, when I lie dead,
Make me a show--paw over all my limbs--
Pull out my hair--pluck off my finger-nails--
Wear scraps of me for charms and amulets,
As if I were a mummy, or a drug?
As they have done to others--I have seen it--
Nor set me up in ugly naked pictures
In every church, that cold world-