The air came laden with the balmy scent Of citron grove and orange; far beyond The cloister wall, like towering battlement, Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donned From ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant hues Floated like banners on palatial clouds. Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds; Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse. Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spires Blended their even-chime with seraph lyres; O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer, And stole with joy upon the list’ning air. Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade, Gemmed with España’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns, Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade, Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawns A light celestial――peace and hope and love. The wasted form, than bending flower more frail, Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil. The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyes Whose gaze has revelled in the courts above, Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guise On image of the Crucified within Her fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred trance Now rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sin In ghastly horror rises; now her glance On bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once more Upon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore, The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul, Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll; And burning words her holy passion tell, Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell: “O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain! Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain! My Jesus dies, and I―― I cannot die, but through this exile moan A stranger, midst of multitudes alone, And vainly seek to fly Where harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky; My solace here, to suffer or to die! “O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven, By fast and penance this vile body driven To thy sweet yoke to yield; And agonies of death have seized this frame, Dark devils made of me their mock and shame, Thou, thou alone my shield. A bower of roses!――looms so steep and high The path I strain, to suffer or to die! “Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross! A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss, Nor fear the dark, dark night. Love strains my sorrows to my heart with grasp Stronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear clasp Of soul beloved. The height Will soon appear; the glory I descry: Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die! “Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit share Each separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear, Nor drop of comfort blend. Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread, Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head―― Pain, torture to the end; And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye, Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!”