_Schol._ My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord For his unmeasured mercies!--and for this Great comfort, thy dear presence! I am spent-- The hand of death is on me! Ere the sun Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be Among the blessed angels! Even now I see as t’were heaven opened, and a troop Of beautiful spirits waiting my release! _Mother._ My son! my son! and thou so young, so wise, So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart! Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms, My only one!--Thou wast a son indeed! _Schol._ Mother, farewell! I hear the heavenly voices, They call!--I cannot stay: farewell--farewell! _Choir of Spiritual Voices._ No more sighing, No more dying, Come with us, thou pure and bright! Time is done, Joy is won, Come to glory infinite! Hark! the angel-songs are pealing! Heavenly mysteries are unsealing, Come and see, oh come and see! Here the living waters pour, Drink and thou shalt thirst no more, Dweller in eternity! No more toiling--no more sadness! Welcome to immortal gladness, Beauty and unending youth! Thou that hast been deeply tried, And like gold been purified, Come to the eternal truth! Pilgrim towards eternity, Tens of thousands wait for thee! Come, come! THE SORROW OF TERESA. PERSONS. OLAF. TERESA, HIS WIFE. PAOLO, THEIR CHILD. ACHZIB, AS A NORTHERN HUNTER. HULDA, AN OLD WOMAN. SCENE I. _A little chapel in a gloomy northern forest--Teresa on her knees before the image of the Virgin._ _Ter._ Thou, that didst bear a pain that had no healing-- An undivided misery, Which unto kindred heart knew no appealing, O, hear thou me! I tell thee not mine own peculiar woe; I tell thee not the want that makes me poor, For thou, dear Mother of God, all this dost know!-- But I beseech thy blessing, and thy aid; Assure me, where my nature is afraid, And where I murmur, strengthen to endure! [_She bows her head, kneeling in silence--as she prepares to leave the chapel_, _enter_ PAOLO, _with a few snow-drops in his hand_. _Paol._ Mother, in Italy I used to gather Sweet flowers; the fragrant lily, like a cup Chiselled in marble, and the rich, red rose, And carry them, an offering to Our Lady; Think’st thou she will accept such gifts as these, For they are not like flowers of Italy-- But they are such, dear mother, as grow here?