Eliz. [awaking]. Hark! how they cry for bread! Poor souls! be patient! I have spent all-- I'll sell myself for a slave--feed them with the price. Come, Guta! Nurse! We must be up and doing! Alas! they are gone, and begging! Go! go! They'll beat me, if I give you aught: I'll pray for you, and so you'll go to Heaven. I am a saint--God grants me all I ask. But I must love no creature. Why, Christ loved-- Mary he loved, and Martha, and their brother-- Three friends! and I have none! When Lazarus lay dead, He groaned in spirit, And wept--like any widow--Jesus wept! I'll weep, weep, weep! pray for that 'gift of tears.' They took my friends away, but not my eyes, Oh, husband, babes, friends, nurse! To die alone! Crack, frozen brain! Melt, icicle within! Women. Alas! sweet saint! By bitter pangs she wins Her crown of endless glory! Con. But she wins it! Stop that vile sobbing! she's unmanned enough Without your maudlin sympathy. Eliz. What? weeping? Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me-- Weep for yourselves. Women. We do, alas! we do! What are we without you? [A pause.] Woman. Oh, listen, listen! What sweet sounds from her fast-closed lips are welling, As from the caverned shaft, deep miners' songs? Eliz. [in a low voice]. Through the stifling room Floats strange perfume; Through the crumbling thatch The angels watch, Over the rotting roof-tree. They warble, and flutter, and hover, and glide, Wafting old sounds to my dreary bedside, Snatches of songs which I used to know When I slept by my nurse, and the swallows Called me at day-dawn from under the eaves. Hark to them! Hark to them now-- Fluting like woodlarks, tender and low-- Cool rustling leaves--tinkling waters-- Sheepbells over the lea-- In their silver plumes Eden-gales whisper-- In their hands Eden-lilies--not for me--not for me-- No crown 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.