The same. Elizabeth lying on straw in a corner. A crowd of women round her. Conrad entering.

Con. As I expected-- A sermon-mongering herd about her death-bed, Stifling her with fusty sighs, as flocks of rooks Despatch, with pious pecks, a wounded brother.

Cant, howl, and whimper! Not an old fool in the town Who thinks herself religious, but must see The last of the show and mob the deer to death.

[Advancing] Hail! holy ones! How fares your charge to-day?

Abbess. After the blessed sacrament received, As surfeited with those celestial viands, And with the blood of life intoxicate, She lay entranced: and only stirred at times To eructate sweet edifying doctrine Culled from your darling sermons.

Woman. Heavenly grace Imbues her so throughout, that even when p.r.i.c.ked She feels no pain.

Con. A miracle, no doubt.

Heaven's work is ripe, and like some more I know, Having begun in the spirit, in the flesh She's now made perfect: she hath had warnings, too, Of her decease; and prophesied to me, Three weeks ago, when I lay like to die, That I should see her in her coffin yet.

Abbess. 'Tis said, she heard in dreams her Saviour call her To mansions built for her from everlasting.

Con. Ay, so she said.

Abbess. But tell me, in her confession Was there no holy shame--no self-abhorrence For the vile pleasures of her carnal wedlock?

Con. She said no word thereon: as for her shrift, No Chrisom child could show a chart of thoughts More spotless than were hers.

Nun. Strange, she said nought; I had hoped she had grown more pure.

Con. When, next, I asked her, How she would be interred; 'In the vilest weeds,'

Quoth she, 'my poor hut holds; I will not pamper When dead, that flesh, which living I despised.

And for my wealth, see it to the last doit Bestowed upon the poor of Christ.'

2d Woman. O grace!

3d Woman. O soul to this world poor, but rich toward G.o.d!

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--G.o.d 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, s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 c.o.c.k-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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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!