Eliz monologue (Act 4) — The Saint's Tragedy

[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.