Lewis. Thou casket of all graces! fourfold wonderOf wit and beauty, love and wisdom! Canst thouBeatify the ascetic’s savageryTo heavenly prudence? Horror melts to pity,And pity kindles to adoring showerOf radiant tears! Thou tender cruelty!Gay smiling martyrdom! Shall I forbid thee?Limit thy depth by mine own shallowness?Thy courage by my weakness? Where thou darest,I’ll shudder and submit. I kneel here spell-boundBefore my bleeding Saviour’s living likenessTo worship, not to cavil: I had dreamt of such things,Dim heard in legends, while my pitiful bloodTingled through every vein, and wept, and swore’Twas beautiful, ’twas Christ-like—had I thoughtThat thou wert such:—

Eliz. You would have loved me still?

Lewis. I have gone mad, I think, at every partingAt mine own terrors for thee. No; I’ll learn to gloryIn that which makes thee glorious! Noble stains!I’ll call them rose leaves out of paradiseStrewn on the wreathed snows, or rubies droppedFrom martyrs’ diadems, prints of Jesus’ crossToo truly borne, alas!

Eliz. I think, mine own,I am forgiven at last?

Lewis. To-night, my sister—Henceforth I’ll clasp thee to my heart so fastThou shalt not ’scape unnoticed.

Eliz [laughing] We shall see—Now I must stop those wise lips with a kiss,And lead thee back to scenes of simpler bliss.

SCENE II

A Chamber in the Castle. Elizabeth—the FoolIsentrudis—Guta singing.

High among the lonely hills,While I lay beside my sheep,Rest came down and filled my soul,From the everlasting deep.

Changeless march the stars above,Changeless morn succeeds to even;Still the everlasting hills,Changeless watch the changeless heaven.

See the rivers, how they run,Changeless toward the changeless sea;All around is forethought sure,Fixed will and stern decree.

Can the sailor move the main?Will the potter heed the clay?Mortal! where the spirit drives,Thither must the wheels obey.

Neither ask, nor fret, nor strive:Where thy path is, thou shall go.He who made the streams of timeWafts thee down to weal or woe.

Eliz. That’s a sweet song, and yet it does not chimeWith my heart’s inner voice. Where had you it, Guta?

Guta. From a nun who was a 

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