Ah, what blessed Saints might meet me, on that platform, sliding
silent,
Past us in its airy travels, angel-wafted, mystical!
They perhaps might tell me all things, opening up the secret
fountains
Which now struggle, dark and turbid, through their dreary prison
clay.
Love! art thou an earth-born streamlet, that thou seek'st the lowest
hollows?
Sure some vapours float up from thee, mingling with the highest
blue.
Spirit-love in spirit-bodies, melted into one existence--
Joining praises through the ages--Is it all a minstrel's dream?
Alas! he wakes. [Lewis rises.]

Lewis. Ah! faithless beauty,
Is this your promise, that whene'er you prayed
I should be still the partner of your vigils,
And learn from you to pray? Last night I lay dissembling
When she who woke you, took my feet for yours:
Now I shall seize my lawful prize perforce.
Alas! what's this? These shoulders' cushioned ice,
And thin soft flanks, with purple lashes all,
And weeping furrows traced! Ah! precious life-blood!
Who has done this?

Eliz. Forgive! 'twas I--my maidens--

Lewis. O ruthless hags!