File:The angel at the sepulchre (1890) (14595447740).jpg

Identifier: angelatsepulchre00tiff (find matches)
Title: The angel at the sepulchre
Year: 1890 (1890s)
Authors: Tiffany, Esther Brown, 1858- (from old catalog) Tiffany, William S., (from old catalog) illus
Subjects:
Publisher: Boston, L. Prang and company
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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Text Appearing Before Image:
This dagger then, the sheath is sown with pearls.
Still say me nay .- What is the lily's price.

GOTTFRIED.
No price ; my mother loves it, and she dies.

The Angel at tlie Sepulchre.
————————————

COUNT WALTER.
Thou hast a mother ? Nor on gleaming wing
Didst newly light, thy lily in thy hand,
From starry courts ? And flittest not away
At set of sun to join thy brotherhood ?

GOTTFRIED.
My mother waits.

COUNT WALTER.
How well his angelhood
Becomes the boy! Who is thy mother, pray ?

GOTTFRIED.
A widow, and she sits alone and mourns.
Nor knoweth when he died, nor how nor where,
Her lord, Count Walter of the Falkenfels,
My father. Nay, unhand me, I must go.
What is your will ? Your pallid lips are dumb ;
You stare upon me with your starting eyes,
As I were thing unholy. Let me pass.

COUNT WALTER.
Thy father — Walter of the Falkenfels !
Living — thy mother—-Agnes — and he swore
On reeking sword hilt, swore me she was dead.
In rancor of her lowly birth and name.
Remorseless of my anguish.

GOTTFRIED.
In thy beard
So dost thou mutter that I hear thee not.
Text Appearing After Image:

The Angel at the Sepulchre. 7
—————————————

COUNT WALTER.
And deems me dead ! And mourning wastes away
Thou liest when thou spoke, "My mother dies !"
Myself will pluck her back. But gently, stay —
So frail a thing and tender. Go thou now,
Fair boy, fair spirit, thou with Agnes eyes,
Say — (how the words I writ her long ago
Beat in my bosom), When the Father calls
And Azrael be standing at thy door,
Beseech them, Nay, not yet ! for there is one
Thy holy presence needeth more than God.

GOTTFRIED.
I understand thee not.

COUNT WALTER.
And further say,
" He waiteth at thy threshold for a sign.
The lily send him by the messenger
That brought it thee, so be it thou wilt turn
Thine eyes from Heaven to his yearning arms ! "

[Agnes's chamber.]

AGNES (with a vase of pure wdtcr).
Deep in its ferny channel, forest-bound,
The hermit brook makes music whence this came.
I too, in maiden days, went joyous forth
Neath the pale stars, and on the mossy brink
Knelt silent, while from crystal pool I dipt
My ewer full, to carry heedful home
And sprinkle wall and image, for they say
That running water drawn with pious rite
On holy Easter morning, worketh weal.

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