These words were the beginning of a song which Henrik had himself written, and set to music some time before, during a night of suffering.
The genius of poetry seemed to have deserted him during the latter part of his illness; this was painful to him; but his mind remained the same, and the spirit of poetry lived still in the hymn which his mother now, at his request, sang in a trembling voice:
They knock! I come! yet ere on the way
To the night of the grave I am pressing,
Thou Angel of Death, give me yet one lay—
One hymn of thanksgiving and blessing.
Have thanks, O Father! in heaven high,
For thy gift, all gifts exceeding;
For life! and that grieved or glad I could fly
To thee, nor find thee unheeding.
Oh thanks for life, and thanks too for death,
The bound of all trouble and sighing;
How bitter! yet sweet 't is to yield our breath
When thine is the heart of the dying!
By our path of trial thou plantest still
Thy lilies of consolation;
But the loveliest of all—to do thy will—
Be it done in resignation!
Farewell, lovely earth, on whose bosom I lay;
Farewell, all ye dear ones, mourning;
Farewell, and forgive all the faults of my day:
My heart now in death is burning!
"It is burning!" repeated Henrik in a voice of suffering. "It is terrible! Mother! Mother!" said he, looking for her with a restless glance.
"Your mother is here!" said she, bending over him.
"Ah! then all is right!" said he again, calmly. "Sing, my mother," added he, again closing his eyes—"I am weary."