"It is Matilda's voice!" exclaimed the pilgrim, and fell upon his knees in prayer. Then pierced through the branches a lengthened ray unto his eyes, and through it in the distance he beheld a small but wonderful splendor, not to be described, only to be depicted with a skilful pencil. It was composed of extremely delicate figures; and the most intense pleasure and joy, even a heavenly happiness, everywhere rayed forth from it, so that even the inanimate vessels, the chiselled capitals, the drapery, the ornaments, everything visible, seemed not so much like works of art, as to have grown and sprung up together like the full-juiced herb. Most beautiful human forms were passing to and fro, and appeared kind and gracious to each other beyond measure. Before all was standing the pilgrim's beloved one, and it seemed as if she would have spoken to him; yet nothing could be heard, and the pilgrim only regarded with ardent longing her pleasant features, as she beckoned to him so kindly and smilingly, and laid her hand upon her heart. The sight was infinitely consoling and refreshing, and the pilgrim remained a long while steeped in holy rapture, until the vision disappeared. The sacred beam had drawn up all pain and trouble from his heart, so that his mind was again clear and cheerful, his spirit free and buoyant as before. Nought remained but a silent, inward longing, and a sound of sadness in the spirit's depths; but the wild torments of solitude, the sharp anguish of unspeakable loss, the terrible sense of a mournful void, had passed away with all earthly faintness, and the pilgrim again looked forth upon a world teeming with expression. Voice and language renewed their life within him, all things seemed more known and prophetic than before, so that death appeared to him a high revelation of life, and he viewed his own fleeting existence with child-like and serene emotion. The future and the past had met within him, and formed an eternal union. He stood far from the present, and the world was now for the first time dear to him, when he had lost it, and was there only as a stranger, who would yet wander but a while through its diversified and spacious halls. It was now evening, and the earth lay before him like an old beloved dwelling, which he had found again after long absence. A thousand recollections recurred to him; every stone, every tree, every hillock, made itself recognised. Each was the memorial of a former history.
The pilgrim snatched his lute, and sang:--
Love's tears, love's glowing,
Together flowing,
Hallow every place for me,
Where Elysium quenched my longing,
And in countless prayers are thronging,
Like the bees around this tree.
Gladly is it o'er them bending,
Thither wending,