And if to me, as simple—oh, not mine,
Not mine, oh God! the glory—nor ev’n theirs
From whom I drew it, and—Oh, Cipriano,
Methinks I see them bending from the skies
To take me up to them!
Cipr. Whither could I
But into heaven’s remotest corner creep,
Where I might only but discern thee, lost
With those you love in glory—
Just. Hush! hush! hush!