derstandest us! Our perfume is the
Longing of Love; we love thee, and are thine forevermore!" The golden
rays burn in glowing tones: "We are Fire, kindled by Love. Perfume is
Longing; but Fire is Desire: and dwell we not in thy bosom? We are thy
own!" The dark bushes, the high trees, rustle and sound: "Come to
us, thou loved, thou happy one! Fire is Desire; but Hope is our cool
Shadow. Lovingly we rustle round thy head; for thou understandest us,
because Love dwells in thy breast!" The fountains and brooks murmur
and patter. "Loved one, walk not so quickly by; look into our crystal!
Thy image dwells in us, which we preserve with Love, for thou hast
understood us." In the triumphal choir, bright birds are singing:
"Hear us! Hear us! We are Joy, we are Delight, the rapture of Love!"
But longingly Anselmus turns his eyes to the Glorious Temple, which
rises behind him in the distance. The artful pillars seem trees; and
the capitals and friezes acanthus leaves, which in wondrous wreaths
and figures form splendid decorations. Anselmus walks to the Temple;
he views with inward delight the variegated marble, the steps with
their strange veins of moss. "Ah, no!" cries he, as if in the excess
of rapture, "she is not far from me now; she is near!" Then advances
Serpentina, in the fulness of beauty and grace, from the Temple;
she bears the Golden Pot, from which a bright Lily has sprung. The
nameless rapture of infinite longing glows in her bright eyes; she
looks at Anselmus, and says: "Ah! Dearest, the Lily has sent forth her
bowl; what we longed for is fulfilled; is there a happiness to equal
ours?" Anselmus clasps her with the tenderness of warmest ardor; the
Lily burns in flaming beams over his head. And louder move the trees
and bushes; clearer and gladder play the brooks; the birds, the
shining insects dance in the waves of perfume; a gay, bright rejoicing
tumult, in the air, in the water, in the earth, is holding the
festival of Love! Now rush sparkling streaks, gleaming over all the
bushes; diamonds look from the ground like shining eyes; high gushes
spurt from the wells; strange perfumes are wafted hither on sounding
wings; they are the Spirits of the Elements, who do homage to the
Lily, and proclaim the happiness of Anselmus. Then Anselmus raises his
head, as if encircled with a beamy glory. Is it looks? Is it words?
Is it song? You hear the sound: "Serpentina! Belief in thee, Love of
thee, has unfolded to my soul the inmo