eforehand, my child! Thou
art weary, so weary! Thy last wandering was heavy to thee; now thou wilt
rest. Come thou good deliverer, come thou beloved death, and give rest
to his heart; but easily, easily. Let him not suffer more--let him not
endure more. Never did he give care to his parents----"

At this moment Henrik opened his eyes, and fixed them calmly and full of
expression on his mother.

"Thank God!" said he, "I feel no more pain."

"Thanks and praise be given to God, my child!" said she.

Mother and son looked on each other with deep and cheerful love! they
understood each other perfectly.

"When I am no more," said he, with a faint and broken voice, "then--tell
it to Gabriele, prudently; she has such tender feelings--and she is not
strong. Do not tell it to her on a day--when it is cold and
dull--but--on a day--when the sun shines warm--when all things look
bright and kindly--then, then tell her--that I am gone away--and greet
her--and tell her from me--that it is not difficult--to die!--that there
is a sun on the other side----"

He ceased, but with a loving smile on his lips, and his eyes closed
their lids as if from very weariness.

Presently afterwards he spoke again, but in a very low voice. "Sing me
something, mother," said he, "I shall then sleep more calmly, 'They
knock! I come!'"

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,