_The_ ABBOT ERNESTUS _pacing to and fro._

_Abbot._ Slowly, slowly up the wall Steals the sunshine, steals the shade; Evening damps begin to fall, Evening shadows are displayed.

Round me, o'er me, everywhere, All the sky is grand with clouds, And athwart the evening air Wheel the swallows home in crowds.

Shafts of sunshine from the west Paint the dusky windows red; Darker shadows, deeper rest, Underneath and overhead.

Darker, darker, and more wan, In my breast the shadows fall; Upward steals the life of man, As the sunshine from the wall.

From the wall into the sky, From the roof along the spire; Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher.

(_Enter_ PRINCE HENRY.)

_Prince Henry._ Christ is arisen!

_Abbot._ Amen! he is arisen!

His peace be with you!

_Prince Henry._ Here it reigns forever!

The peace of G.o.d, that pa.s.seth understanding, Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors, Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent?

_Abbot._ I am.

_Prince Henry._ And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, Who crave your hospitality to-night.

_Abbot._ You are thrice welcome to our humble walls.

You do us honor; and we shall requite it, I fear, but poorly, entertaining you With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, The remnants of our Easter holidays.

_Prince Henry._ How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau?

Are all things well with them?

_Abbot._ All things are well.

_Prince Henry._ A n.o.ble convent! I have known it long By the report of travellers. I now see Their commendations lag behind the truth.

You lie here in the valley of the Nagold As in a nest: and the still river, gliding Along its bed, is like an admonition How all things pa.s.s. Your lands are rich and ample, And your revenues large. G.o.d's benediction Rests on your convent.

_Abbot._ By our charities We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master, When he departed, left us in his will, As our best legacy on earth, the poor!

These we have always with us; had we not, Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones.

_Prince Henry._ If I remember right, the Counts of Calva Founded your convent.

_Abbot._ Even as you say.

_Prince Henry._ And, if I err not, it is very old.

_Abbot._ Within these cloisters lie already buried Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, Of blessed memory.

_Prince Henry._ And whose tomb is that, Which bears the bra.s.s escutcheon?

_Abbot._ A benefactor's.

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood G.o.dfather to our bells.

_Prince Henry._ Your monks are learned And holy men, I trust.

_Abbot._ There are among them Learned and holy men. Yet in this age We need another Hildebrand, to shake And purify us like a mighty wind.

The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder G.o.d does not lose his patience with it wholly, And shatter it like gla.s.s! Even here, at times, Within these walls, where all should be at peace, I have my trials. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

Ashes are on my head, and on my lips Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness And weariness of life, that makes me ready To say to the dead Abbots under us, "Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk Of evening twilight coming, and have not Completed half my task; and so at times The thought of my shortcomings in this life Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

_Prince Henry._ We must all die, and not the old alone; The young have no exemption from that doom.

_Abbot._ Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must!

That is the difference.

_Prince Henry._ I have heard much laud Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium Is famous among all, your ma.n.u.scripts Praised for their beauty and their excellence.

_Abbot._ That is indeed our boast. If you desire it, You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile Shall the Refectorarius bestow Your horses and attendants for the night.

(_They go in. The Vesper-bell rings._)

THE CHAPEL.

_Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old monk who is blind_.

_Prince Henry._ They are all gone, save one who lingers, Absorbed in deep and silent prayer.

As if his heart could find no rest, At times he beats his heaving breast With clenched and convulsive fingers, Then lifts them trembling in the air.

A chorister, with golden hair, Guides. .h.i.therward his heavy pace.

Can it be so? Or does my sight Deceive me in the uncertain light?

Ah no! I recognize that face, Though Time has touched it in his flight, And changed the auburn hair to white.

It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, The deadliest foe of all our race, And hateful unto me and mine!

_The Blind Monk_. Who is it that doth stand so near His whispered words I almost hear?

_Prince Henry_. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine!

I know you, and I see the scar, The brand upon your forehead, shine And redden like a baleful star!

_The Blind Monk_. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck Of what I was. O Hoheneck!

The pa.s.sionate will, the pride, the wrath That bore me headlong on my path, Stumbled and staggered into fear, And failed me in my mad career, As a tired steed some evil-doer, Alone upon a desolate moor, Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, And hearing loud and close behind The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer.

Then suddenly, from the dark there came A voice that called me by my name, And said to me, "Kneel down and pray!"

And so my terror pa.s.sed away, Pa.s.sed utterly away forever.

Contrition, penitence, remorse, Came on me, with o'erwhelming force; A hope, a longing, an endeavor, By days of penance and nights of prayer, To frustrate and defeat despair!

Calm, deep, and still is now my heart.

With tranquil waters overflowed; A lake whose unseen fountains start, Where once the hot volcano glowed.

And you, O Prince of Hoheneck!

Have known me in that earlier time, A man of violence and crime, Whose pa.s.sions brooked no curb nor check.

Behold me now, in gentler mood, One of this holy brotherhood.

Give me your hand; here let me kneel; Make your reproaches sharp as steel; Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek; No violence can harm the meek, There is no wound Christ cannot heal!