_Lucifer (pouring)._ Let not the quant.i.ty alarm you: You may drink all; it will not harm you.

_Prince Henry._ I am as one who on the brink Of a dark river stands and sees The waters flow, the landscape dim Around him waver, wheel, and swim, And, ere he plunges, stops to think Into what whirlpools he may sink; One moment pauses, and no more, Then madly plunges from the sh.o.r.e!

Headlong into the dark mysteries Of life and death I boldly leap, Nor fear the fateful current's sweep, Nor what in ambush lurks below!

For death is better than disease!

(_An_ ANGEL _with an aeolian harp hovers in the air_.)

_Angel._ Woe! woe! eternal woe!

Not only the whispered prayer Of love, But the imprecations of hate, Reverberate Forever and ever through the air Above!

This fearful curse Shakes the great universe!

_Lucifer (disappearing)._ Drink! drink!

And thy soul shall sink Down into the dark abyss, Into the infinite abyss, From which no plummet nor rope Ever drew up the silver sand of hope!

_Prince Henry (drinking)._ It is like a draught of fire!

Through every vein I feel again The fever of youth, the soft desire; A rapture that is almost pain Throbs in my heart and fills my brain!

O joy! O joy! I feel The band of steel That so long and heavily has pressed Upon my breast Uplifted, and the malediction Of my affliction Is taken from me, and my weary breast At length finds rest.

_The Angel._ It is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has been taken!

It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-gla.s.s is not shaken!

It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow!

It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow!

With fiendish laughter, Hereafter, This false physician Will mock thee in thy perdition.

_Prince Henry._ Speak! speak!

Who says that I am ill?

I am not ill! I am not weak!

The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er!

I feel the chill of death no more!

At length, I stand renewed in all my strength!

Beneath me I can feel The great earth stagger and reel, As it the feet of a descending G.o.d Upon its surface trod, And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel!

This, O brave physician! this Is thy great Palingenesis!

(_Drinks again_.)

_The Angel._ Touch the goblet no more!

It will make thy heart sore To its very core!

Its perfume is the breath Of the Angel of Death, And the light that within it lies Is the flash of his evil eyes.

Beware! O, beware!

For sickness, sorrow, and care All are there!

_Prince Henry (sinking back)._ O thou voice within my breast!

Why entreat me, why upbraid me, When the steadfast tongues of truth And the flattering hopes of youth Have all deceived me and betrayed me?

Give me, give me rest, O, rest!

Golden visions wave and hover, Golden vapors, waters streaming, Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming!

I am like a happy lover Who illumines life with dreaming!

Brave physician! Rare physician!

Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission!

(_His head falls On his book_.)

_The Angel (receding)._ Alas! alas!

Like a vapor the golden vision Shall fade and pa.s.s, And thou wilt find in thy heart again Only the blight of pain, And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition!

COURT-YARD OF THE CASTLE.

HUBERT _standing by the gateway._

_Hubert._ How sad the grand old castle looks!

O'erhead, the unmolested rooks Upon the turret's windy top Sit, talking of the farmer's crop; Here in the court-yard springs the gra.s.s, So few are now the feet that pa.s.s; The stately peac.o.c.ks, bolder grown, Come hopping down the steps of stone, As if the castle were their own; And I, the poor old seneschal, Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall.

Alas! the merry guests no more Crowd through the hospital door; No eyes with youth and pa.s.sion shine, No cheeks glow redder than the wine; No song, no laugh, no jovial din Of drinking wa.s.sail to the pin; But all is silent, sad, and drear, And now the only sounds I hear Are the hoa.r.s.e rooks upon the walls, And horses stamping in their stalls!

(_A horn sounds_.)

What ho! that merry, sudden blast Reminds me of the days long past!

And, as of old resounding, grate The heavy hinges of the gate, And, clattering loud, with iron clank, Down goes the sounding bridge of plank, As if it were in haste to greet The pressure of a traveler's feet!

(_Enter_ WALTER _the Minnesinger_.)

_Walter._ How now, my friend! This looks quite lonely!

No banner flying from the walls, No pages and no seneschals, No wardens, and one porter only!

Is it you, Hubert?

_Hubert._ Ah! Master Walter!

_Walter._ Alas! how forms and faces alter!

I did not know you. You look older!

Your hair has grown much grayer and thinner, And you stoop a little in the shoulder!

_Hubert._ Alack! I am a poor old sinner, And, like these towers, begin to moulder; And you have been absent many a year!

_Walter._ How is the Prince?

_Hubert._ He is not here; He has been ill: and now has fled.

_Walter._ Speak it out frankly: say he's dead!

Is it not so?

_Hubert._ No; if you please; A strange, mysterious disease Fell on him with a sudden blight.

Whole hours together he would stand Upon the terrace, in a dream, Resting his head upon his hand, Best pleased when he was most alone, Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone, Looking down into a stream.

In the Round Tower, night after night, He sat, and bleared his eyes with books; Until one morning we found him there Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon He had fallen from his chair.

We hardly recognized his sweet looks!

_Walter._ Poor Prince!