_Hubert._ I think he might have mended; And he did mend; but very soon The Priests came flocking in, like rooks, With all their crosiers and their crooks, And so at last the matter ended.

_Walter._ How did it end?

_Hubert._ Why, in Saint Rochus They made him stand, and wait his doom; And, as if he were condemned to the tomb, Began to mutter their hocus pocus.

First, the Ma.s.s for the Dead they chaunted.

Then three times laid upon his head A shovelful of church-yard clay, Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, "This is a sign that thou art dead, So in thy heart be penitent!"

And forth from the chapel door he went Into disgrace and banishment, Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, And bearing a wallet, and a bell, Whose sound should be a perpetual knell To keep all travelers away.

_Walter._ O, horrible fate! Outcast, rejected, As one with pestilence infected!

_Hubert._ Then was the family tomb unsealed, And broken helmet, sword and shield, Buried together, in common wreck, As is the custom, when the last Of any princely house has pa.s.sed, And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, A herald shouted down the stair The words of warning and despair,-- "O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!"

_Walter_. Still in my soul that cry goes on,-- Forever gone! forever gone!

Ah, what a cruel sense of loss, Like a black shadow, would fall across The hearts of all, if he should die!

His gracious presence upon earth Was as a fire upon a hearth; As pleasant songs, at morning sung, The words that dropped from his sweet tongue Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night, Made all our slumbers soft and light.

Where is he?

_Hubert._ In the Odenwald.

Some of his tenants, unappalled By fear of death, or priestly word,-- A holy family, that make Each meal a Supper of the Lord,-- Have him beneath their watch and ward, For love of him, and Jesus' sake!

Pray you come in. For why should I With outdoor hospitality My prince's friend thus entertain?

_Walter._ I would a moment here remain.

But you, good Hubert, go before, Fill me a goblet of May-drink, As aromatic as the May From which it steals the breath away, And which he loved so well of yore; It is of him that I would think You shall attend me, when I call, In the ancestral banquet hall.

Unseen companions, guests of air, You cannot wait on, will be there; They taste not food, they drink not wine, But their soft eyes look into mine, And their lips speak to me, and all The vast and shadowy banquet-hall Is full of looks and words divine!

(_Leaning over the parapet_.)

The day is done; and slowly from the scene The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, And puts them back into his golden quiver!

Below me in the valley, deep and green As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions, Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent, And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!

Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still, As when the vanguard of the Roman legions First saw it from the top of yonder hill!

How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat, Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag, The consecrated chapel on the crag, And the white hamlet gathered round its base, Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet, And looking up at his beloved face!

O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er!

II.

A FARM IN THE ODENWALD

_A garden; morning;_ PRINCE HENRY _seated, with a book_. ELSIE, _at a distance, gathering flowers._

_Prince Henry (reading)._ One morning, all alone, Out of his convent of gray stone, Into the forest older, darker, grayer, His lips moving as if in prayer, His head sunken upon his breast As in a dream of rest, Walked the Monk Felix. All about The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, Filling the summer air; And within the woodlands as he trod, The twilight was like the Truce of G.o.d With worldly woe and care; Under him lay the golden moss; And above him the boughs of hemlock-tree Waved, and made the sign of the cross, And whispered their Benedicites; And from the ground Rose an odor sweet and fragrant Of the wild flowers and the vagrant Vines that wandered, Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but pondered On the volume in his hand, A volume of Saint Augustine; Wherein he read of the unseen Splendors of G.o.d's great town In the unknown land, And, with his eyes cast down In humility, he said: "I believe, O G.o.d, What herein I have read, But alas! I do not understand!"

And lo! he heard The sudden singing of a bird, A snow-white bird, that from a cloud Dropped down, And among the branches brown Sat singing So sweet, and clear, and loud, It seemed a thousand harp strings ringing.

And the Monk Felix closed his book, And long, long, With rapturous look, He listened to the song, And hardly breathed or stirred, Until he saw, as in a vision, The land Elysian, And in the heavenly city heard Angelic feet Fall on the golden flagging of the street.

And he would fain Have caught the wondrous bird, But strove in vain; For it flew away, away, Far over hill and dell, And instead of its sweet singing He heard the convent bell Suddenly in the silence ringing For the service of noonday.

And he retraced His pathway homeward sadly and in haste.

In the convent there was a change!

He looked for each well known face, But the faces were new and strange; New figures sat in the oaken stalls, New voices chaunted in the choir, Yet the place was the same place, The same dusky walls Of cold, gray stone, The same cloisters and belfry and spire.

A stranger and alone Among that brotherhood The Monk Felix stood "Forty years," said a Friar.

"Have I been Prior Of this convent in the wood, But for that s.p.a.ce Never have I beheld thy face!"

The heart of the Monk Felix fell: And he answered with submissive tone, "This morning, after the hour of Prime, I left my cell, And wandered forth alone, Listening all the time To the melodious singing Of a beautiful white bird, Until I heard The bells of the convent ringing Noon from their noisy towers, It was as if I dreamed; For what to me had seemed Moments only, had been hours!"

"Years!" said a voice close by.

It was an aged monk who spoke, From a bench of oak Fastened against the wall;-- He was the oldest monk of all.

For a whole century Had he been there, Serving G.o.d in prayer, The meekest and humblest of his creatures.

He remembered well the features Of Felix, and he said, Speaking distinct and slow: "One hundred years ago, When I was a novice in this place, There was here a monk, full of G.o.d's grace, Who bore the name Of Felix, and this man must be the same."

And straightway They brought forth to the light of day A volume old and brown, A huge tome, bound With bra.s.s and wild-boar's hide, Therein were written down The names of all who had died In the convent, since it was edified.

And there they found, Just as the old monk said, That on a certain day and date, One hundred years before, Had gone forth from the convent gate The Monk Felix, and never more Had entered that sacred door.

He had been counted among the dead!

And they knew, at last, That, such had been the power Of that celestial and immortal song, A hundred years had pa.s.sed, And had not seemed so long As a single hour!

(ELSIE _comes in with flowers._)

_Elsie._ Here are flowers for you, But they are not all for you.

Some of them are for the Virgin And for Saint Cecilia.

_Prince Henry._ As thou standest there, Thou seemest to me like the angel That brought the immortal roses To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber.

_Elsie._ But these will fade.

_Prince Henry._ Themselves will fade, But not their memory, And memory has the power To re-create them from the dust.

They remind me, too, Of martyred Dorothea, Who from celestial gardens sent Flowers as her witnesses To him who scoffed and doubted.

_Elsie._ Do you know the story Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter?

That is the prettiest legend of them all.

_Prince Henry._ Then tell it to me.

But first come hither.

Lay the flowers down beside me.

And put both thy hands in mine.

Now tell me the story.

_Elsie._ Early in the morning The Sultan's daughter Walked in her father's garden, Gathering the bright flowers, All full of dew.

_Prince Henry._ Just as thou hast been doing This morning, dearest Elsie.

_Elsie._ And as she gathered them, She wondered more and more Who was the Master of the Flowers, And made them grow Out of the cold, dark earth.

"In my heart," she said, "I love him; and for him Would leave my father's palace, To labor in his garden."

_Prince Henry._ Dear, innocent child!