_Crier of the dead (ringing a bell)._ Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!

Pray for the Dead!

Pray for the Dead!

_Prince Henry._ Hark! with what accents loud and hoa.r.s.e This warder on the walls of death Sends forth the challenge of his breath!

I see the dead that sleep in the grave!

They rise up and their garments wave, Dimly and spectral, as they rise, With the light of another world in their eyes!

_Crier of the dead._ Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!

Pray for the Dead!

Pray for the Dead!

_Prince Henry._ Why for the dead, who are at rest?

Pray for the living, in whose breast The struggle between right and wrong Is raging terrible and strong, As when good angels war with devils!

This is the Master of the Revels, Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes The health of absent friends, and pledges, Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, And tinkling as we touch their edges, But with his dismal, tinkling bell, That mocks and mimics their funeral knell!

_Crier of the dead._ Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!

Pray for the Dead!

Pray for the Dead!

_Prince Henry._ Wake not, beloved! be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep!

There walks a sentinel at thy gate Whose heart is heavy and desolate, And the heavings of whose bosom number The respirations of thy slumber, As if some strange, mysterious fate Had linked two hearts in one, and mine Went madly wheeling about thine, Only with wider and wilder sweep!

_Crier of the dead (at a distance)._ Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!

Pray for the Dead!

Pray for the Dead!

_Prince Henry._ Lo! with what depth of blackness thrown Against the clouds, far up the skies, The walls of the cathedral rise, Like a mysterious grove of stone, With fitful lights and shadows bleeding, As from behind, the moon, ascending, Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown!

The wind is rising; but the boughs Rise not and fall not with the wind That through their foliage sobs and soughs; Only the cloudy rack behind, Drifting onward, wild and ragged, Gives to each spire and b.u.t.tress jagged A seeming motion undefined.

Below on the square, an armed knight, Still as a statue and as white, Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver Upon the points of his armor bright As on the ripples of a river.

He lifts the visor from his cheek, And beckons, and makes as he would speak.

_Walter the Minnesinger_ Friend! can you tell me where alight Thuringia's hors.e.m.e.n for the night?

For I have lingered in the rear, And wander vainly up and down.

_Prince Henry_ I am a stranger in the town, As thou art, but the voice I hear Is not a stranger to mine ear.

Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid!

_Walter_ Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy name Is Henry of Hoheneck!

_Prince Henry_ Ay, the same.

_Walter_ (_embracing him_). Come closer, closer to my side!

What brings thee hither? What potent charm Has drawn thee from thy German farm Into the old Alsatian city?

_Prince Henry_. A tale of wonder and of pity!

A wretched man, almost by stealth Dragging my body to Salern, In the vain hope and search for health, And destined never to return.

Already thou hast heard the rest But what brings thee, thus armed and dight In the equipments of a knight?

_Walter_. Dost thou not see upon my breast The cross of the Crusaders shine?

My pathway leads to Palestine.

_Prince Henry_. Ah, would that way were also mine!

O n.o.ble poet! thou whose heart Is like a nest of singing birds Rocked on the topmost bough of life, Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, And in the clangor of the strife Mingle the music of thy words?

_Walter_. My hopes are high, my heart is proud, And like a trumpet long and loud, Thither my thoughts all clang and ring!

My life is in my hand, and lo!

I grasp and bend it as a bow, And shoot forth from its trembling string An arrow, that shall be, perchance, Like the arrow of the Israelite king Shot from the window toward the east, That of the Lord's deliverance!

_Prince Henry_. My life, alas! is what thou seest!

O enviable fate! to be Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee With lyre and sword, with song and steel; A hand to smite, a heart to feel!

Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, Thou givest all unto thy Lord, While I, so mean and abject grown, Am thinking of myself alone.

_Walter_. Be patient: Time will reinstate Thy health and fortunes.

_Prince Henry_. 'T is too late!

I cannot strive against my fate!

_Walter_. Come with me; for my steed is weary; Our journey has been long and dreary, And, dreaming of his stall, he dints With his impatient hoofs the flints.

_Prince Henry_ (_aside_). I am ashamed, in my disgrace, To look into that n.o.ble face!

To-morrow, Walter, let it be.

_Walter_. To-morrow, at the dawn of day, I shall again be on my way Come with me to the hostelry, For I have many things to say.

Our journey into Italy Perchance together we may make; Wilt thou not do it for my sake?

_Prince Henry_. A sick man's pace would but impede Thine eager and impatient speed.

Besides, my pathway leads me round To Hirsehau, in the forest's bound, Where I a.s.semble man and steed, And all things for my journey's need.

(_They go out_. LUCIFER, _flying over the city_.)

Sleep, sleep, O city! till the light Wakes you to sin and crime again, Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, I scatter downward through the night My maledictions dark and deep.

I have more martyrs in your walls Than G.o.d has; and they cannot sleep; They are my bondsmen and my thralls; Their wretched lives are full of pain, Wild agonies of nerve and brain; And every heart-beat, every breath, Is a convulsion worse than death!

Sleep, sleep, O city! though within The circuit of your walls there lies No habitation free from sin, And all its nameless miseries; The aching heart, the aching head, Grief for the living and the dead, And foul corruption of the time, Disease, distress, and want, and woe, And crimes, and pa.s.sions that may grow Until they ripen into, crime!

SQUARE IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL.

_Easter Sunday_. FRIAR CUTHBERT _preaching to the crowd from a pulpit in the open air_. PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE _crossing the square_.

_Prince Henry_. This is the day, when from the dead Our Lord arose; and everywhere, Out of their darkness and despair, Triumphant over fears and foes, The hearts of his disciples rose, When to the women, standing near, The Angel in shining vesture said, "The Lord is risen; he is not here!"

And, mindful that the day is come, On all the hearths in Christendom The fires are quenched, to be again Rekindled from the sun, that high Is dancing in the cloudless sky.