ABBOT.Slowly, slowly up the wallSteals 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 airWheel the swallows home in crowds.Shafts of sunshine from the westPaint 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 dieAre 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 God, that passeth 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 noble 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 pass. Your lands are rich and ample, And your revenues large. God's benediction Rests on your convent.ABBOT.By our charitiesWe 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 brass escutcheon?ABBOT.A benefactor's.Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stoodGodfather to our bells.PRINCE HENRY.Your monks are learnedAnd holy men, I trust.ABBOT.There are among themLearned and holy men. Yet in this ageWe need another Hildebrand, to shakeAnd purify us like a mighty wind.The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonderGod does not lose his patience with it wholly,And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,Within these walls, where all should be at peace,I have my trials. Time has laid his handUpon my heart, gently, not smiting it,But as a harper lays his open palmUpon his harp to deaden its vibrations,Ashes are on my head, and on my lipsSackcloth, and in my breast a heavinessAnd weariness of life, that makes me readyTo say to the dead Abbots under us,"Make room for me!" Ony I see the duskOf evening twilight coming, and have notCompleted half my task; and so at timesThe thought of my shortcomings in this lifeFalls 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 laudOf your transcribers, Your ScriptoriumIs famous among all; your manuscriptsPraised 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 CHAPELVespers: 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 hitherward 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 passionate 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 passed away, Passed 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 passions 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! Yes; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek; Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!PRINCE HENRY. Arise, Count Hugo! let there be No further strife nor enmity Between us twain; we both have erred Too rash in act, too wroth in word, From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant attitude, Each thoughtless of the other's right, And each reliant on his might. But now our souls are more subdued; The hand of God, and not in vain, Has touched us with the fire of pain. Let us kneel down and side by side Pray till our souls are purified, And pardon will not be denied!They kneel.THE REFECTORYGaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar.FRIAR PAUL sings.Ave! color vini clari,Dulcis potus, non amari,Tua nos inebriariDigneris potentia!FRIAR CUTHBERT. Not so much noise, my worthy freres, You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers.FRIAR PAUL sings.O! quam placens in colore!O! quam fragrans in odore!O! quam sapidum in ore!Dulce linguae vinculum!FRIAR CUTHBERT. I should think your tongue had broken its chain!FRIAR PAUL sings.Felix venter quem intrabis!Felix guttur quod rigabis!Felix os quod tu lavabis!Et beata labia!FRIAR CUTHBERT. Peace! I say, peace! Will you never cease! You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again!FRIAR JOHN. No danger! to-night he will let us alone, As I happen to know he has guests of his own.FRIAR CUTHBERT. Who are they?FRIAR JOHN. A German Prince and his train, Who arrived here just before the rain. There is with him a damsel fair to see, As slender and graceful as a reed! When she alighted from her steed, It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree.FRIAR CUTHBERT. None of your pale-faced girls for me! None of your damsels of high degree!FRIAR JOHN. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! But do not drink any further, I beg!FRIAR PAUL sings.In the days of gold,The days of old,Crosier of woodAnd bishop of gold!FRIAR CUTHBERT. What an infernal racket and riot! Can you not drink your wine in quiet? Why fill the convent with such scandals, As if we were so many drunken Vandals?FRIAR PAUL continues.Now we have changedThat law so goodTo crosier of goldAnd bishop of wood!FRIAR CUTHBERT. Well, then, since you are in the mood To give your noisy humors vent, Sing and howl to your heart's content!CHORUS OF MONKS.Funde vinum, funde!Tanquam sint fluminis undae,Nec quaeras unde,Sed fundas semper abunde!FRIAR JOHN. What is the name of yonder friar, With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, And such a black mass of tangled hair?FRIAR PAUL. He who is sitting there, With a rollicking, Devil may care, Free and easy look and air, As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking?FRIAR JOHN. The same.FRIAR PAUL. He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going and whence he came.FRIAR JOHN. Hallo! Sir Friar!FRIAR PAUL. You must raise your voice a little higher, He does not seem to hear what you say. Now, try again! He is looking this way.FRIAR JOHN. Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence you came, and where you are going, And anything else that is worth the knowing. So be so good as to open your head.LUCIFER. I am a Frenchman born and bred, Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard.MONKS. Never a word.LUCIFER. You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany. From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very sea-shore where, In his great despair, Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise, Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells Of the fallow-deer. And then what cheer! What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they, With their strong wines, And their concubines, And never a bell, With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night, To send you grumbling down dark stairs, To mumble your prayers; But the cheery crow Of cocks in the yard below, After daybreak, an hour or so, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer! Ah, my friends, I'm afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame, And the more is the shame. 'T is the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think! Come, drink, drink, Drink, and die game!MONKS. And your Abbot What's-his-name?LUCIFER. Abelard!MONKS. Did he drink hard?LUCIFER. Oh, no! Not he! He was a dry old fellow, Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. There he stood, Lowering at us in sullen mood, As if he had come into Brittany Just to reform our brotherhood!A roar of laughter.But you see It never would do! For some of us knew a thing or two, In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! For instance, the great ado With old Fulbert's niece, The young and lovely Heloise.FRIAR JOHN. Stop there, if you please, Till we drink so the fair Heloise.ALL, drinking and shouting. Heloise! Heloise!The Chapel-bell tolls.LUCIFER, starting. What is that bell for! Are you such asses As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses?FRIAR CUTHBERT. It is only a poor unfortunate brother, Who is gifted with most miraculous powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours, And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, Of creeping silently out of his cell To take a pull at that hideous bell; So that all monks who are lying awake May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, And adapted to his peculiar weakness!FRIAR JOHN. From frailty and fall—ALL. Good Lord, deliver us all!FRIAR CUTHBERT. And before the bell for matins sounds, He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, Merely to say it is time to arise. But enough of that. Go on, if you please, With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys.LUCIFER. Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice, One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abelard kept away From the chapel that day, And a poor young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine, Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! But look! do you see at the window there That face, with a look of grief and despair, That ghastly face, as of one in pain?MONKS. Who? where?LUCIFER. As I spoke, it vanished away again.FRIAR CUTHBERT. It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius, That fellow is always playing the scout, Creeping and peeping and prowling about; And then he regales The Abbot with scandalous tales.LUCIFER. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers Telling scandalous tales of the others? Out upon him, the lazy loon! I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it.MONKS. How shall we do it!LUCIFER. Do you, brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall, And open it suddenly when I call. Then seize the villain by the hair, And hold him there, And punish him soundly, once for all.FRIAR CUTHBERT. As Saint Dunstan of old, We are told, Once caught the Devil by the nose!LUCIFER. Ha! ha! that story is very clever, But has no foundation whatsoever. Quick! for I see his face again Glaring in at the window-pane; Now! now! and do not spare your blows.FRIAR PAUL opens the window suddenly, and seizes SIEBALD. They beat him.FRIAR SIEBALD. Help! help! are you going to slay me?FRIAR PAUL. That will teach you again to betray me!FRIAR SIEBALD. Mercy! mercy!FRIAR PAUL, shouting and beating.Rumpas bellorum lorumVim confer amorumMorum verorum rorumTu plena polorum!LUCIFER. Who stands in the doorway yonder, Stretching out his trembling hand, Just as Abelard used to stand, The flash of his keen, black eyes Forerunning the thunder?THE MONKS, in confusion. The Abbot! the Abbot!FRIAR CUTHBERT.And what is the wonder!He seems to have taken you by surprise.FRIAR FRANCIS. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon!FRIAR CUTHBERT. Pull the brown hood over your face! This will bring us into disgrace!ABBOT. What means this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, To pollute this convent with your revels? Were Peter Damian still upon earth, To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, He would write your names, with pen of gall, In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! Away, you drunkards! to your cells, And pray till you hear the matin-bells; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; Nothing atones for such a sin But the blood that follows the discipline. And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me Alone into the sacristy; You, who should be a guide to your brothers, And are ten times worse than all the others, For you I've a draught that has long been brewing, You shall do a penance worth the doing! Away to your prayers, then, one and all! I wonder the very convent wall Does not crumble and crush you in its fall!THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERYThe ABBESS IRMINGARD Sitting with ELSIE in the moonlight.IRMINGARD. The night is silent, the wind is still, The moon is looking from yonder hill Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; The clouds have passed away from her face, Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, Only the tender and quiet grace Of one whose heart has been healed with pardon!And such am I. My soul within Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. But now its wounds are healed again; Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; For across that desolate land of woe, O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, A wind from heaven began to blow; And all my being trembled and shook, As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, And I was healed, as the sick are healed, When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book!As thou sittest in the moonlight there, Its glory flooding thy golden hair, And the only darkness that which lies In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, I feel my soul drawn unto thee, Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, As to one I have known and loved before; For every soul is akin to me That dwells in the land of mystery! I am the Lady Irmingard, Born of a noble race and name! Many a wandering Suabian bard, Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, Has found through me the way to fame.Brief and bright were those days, and the night Which followed was full of a lurid light. Love, that of every woman's heart Will have the whole, and not a part, That is to her, in Nature's plan, More than ambition is to man, Her light, her life, her very breath, With no alternative but death, Found me a maiden soft and young, Just from the convent's cloistered school, And seated on my lowly stool, Attentive while the minstrels sung.Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, Fairest, noblest, best of all, Was Walter of the Vogelweid; And, whatsoever may betide, Still I think of him with pride! His song was of the summer-time, The very birds sang in his rhyme; The sunshine, the delicious air, The fragrance of the flowers, were there; And I grew restless as I heard, Restless and buoyant as a bird, Down soft, aerial currents sailing, O'er blossomed orchards and fields in bloom, And through the momentary gloom, Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, Yielding and borne I knew not where, But feeling resistance unavailing.And thus, unnoticed and apart, And more by accident than choice, I listened to that single voice Until the chambers of my heart Were filled with it by night and day. One night,—it was a night in May,— Within the garden, unawares, Under the blossoms in the gloom, I heard it utter my own name With protestations and wild prayers; And it rang through me, and became Like the archangel's trump of doom, Which the soul hears, and must obey; And mine arose as from a tomb. My former life now seemed to me Such as hereafter death may be, When in the great Eternity We shall awake and find it day.It was a dream, and would not stay; A dream, that in a single night Faded and vanished out of sight. My father's anger followed fast This passion, as a freshening blast Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage It may increase, but not assuage. And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck By messenger and letter sues."Gently, but firmly, I replied: "Henry of Hoheneck I discard! Never the hand of Irmingard Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride! This said I, Walter, for thy sake This said I, for I could not choose. After a pause, my father spake In that cold and deliberate tone Which turns the hearer into stone, And seems itself the act to be That follows with such dread certainty "This or the cloister and the veil!" No other words than these he said, But they were like a funeral wail; My life was ended, my heart was dead.That night from the castle-gate went down With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, Taking the narrow path that leads Into the forest dense and brown. In the leafy darkness of the place, One could not distinguish form nor face, Only a bulk without a shape, A darker shadow in the shade; One scarce could say it moved or stayed. Thus it was we made our escape! A foaming brook, with many a bound, Followed us like a playful hound; Then leaped before us, and in the hollow Paused, and waited for us to follow, And seemed impatient, and afraid That our tardy flight should be betrayed By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made. And when we reached the plain below, We paused a moment and drew rein To look back at the castle again; And we saw the windows all aglow With lights, that were passing to and fro; Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; The brook crept silent to our feet; We knew what most we feared to know. Then suddenly horns began to blow; And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, And our horses snorted in the damp Night-air of the meadows green and wide, And in a moment, side by side, So close, they must have seemed but one, The shadows across the moonlight run, And another came, and swept behind, Like the shadow of clouds before the wind!How I remember that breathless flight Across the moors, in the summer night! How under our feet the long, white road Backward like a river flowed, Sweeping with it fences and hedges, Whilst farther away and overhead, Paler than I, with fear and dread, The moon fled with us as we fled Along the forest's jagged edges!All this I can remember well; But of what afterwards befell I nothing further can recall Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; The rest is a blank and darkness all. When I awoke out of this swoon, The sun was shining, not the moon, Making a cross upon the wall With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray From early childhood, day by day, Each morning, as in bed I lay! I was lying again in my own room! And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, That those shadows on the midnight plain Were gone, and could not come again! I struggled no longer with my doom!This happened many years ago. I left my father's home to come Like Catherine to her martyrdom, For blindly I esteemed it so. And when I heard the convent door Behind me close, to ope no more, I felt it smite me like a blow. Through all my limbs a shudder ran, And on my bruised spirit fell The dampness of my narrow cell As night-air on a wounded man, Giving intolerable pain.But now a better life began. I felt the agony decrease By slow degrees, then wholly cease, Ending in perfect rest and peace! It was not apathy, nor dulness, That weighed and pressed upon my brain, But the same passion I had given To earth before, now turned to heaven With all its overflowing fulness.Alas! the world is full of peril! The path that runs through the fairest meads, On the sunniest side of the valley, leads Into a region bleak and sterile! Alike in the high-born and the lowly, The will is feeble, and passion strong. We cannot sever right from wrong; Some falsehood mingles with all truth; Nor is it strange the heart of youth Should waver and comprehend but slowly The things that are holy and unholy! But in this sacred, calm retreat, We are all well and safely shielded From winds that blow, and waves that beat, From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, To which the strongest hearts have yielded. Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, For our celestial bridegroom yearning; Our hearts are lamps forever burning, With a steady and unwavering flame, Pointing upward, forever the same, Steadily upward toward the heaven!The moon is hidden behind a cloud; A sudden darkness fills the room, And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, Shine like jewels in a shroud. On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; A bird, awakened in its nest, Gives a faint twitter of unrest, Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near. Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue Of riding many a dusty league; Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; Me so many cares encumber, So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.V.A COVERED BRIDGE AT LUCERNEPRINCE HENRY. God's blessing on the architects who build The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses Before impassable to human feet, No less than on the builders of cathedrals, Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across The dark and terrible abyss of Death. Well has the name of Pontifex been given Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder And architect of the invisible bridge That leads from earth to heaven.ELSIE.How dark it grows!What are these paintings on the walls around us?PRINCE HENRY. The Dance Macaber!ELSIE.What?PRINCE HENRY.The Dance of Death!All that go to and fro must look upon it,Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath,Among the wooden piles, the turbulent riverRushes, impetuous as the river of life,With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it.ELSIE. Oh yes! I see it now!PRINCE HENRY.The grim musicianLeads all men through the mazes of that dance,To different sounds in different measures moving;Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum,To tempt or terrify.ELSIE.What is this picture?PRINCE HENRY. It is a young man singing to a nun, Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile, Is putting out the candles on the altar!ELSIE. Ah, what a pity 't is that she should listen Unto such songs, when in her orisons She might have heard in heaven the angels singing!PRINCE HENRY. Here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells And dances with the Queen.ELSIE.A foolish jest!PRINCE HENRY. And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, Coming from church with her beloved lord, He startles with the rattle of his drum.ELSIE. Ah, that is sad! And yet perhaps 't is best That she should die, with all the sunshine on her, And all the benedictions of the morning, Before this affluence of golden light Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, Then into darkness!PRINCE HENRY.Under it is written,"Nothing but death shall separate thee and me!"ELSIE. And what is this, that follows close upon it?PRINCE HENRY. Death playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, A poor old woman, with a rosary, Follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet Were swifter to o'ertake him. Underneath, The inscription reads, "Better is Death than Life."ELSIE. Better is Death than Life! Ah yes! to thousands Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings That song of consolation, till the air Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow Whither he leads. And not the old alone, But the young also hear it, and are still.PRINCE HENRY. Yes, in their sadder moments. 'T is the sound Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, Responding to the pressure of a finger With music sweet and low and melancholy. Let us go forward, and no longer stay In this great picture-gallery of Death! I hate it! ay, the very thought of it!ELSIE. Why is it hateful to you?PRINCE HENRY.For the reasonThat life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely,And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful.ELSIE. The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!PRINCE HENRY, emerging from the bridge. I breathe again more freely! Ah, how pleasant To come once more into the light of day, Out of that shadow of death! To hear again The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, And not upon those hollow planks, resounding With a sepulchral echo, like the clods On coffins in a churchyard! Yonder lies The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled In light, and lingering, like a village maiden, Hid in the bosom of her native mountains Then pouring all her life into another's, Changing her name and being! Overhead, Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines.They pass on.THE DEVIL'S BRIDGEPRINCE HENRY and ELSIE crossing with attendants.GUIDE. This bridge is called the Devil's Bridge. With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, It leaps across the terrible chasm Yawning beneath us, black and deep, As if, in some convulsive spasm, The summits of the hills had cracked, And made a road for the cataract That raves and rages down the steep!LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!GUIDE. Never any bridge but this Could stand across the wild abyss; All the rest, of wood or stone, By the Devil's hand were overthrown. He toppled crags from the precipice, And whatsoe'er was built by day In the night was swept away; None could stand but this alone.LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!GUIDE. I showed you in the valley a bowlder Marked with the imprint of his shoulder; As he was bearing it up this way, A peasant, passing, cried, "Herr Je! And the Devil dropped it in his fright, And vanished suddenly out of sight!LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!GUIDE. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, For pilgrims on their way to Rome, Built this at last, with a single arch, Under which, on its endless march, Runs the river, white with foam, Like a thread through the eye of a needle. And the Devil promised to let it stand, Under compact and condition That the first living thing which crossed Should be surrendered into his hand, And be beyond redemption lost.LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha! perdition!GUIDE. At length, the bridge being all completed, The Abbot, standing at its head, Threw across it a loaf of bread, Which a hungry dog sprang after; And the rocks re-echoed with the peals of laughter, To see the Devil thus defeated!They pass on.LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha! defeated! For journeys and for crimes like this I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss!THE ST. GOTHARD PASSPRINCE HENRY. This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.ELSIE. How bleak and bare it is! Nothing but mosses Grow on these rocks.PRINCE HENRY.Yet are they not forgotten;Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them.ELSIE. See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks! It seems to me The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels!PRINCE HENRY. Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone!ELSIE. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, Upon angelic shoulders! Even now I seem uplifted by them, light as air! What sound is that?PRINCE HENRY.The tumbling avalanches!ELSIE. How awful, yet how beautiful!PRINCE HENRY.These areThe voices of the mountains! Thus they opeTheir snowy lips, and speak unto each other,In the primeval language, lost to man.ELSIE. What land is this that spreads itself beneath us?PRINCE HENRY. Italy! Italy!ELSIE.Land of the Madonna!How beautiful it is! It seems a gardenOf Paradise!PRINCE HENRY.Nay, of GethsemaneTo thee and me, of passion and of prayer!Yet once of Paradise. Long years agoI wandered as a youth among its bowers,And never from my heart has faded quiteIts memory, that, like a summer sunset,Encircles with a ring of purple lightAll the horizon of my youth.GUIDE.O friends!The days are short, the way before us long:We must not linger, if we think to reachThe inn at Belinzona before vespers!They pass on.AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPSA halt under the trees at noon.PRINCE HENRY. Here let us pause a moment in the trembling Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees, And, our tired horses in a group assembling, Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; They lag behind us with a slower pace; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place. Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!ELSIE. What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air.PRINCE HENRY. Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!ELSIE. It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.PILGRIMS, chanting the Hymn of St. Hildebert.Me receptet Sion illa,Sion David, urbs tranquilla,Cujus faber auctor lucis,Cujus portae lignum crucis,Cujus claves lingua Petri,Cujus cives semper laeti,Cujus muri lapis vivus,Cujus custos rex festivus!LUCIFER, as a Friar in the procession. Here am I, too, in the pious band, In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives, All day long I beat my breast, And chant with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest. And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, Such a hurly-burly in country inns, Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! Of all the contrivances of the time For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!PRINCE HENRY. If from the outward man we judge the inner, And cleanliness is godliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened Sinner, Must be that Carmelite now passing near.LUCIFER. There is my German Prince again, Thus far on his journey to Salern, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; But it's a long road that has no turn! Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play. But first I must act to my heart's content This mummery and this merriment, And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent. Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along, Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, Chanting their wonderful puff and paff, And, to make up for not understanding the song, Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! Were it not for my magic garters and staff, And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long.PILGRIMS, chanting.In hac urbe, lux solennis,Ver aeternum, pax perennis;In hac odor implens caelos,In hac semper festum melos!PRINCE HENRY. Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face?ELSIE. It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.PRINCE HENRY. And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. Good morrow, Friar!FRIAR CUTHBERT.Good morrow, noble Sir!PRINCE HENRY. I speak in German, for, unless I err, You are a German.FRIAR CUTHBERT.I cannot gainsay you.But by what instinct, or what secret sign,Meeting me here, do you straightway divineThat northward of the Alps my country lies?PRINCE HENRY. Your accent, like St. Peter's, would betray you, Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. Moreover, we have seen your face before, And heard you preach at the Cathedral door On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square. We were among the crowd that gathered there, And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, As if, by leaning o'er so many years To walk with little children, your own will Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, A kind of stooping in its form and gait, And could no longer stand erect and straight. Whence come you now?FRIAR CUTHBERT.From the old monasteryOf Hirschau, in the forest; being sentUpon a pilgrimage to Benevent,To see the image of the Virgin Mary,That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks,And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks,To touch the hearts of the impenitent.PRINCE HENRY. Oh, had I faith, as in the days gone by, That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery!LUCIFER, at a distance. Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert!
ABBOT.Slowly, slowly up the wallSteals 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 airWheel the swallows home in crowds.Shafts of sunshine from the westPaint 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 dieAre 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 God, that passeth 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 noble 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 pass. Your lands are rich and ample, And your revenues large. God's benediction Rests on your convent.
ABBOT.By our charitiesWe 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 brass escutcheon?
ABBOT.A benefactor's.Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stoodGodfather to our bells.
PRINCE HENRY.Your monks are learnedAnd holy men, I trust.
ABBOT.There are among themLearned and holy men. Yet in this ageWe need another Hildebrand, to shakeAnd purify us like a mighty wind.The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonderGod does not lose his patience with it wholly,And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,Within these walls, where all should be at peace,I have my trials. Time has laid his handUpon my heart, gently, not smiting it,But as a harper lays his open palmUpon his harp to deaden its vibrations,Ashes are on my head, and on my lipsSackcloth, and in my breast a heavinessAnd weariness of life, that makes me readyTo say to the dead Abbots under us,"Make room for me!" Ony I see the duskOf evening twilight coming, and have notCompleted half my task; and so at timesThe thought of my shortcomings in this lifeFalls 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 laudOf your transcribers, Your ScriptoriumIs famous among all; your manuscriptsPraised 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.
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 hitherward 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 passionate 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 passed away, Passed 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 passions 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! Yes; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek; Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!
PRINCE HENRY. Arise, Count Hugo! let there be No further strife nor enmity Between us twain; we both have erred Too rash in act, too wroth in word, From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant attitude, Each thoughtless of the other's right, And each reliant on his might. But now our souls are more subdued; The hand of God, and not in vain, Has touched us with the fire of pain. Let us kneel down and side by side Pray till our souls are purified, And pardon will not be denied!
They kneel.
Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar.
FRIAR PAUL sings.Ave! color vini clari,Dulcis potus, non amari,Tua nos inebriariDigneris potentia!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. Not so much noise, my worthy freres, You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers.
FRIAR PAUL sings.O! quam placens in colore!O! quam fragrans in odore!O! quam sapidum in ore!Dulce linguae vinculum!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. I should think your tongue had broken its chain!
FRIAR PAUL sings.Felix venter quem intrabis!Felix guttur quod rigabis!Felix os quod tu lavabis!Et beata labia!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. Peace! I say, peace! Will you never cease! You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again!
FRIAR JOHN. No danger! to-night he will let us alone, As I happen to know he has guests of his own.
FRIAR CUTHBERT. Who are they?
FRIAR JOHN. A German Prince and his train, Who arrived here just before the rain. There is with him a damsel fair to see, As slender and graceful as a reed! When she alighted from her steed, It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree.
FRIAR CUTHBERT. None of your pale-faced girls for me! None of your damsels of high degree!
FRIAR JOHN. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! But do not drink any further, I beg!
FRIAR PAUL sings.In the days of gold,The days of old,Crosier of woodAnd bishop of gold!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. What an infernal racket and riot! Can you not drink your wine in quiet? Why fill the convent with such scandals, As if we were so many drunken Vandals?
FRIAR PAUL continues.Now we have changedThat law so goodTo crosier of goldAnd bishop of wood!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. Well, then, since you are in the mood To give your noisy humors vent, Sing and howl to your heart's content!
CHORUS OF MONKS.Funde vinum, funde!Tanquam sint fluminis undae,Nec quaeras unde,Sed fundas semper abunde!
FRIAR JOHN. What is the name of yonder friar, With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, And such a black mass of tangled hair?
FRIAR PAUL. He who is sitting there, With a rollicking, Devil may care, Free and easy look and air, As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking?
FRIAR JOHN. The same.
FRIAR PAUL. He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going and whence he came.
FRIAR JOHN. Hallo! Sir Friar!
FRIAR PAUL. You must raise your voice a little higher, He does not seem to hear what you say. Now, try again! He is looking this way.
FRIAR JOHN. Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence you came, and where you are going, And anything else that is worth the knowing. So be so good as to open your head.
LUCIFER. I am a Frenchman born and bred, Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard.
MONKS. Never a word.
LUCIFER. You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany. From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very sea-shore where, In his great despair, Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise, Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells Of the fallow-deer. And then what cheer! What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they, With their strong wines, And their concubines, And never a bell, With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night, To send you grumbling down dark stairs, To mumble your prayers; But the cheery crow Of cocks in the yard below, After daybreak, an hour or so, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer! Ah, my friends, I'm afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame, And the more is the shame. 'T is the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think! Come, drink, drink, Drink, and die game!
MONKS. And your Abbot What's-his-name?
LUCIFER. Abelard!
MONKS. Did he drink hard?
LUCIFER. Oh, no! Not he! He was a dry old fellow, Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. There he stood, Lowering at us in sullen mood, As if he had come into Brittany Just to reform our brotherhood!
A roar of laughter.
But you see It never would do! For some of us knew a thing or two, In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! For instance, the great ado With old Fulbert's niece, The young and lovely Heloise.
FRIAR JOHN. Stop there, if you please, Till we drink so the fair Heloise.
ALL, drinking and shouting. Heloise! Heloise!
The Chapel-bell tolls.
LUCIFER, starting. What is that bell for! Are you such asses As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses?
FRIAR CUTHBERT. It is only a poor unfortunate brother, Who is gifted with most miraculous powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours, And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, Of creeping silently out of his cell To take a pull at that hideous bell; So that all monks who are lying awake May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, And adapted to his peculiar weakness!
FRIAR JOHN. From frailty and fall—
ALL. Good Lord, deliver us all!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. And before the bell for matins sounds, He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, Merely to say it is time to arise. But enough of that. Go on, if you please, With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys.
LUCIFER. Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice, One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abelard kept away From the chapel that day, And a poor young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine, Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! But look! do you see at the window there That face, with a look of grief and despair, That ghastly face, as of one in pain?
MONKS. Who? where?
LUCIFER. As I spoke, it vanished away again.
FRIAR CUTHBERT. It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius, That fellow is always playing the scout, Creeping and peeping and prowling about; And then he regales The Abbot with scandalous tales.
LUCIFER. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers Telling scandalous tales of the others? Out upon him, the lazy loon! I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it.
MONKS. How shall we do it!
LUCIFER. Do you, brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall, And open it suddenly when I call. Then seize the villain by the hair, And hold him there, And punish him soundly, once for all.
FRIAR CUTHBERT. As Saint Dunstan of old, We are told, Once caught the Devil by the nose!
LUCIFER. Ha! ha! that story is very clever, But has no foundation whatsoever. Quick! for I see his face again Glaring in at the window-pane; Now! now! and do not spare your blows.
FRIAR PAUL opens the window suddenly, and seizes SIEBALD. They beat him.
FRIAR SIEBALD. Help! help! are you going to slay me?
FRIAR PAUL. That will teach you again to betray me!
FRIAR SIEBALD. Mercy! mercy!
FRIAR PAUL, shouting and beating.
Rumpas bellorum lorumVim confer amorumMorum verorum rorumTu plena polorum!
LUCIFER. Who stands in the doorway yonder, Stretching out his trembling hand, Just as Abelard used to stand, The flash of his keen, black eyes Forerunning the thunder?
THE MONKS, in confusion. The Abbot! the Abbot!
FRIAR CUTHBERT.And what is the wonder!He seems to have taken you by surprise.
FRIAR FRANCIS. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon!
FRIAR CUTHBERT. Pull the brown hood over your face! This will bring us into disgrace!
ABBOT. What means this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, To pollute this convent with your revels? Were Peter Damian still upon earth, To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, He would write your names, with pen of gall, In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! Away, you drunkards! to your cells, And pray till you hear the matin-bells; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; Nothing atones for such a sin But the blood that follows the discipline. And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me Alone into the sacristy; You, who should be a guide to your brothers, And are ten times worse than all the others, For you I've a draught that has long been brewing, You shall do a penance worth the doing! Away to your prayers, then, one and all! I wonder the very convent wall Does not crumble and crush you in its fall!
The ABBESS IRMINGARD Sitting with ELSIE in the moonlight.
IRMINGARD. The night is silent, the wind is still, The moon is looking from yonder hill Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; The clouds have passed away from her face, Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, Only the tender and quiet grace Of one whose heart has been healed with pardon!
And such am I. My soul within Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. But now its wounds are healed again; Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; For across that desolate land of woe, O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, A wind from heaven began to blow; And all my being trembled and shook, As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, And I was healed, as the sick are healed, When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book!
As thou sittest in the moonlight there, Its glory flooding thy golden hair, And the only darkness that which lies In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, I feel my soul drawn unto thee, Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, As to one I have known and loved before; For every soul is akin to me That dwells in the land of mystery! I am the Lady Irmingard, Born of a noble race and name! Many a wandering Suabian bard, Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, Has found through me the way to fame.
Brief and bright were those days, and the night Which followed was full of a lurid light. Love, that of every woman's heart Will have the whole, and not a part, That is to her, in Nature's plan, More than ambition is to man, Her light, her life, her very breath, With no alternative but death, Found me a maiden soft and young, Just from the convent's cloistered school, And seated on my lowly stool, Attentive while the minstrels sung.
Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, Fairest, noblest, best of all, Was Walter of the Vogelweid; And, whatsoever may betide, Still I think of him with pride! His song was of the summer-time, The very birds sang in his rhyme; The sunshine, the delicious air, The fragrance of the flowers, were there; And I grew restless as I heard, Restless and buoyant as a bird, Down soft, aerial currents sailing, O'er blossomed orchards and fields in bloom, And through the momentary gloom, Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, Yielding and borne I knew not where, But feeling resistance unavailing.
And thus, unnoticed and apart, And more by accident than choice, I listened to that single voice Until the chambers of my heart Were filled with it by night and day. One night,—it was a night in May,— Within the garden, unawares, Under the blossoms in the gloom, I heard it utter my own name With protestations and wild prayers; And it rang through me, and became Like the archangel's trump of doom, Which the soul hears, and must obey; And mine arose as from a tomb. My former life now seemed to me Such as hereafter death may be, When in the great Eternity We shall awake and find it day.
It was a dream, and would not stay; A dream, that in a single night Faded and vanished out of sight. My father's anger followed fast This passion, as a freshening blast Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage It may increase, but not assuage. And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck By messenger and letter sues."
Gently, but firmly, I replied: "Henry of Hoheneck I discard! Never the hand of Irmingard Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride! This said I, Walter, for thy sake This said I, for I could not choose. After a pause, my father spake In that cold and deliberate tone Which turns the hearer into stone, And seems itself the act to be That follows with such dread certainty "This or the cloister and the veil!" No other words than these he said, But they were like a funeral wail; My life was ended, my heart was dead.
That night from the castle-gate went down With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, Taking the narrow path that leads Into the forest dense and brown. In the leafy darkness of the place, One could not distinguish form nor face, Only a bulk without a shape, A darker shadow in the shade; One scarce could say it moved or stayed. Thus it was we made our escape! A foaming brook, with many a bound, Followed us like a playful hound; Then leaped before us, and in the hollow Paused, and waited for us to follow, And seemed impatient, and afraid That our tardy flight should be betrayed By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made. And when we reached the plain below, We paused a moment and drew rein To look back at the castle again; And we saw the windows all aglow With lights, that were passing to and fro; Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; The brook crept silent to our feet; We knew what most we feared to know. Then suddenly horns began to blow; And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, And our horses snorted in the damp Night-air of the meadows green and wide, And in a moment, side by side, So close, they must have seemed but one, The shadows across the moonlight run, And another came, and swept behind, Like the shadow of clouds before the wind!
How I remember that breathless flight Across the moors, in the summer night! How under our feet the long, white road Backward like a river flowed, Sweeping with it fences and hedges, Whilst farther away and overhead, Paler than I, with fear and dread, The moon fled with us as we fled Along the forest's jagged edges!
All this I can remember well; But of what afterwards befell I nothing further can recall Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; The rest is a blank and darkness all. When I awoke out of this swoon, The sun was shining, not the moon, Making a cross upon the wall With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray From early childhood, day by day, Each morning, as in bed I lay! I was lying again in my own room! And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, That those shadows on the midnight plain Were gone, and could not come again! I struggled no longer with my doom!
This happened many years ago. I left my father's home to come Like Catherine to her martyrdom, For blindly I esteemed it so. And when I heard the convent door Behind me close, to ope no more, I felt it smite me like a blow. Through all my limbs a shudder ran, And on my bruised spirit fell The dampness of my narrow cell As night-air on a wounded man, Giving intolerable pain.
But now a better life began. I felt the agony decrease By slow degrees, then wholly cease, Ending in perfect rest and peace! It was not apathy, nor dulness, That weighed and pressed upon my brain, But the same passion I had given To earth before, now turned to heaven With all its overflowing fulness.
Alas! the world is full of peril! The path that runs through the fairest meads, On the sunniest side of the valley, leads Into a region bleak and sterile! Alike in the high-born and the lowly, The will is feeble, and passion strong. We cannot sever right from wrong; Some falsehood mingles with all truth; Nor is it strange the heart of youth Should waver and comprehend but slowly The things that are holy and unholy! But in this sacred, calm retreat, We are all well and safely shielded From winds that blow, and waves that beat, From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, To which the strongest hearts have yielded. Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, For our celestial bridegroom yearning; Our hearts are lamps forever burning, With a steady and unwavering flame, Pointing upward, forever the same, Steadily upward toward the heaven!
The moon is hidden behind a cloud; A sudden darkness fills the room, And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, Shine like jewels in a shroud. On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; A bird, awakened in its nest, Gives a faint twitter of unrest, Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near. Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue Of riding many a dusty league; Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; Me so many cares encumber, So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.
PRINCE HENRY. God's blessing on the architects who build The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses Before impassable to human feet, No less than on the builders of cathedrals, Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across The dark and terrible abyss of Death. Well has the name of Pontifex been given Unto the Church's head, as the chief builder And architect of the invisible bridge That leads from earth to heaven.
ELSIE.How dark it grows!What are these paintings on the walls around us?
PRINCE HENRY. The Dance Macaber!
ELSIE.What?
PRINCE HENRY.The Dance of Death!All that go to and fro must look upon it,Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath,Among the wooden piles, the turbulent riverRushes, impetuous as the river of life,With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it.
ELSIE. Oh yes! I see it now!
PRINCE HENRY.The grim musicianLeads all men through the mazes of that dance,To different sounds in different measures moving;Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum,To tempt or terrify.
ELSIE.What is this picture?
PRINCE HENRY. It is a young man singing to a nun, Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile, Is putting out the candles on the altar!
ELSIE. Ah, what a pity 't is that she should listen Unto such songs, when in her orisons She might have heard in heaven the angels singing!
PRINCE HENRY. Here he has stolen a jester's cap and bells And dances with the Queen.
ELSIE.A foolish jest!
PRINCE HENRY. And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, Coming from church with her beloved lord, He startles with the rattle of his drum.
ELSIE. Ah, that is sad! And yet perhaps 't is best That she should die, with all the sunshine on her, And all the benedictions of the morning, Before this affluence of golden light Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, Then into darkness!
PRINCE HENRY.Under it is written,"Nothing but death shall separate thee and me!"
ELSIE. And what is this, that follows close upon it?
PRINCE HENRY. Death playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, A poor old woman, with a rosary, Follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet Were swifter to o'ertake him. Underneath, The inscription reads, "Better is Death than Life."
ELSIE. Better is Death than Life! Ah yes! to thousands Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings That song of consolation, till the air Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow Whither he leads. And not the old alone, But the young also hear it, and are still.
PRINCE HENRY. Yes, in their sadder moments. 'T is the sound Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears, Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water, Responding to the pressure of a finger With music sweet and low and melancholy. Let us go forward, and no longer stay In this great picture-gallery of Death! I hate it! ay, the very thought of it!
ELSIE. Why is it hateful to you?
PRINCE HENRY.For the reasonThat life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely,And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful.
ELSIE. The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!
PRINCE HENRY, emerging from the bridge. I breathe again more freely! Ah, how pleasant To come once more into the light of day, Out of that shadow of death! To hear again The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground, And not upon those hollow planks, resounding With a sepulchral echo, like the clods On coffins in a churchyard! Yonder lies The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled In light, and lingering, like a village maiden, Hid in the bosom of her native mountains Then pouring all her life into another's, Changing her name and being! Overhead, Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines.
They pass on.
PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE crossing with attendants.
GUIDE. This bridge is called the Devil's Bridge. With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, It leaps across the terrible chasm Yawning beneath us, black and deep, As if, in some convulsive spasm, The summits of the hills had cracked, And made a road for the cataract That raves and rages down the steep!
LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!
GUIDE. Never any bridge but this Could stand across the wild abyss; All the rest, of wood or stone, By the Devil's hand were overthrown. He toppled crags from the precipice, And whatsoe'er was built by day In the night was swept away; None could stand but this alone.
LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!
GUIDE. I showed you in the valley a bowlder Marked with the imprint of his shoulder; As he was bearing it up this way, A peasant, passing, cried, "Herr Je! And the Devil dropped it in his fright, And vanished suddenly out of sight!
LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha!
GUIDE. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, For pilgrims on their way to Rome, Built this at last, with a single arch, Under which, on its endless march, Runs the river, white with foam, Like a thread through the eye of a needle. And the Devil promised to let it stand, Under compact and condition That the first living thing which crossed Should be surrendered into his hand, And be beyond redemption lost.
LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha! perdition!
GUIDE. At length, the bridge being all completed, The Abbot, standing at its head, Threw across it a loaf of bread, Which a hungry dog sprang after; And the rocks re-echoed with the peals of laughter, To see the Devil thus defeated!
They pass on.
LUCIFER, under the bridge. Ha! ha! defeated! For journeys and for crimes like this I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss!
PRINCE HENRY. This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.
ELSIE. How bleak and bare it is! Nothing but mosses Grow on these rocks.
PRINCE HENRY.Yet are they not forgotten;Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them.
ELSIE. See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks! It seems to me The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels!
PRINCE HENRY. Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone!
ELSIE. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, Upon angelic shoulders! Even now I seem uplifted by them, light as air! What sound is that?
PRINCE HENRY.The tumbling avalanches!
ELSIE. How awful, yet how beautiful!
PRINCE HENRY.These areThe voices of the mountains! Thus they opeTheir snowy lips, and speak unto each other,In the primeval language, lost to man.
ELSIE. What land is this that spreads itself beneath us?
PRINCE HENRY. Italy! Italy!
ELSIE.Land of the Madonna!How beautiful it is! It seems a gardenOf Paradise!
PRINCE HENRY.Nay, of GethsemaneTo thee and me, of passion and of prayer!Yet once of Paradise. Long years agoI wandered as a youth among its bowers,And never from my heart has faded quiteIts memory, that, like a summer sunset,Encircles with a ring of purple lightAll the horizon of my youth.
GUIDE.O friends!The days are short, the way before us long:We must not linger, if we think to reachThe inn at Belinzona before vespers!
They pass on.
A halt under the trees at noon.
PRINCE HENRY. Here let us pause a moment in the trembling Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees, And, our tired horses in a group assembling, Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; They lag behind us with a slower pace; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place. Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!
ELSIE. What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air.
PRINCE HENRY. Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!
ELSIE. It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.
PILGRIMS, chanting the Hymn of St. Hildebert.Me receptet Sion illa,Sion David, urbs tranquilla,Cujus faber auctor lucis,Cujus portae lignum crucis,Cujus claves lingua Petri,Cujus cives semper laeti,Cujus muri lapis vivus,Cujus custos rex festivus!
LUCIFER, as a Friar in the procession. Here am I, too, in the pious band, In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives, All day long I beat my breast, And chant with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest. And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, Such a hurly-burly in country inns, Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! Of all the contrivances of the time For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!
PRINCE HENRY. If from the outward man we judge the inner, And cleanliness is godliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened Sinner, Must be that Carmelite now passing near.
LUCIFER. There is my German Prince again, Thus far on his journey to Salern, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; But it's a long road that has no turn! Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play. But first I must act to my heart's content This mummery and this merriment, And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent. Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along, Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, Chanting their wonderful puff and paff, And, to make up for not understanding the song, Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! Were it not for my magic garters and staff, And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long.
PILGRIMS, chanting.In hac urbe, lux solennis,Ver aeternum, pax perennis;In hac odor implens caelos,In hac semper festum melos!
PRINCE HENRY. Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face?
ELSIE. It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.
PRINCE HENRY. And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. Good morrow, Friar!
FRIAR CUTHBERT.Good morrow, noble Sir!
PRINCE HENRY. I speak in German, for, unless I err, You are a German.
FRIAR CUTHBERT.I cannot gainsay you.But by what instinct, or what secret sign,Meeting me here, do you straightway divineThat northward of the Alps my country lies?
PRINCE HENRY. Your accent, like St. Peter's, would betray you, Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. Moreover, we have seen your face before, And heard you preach at the Cathedral door On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square. We were among the crowd that gathered there, And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, As if, by leaning o'er so many years To walk with little children, your own will Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, A kind of stooping in its form and gait, And could no longer stand erect and straight. Whence come you now?
FRIAR CUTHBERT.From the old monasteryOf Hirschau, in the forest; being sentUpon a pilgrimage to Benevent,To see the image of the Virgin Mary,That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks,And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks,To touch the hearts of the impenitent.
PRINCE HENRY. Oh, had I faith, as in the days gone by, That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery!
LUCIFER, at a distance. Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert!