THE CLOISTERS.

The ABBOT ERNESTUS pacing to and fro.
Abbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade;
Evening damps begin to fall,
Evening shadows are displayed.
Round me, o'er me, everywhere,
All the sky is grand with clouds,
And athwart the evening air
Wheel the swallows home in crowds.
Shafts of sunshine from the west

Paint the dusky windows red;
Darker shadows, deeper rest,
Underneath and overhead,
Darker, darker, and more wan,
In my breast the shadows fall;
Upward steals the life of man,
As the sunshine from the wall.
From the wall into the sky,
From the roof along the spire;
Ah, the souls of those that die
Are but sunbeams lifted higher.
Enter PRINCE HENRY.
Prince Henry. Christ is arisen!
Abbot.
Amen! He is arisen!

His peace be with you!

Prince Henry. Here it reigns for ever! 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 H. And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck,

Who crave your hospitality to-night.

Abbot. You are thrice welcome to our humble walls.

You do us honour; 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.

Pr. H. How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau !

Are all things well with them?

Abbot.

All things are well.

Prince H. 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 charities

We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master,
When he departed, left us in his will,

As our best legacy on earth, the poor!

These we have always with us; had we not,

Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. Pr. H. If I remember right, the Counts of Calva Founded your convent.

Abbot.

Even as you say.

Prince H. 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 H.

And whose tomb is that

Which bears the brass escutcheon?

Abbot.

A benefactor's:

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood

Godfather to our bells.

Prince H.

Your monks are learned

There are among them

And holy men, I trust.

Abbot.

Learned and holy men. Yet in this age
We need another Hildebrand, to shake
And purify us like a mighty wind.

The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder
God 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 hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness
And weariness of life that makes me ready

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

Pr. H. 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 H.

I have heard much laud

Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium

Is famous among all, your manuscripts

Praised for their beauty and their excellence.
Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If you desire it
You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile
Shall the Refectorarius bestow

Your horses and attendants for the night.

(They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.)

THE CHAPEL.

Vespers; after which the Monks retire, a chorister leading an old Monk who is blind.

Prince H. 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 recognise 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 H. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneek.

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!

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,

prayer

Passed utterly away for ever.
Contrition, penitence, remorse,
Came on me, with o'erwhelming force ;
A hope, a longing, an endeavour,
By days of penance and nights of
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 'tis revenge you seek ;

Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake!

Prince H. 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 REFECTORY.

Gaudiolum of Monks at Midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar.

Friar Paul sings. Ave! color vini clari
Dulcis potus, non amari,

Tua nos inebriari

Digneris potentia!

Fr. Cuth. Not so much noise, my worthy freres,
You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers.

Fr. Paul sings. O! quam placens in colore!

O! quam fragrans in odore!

O quam sapidum in ore!

Dulce linguæ vinculum !

Fr. C. I should think your tongue had broken its chain!
Friar Paul sings. Felix venter quem intrabis!

Felix gutter quod rigabis!

Felix os quod tu lavabis!

Et beata labia!

Fr. Cuthbert. Peace! I say, peace!

Will you never cease!

You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again!

Fr. John. No danger; to-night he will let us aloue,

As I happen to know he has guests of his own.
Fr. Cuthbert. Who are they!

Fr. John. A German Prince and his train,
Who arrived here just before the rain.
There is with him a damsel fair to see,