And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook,

For the margin of my Gospel book.

He makes a sketch.

I can see no more. Through the valley yonder

A shower is passing; I hear the thunder
Mutter its curses in the air,

The Devil's own and only prayer!

The dusty road is brown with rain,

And, speeding on with might and main,
Hitherward rides a gallant train.

They do not parley, they cannot wait,
But hurry in at the convent gate.
What a fair lady! and beside her
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider!
Now she gives him her hand to alight;
They will beg a shelter for the night.

I will go down to the corridor,

And try to see that face once more;

It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint,

Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.

Goes out.

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?

I am.

ABBOT.

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 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.

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 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.

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 stood

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