The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth LongfellowPart 22 out of 32
Must yield to the Expedient! Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie! What noble deeds, what fair renown, Into the grave with thee go down! What acts of valor and courtesy Remain undone, and die with thee! Thou art the last of all thy race! With thee a noble name expires, And vanishes from the earth's face The glorious memory of thy sires! She is a peasant. In her veins Flows common and plebeian blood; It is such as daily and hourly stains The dust and the turf of battle plains, By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, Without reserve and without reward, At the slightest summons of their lord! But thine is precious; the fore-appointed Blood of kings, of God's anointed! Moreover, what has the world in store For one like her, but tears and toil? Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, A peasant's child and a peasant's wife, And her soul within her sick and sore With the roughness and barrenness of life! I marvel not at the heart's recoil From a fate like this, in one so tender, Nor at its eagerness to surrender All the wretchedness, want, and woe That await it in this world below, For the unutterable splendor Of the world of rest beyond the skies. So the Church sanctions the sacrifice: Therefore inhale this healing balm, And breathe this fresh life into thine; Accept the comfort and the calm She offers, as a gift divine; Let her fall down and anoint thy feet With the ointment costly and most sweet Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. PRINCE HENRY. And will the righteous Heaven forgive? No action, whether foal or fair, Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly, As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it, till at length The wrongs of ages are redressed, And the justice of God made manifest! LUCIFER. In ancient records it is stated That, whenever an evil deed is done, Another devil is created To scourge and torment the offending one! But evil is only good perverted, And Lucifer, the bearer of Light, But an angel fallen and deserted, Thrust from his Father's house with a curse Into the black and endless night. PRINCE HENRY. If justice rules the universe, From the good actions of good men Angels of light should be begotten. And thus the balance restored again. LUCIFER. Yes; if the world were not so rotten, And so given over to the Devil! PRINCE HENRY. But this deed, is it good or evil? Have I thine absolution free To do it, and without restriction? LUCIFER. Ay; and from whatsoever sin Lieth around it and within, From all crimes in which it may involve thee, I now release thee and absolve thee! PRINCE HENRY. Give me thy holy benediction. LUCIFER, stretching forth his hand and muttering. Maledictione perpetua Maledicat vos Pater eternus! THE ANGEL, with the aeolian harp. Take heed! take heed! Noble art thou in thy birth, By the good and the great of earth Hast thou been taught! Be noble in every thought And in every deed! Let not the illusion of thy senses Betray thee to deadly offences, Be strong! be good! be pure! The right only shall endure, All things else are but false pretences. I entreat thee, I implore, Listen no more To the suggestions of an evil spirit, That even now is there, Making the foul seem fair, And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit! A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE GOTTLIEB. It is decided! For many days, And nights as many, we have had A nameless terror in our breast, Making us timid, and afraid Of God, and his mysterious ways! We have been sorrowful and sad; Much have we suffered, much have prayed That He would lead us as is best, And show us what his will required. It is decided; and we give Our child, O Prince, that you may live! URSULA. It is of God. He has inspired This purpose in her: and through pain, Out of a world of sin and woe, He takes her to Himself again. The mother's heart resists no longer; With the Angel of the Lord in vain It wrestled, for he was the stronger. GOTTLIEB. As Abraham offered long ago His son unto the Lord, and even The Everlasting Father in heaven Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, So do I offer up my daughter! URSULA hides her face. ELSIE. My life is little, Only a cup of water, But pure and limpid. Take it, O my Prince! Let it refresh you, Let it restore you. It is given willingly, It is given freely; May God bless the gift! PRINCE HENRY, And the giver! GOTTLIEB. Amen! PRINCE HENRY. I accept it! GOTTLIEB. Where are the children? URSULA. They are already asleep. GOTTLIEB. What if they were dead? IN THE GARDEN ELSIE. I have one thing to ask of you. PRINCE HENRY. What is it? It is already granted. ELSIE. Promise me, When we are gone from here, and on our way Are journeying to Salerno, you will not, By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade me And turn me from my purpose; but remember That as a pilgrim to the Holy City Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon Occupied wholly, so would I approach The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, With my petition, putting off from me All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet. Promise me this. PRINCE HENRY. Thy words fall from thy lips Like roses from the lips of Angelo: and angels Might stoop to pick them up! ELSIE. Will you not promise? PRINCE HENRY. If ever we depart upon this journey, So long to one or both of us, I promise. ELSIE. Shall we not go, then? Have you lifted me Into the air, only to hurl me back Wounded upon the ground? and offered me The waters of eternal life, to bid me Drink the polluted puddles of the world? PRINCE HENRY. O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! The life which is, and that which is to come, Suspended hang in such nice equipoise A breath disturbs the balance; and that scale In which we throw our hearts preponderates, And the other, like an empty one, flies up, And is accounted vanity and air! To me the thought of death is terrible, Having such hold on life. To thee it is not So much even as the lifting of a latch; Only a step into the open air Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its transparent walls! O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow Lilies, upon whose petals will be written "Ave Maria" in characters of gold! III A STREET IN STRASBURG Night. PRINCE HENRY wandering alone, wrapped in a cloak. PRINCE HENRY. Still is the night. The sound of feet Has died away from the empty street, And like an artisan, bending down His head on his anvil, the dark town Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. Sleepless and restless, I alone, In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone, Wander and weep in my remorse! 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 hoarse 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 OP 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 OP 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 blending, 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 buttress 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 horsemen 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 Salem, 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 noble 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 towards 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 noble 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 assemble 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 Wake 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 God 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 be No habitation free from sin, And all its nameless misery; 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 passions 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. The churches are all decked with flowers, The salutations among men Are but the Angel's words divine, "Christ is arisen!" and the bells Catch the glad murmur, as it swells, And chant together in their towers. All hearts are glad; and free from care The faces of the people shine. See what a crowd is in the square, Gayly and gallantly arrayed! ELSIE. Let us go back; I am afraid! PRINCE HENRY. Nay, let us mount the church-steps here, Under the doorway's sacred shadow; We can see all things, and be freer From the crowd that madly heaves and presses! ELSIE. What a gay pageant! what bright dresses! It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. What is that yonder on the square? PRINCE HENRY. A pulpit in the open air, And a Friar, who is preaching to the crowd In a voice so deep and clear and loud, That, if we listen, and give heed, His lowest words will reach the ear. FRIAR CUTHBERT, gesticulating and cracking a postilion's whip. What ho! good people! do you not hear? Dashing along at the top of his speed, Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, A courier comes with words of cheer. Courier! what is the news, I pray? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From court." Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport. Cracks his whip again. Ah, here comes another, riding this way; We soon shall know what he has to say. Courier! what are the tidings to-day? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From town." Then I do not believe it; away with you, clown. Cracks his whip more violently. And here comes a third, who is spurring amain; What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From Rome." Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed! Great applause among the crowd. To come back to my text! When the news was first spread That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead, Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven; And as great the dispute as to who should carry The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. Old Father Adam was first to propose, As being the author of all our woes; But he was refused, for fear, said they, He would stop to eat apples on the way! Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, Because he might meet with his brother Cain! Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness for wine Should delay him at every tavern-sign; And John the Baptist could not get a vote, On account of his old-fashioned camel's-hair coat; And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross, Was reminded that all his bones were broken! Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, The company being still at loss, The Angel, who rolled away the stone, Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone. And filled with glory that gloomy prison, And said to the Virgin, "The Lord is arisen!" The Cathedral bells ring. But hark! the bells are beginning to chime; And I feel that I am growing hoarse. I will put an end to my discourse, And leave the rest for some other time. For the bells themselves are the best of preachers; Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon, and now a prayer. The clangorous hammer is the tongue, This way, that way, beaten and swung, That from mouth of brass, as from Month of Gold, May be taught the Testaments, New and Old, And above it the great cross-beam of wood Representeth the Holy Rood, Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung Is the mind of man, that round and round Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity Of Morals, and Symbols, and History; And the upward and downward motion show That we touch upon matters high and low; And the constant change and transmutation Of action and of contemplation, Downward, the Scripture brought from on high, Upward, exalted again to the sky; Downward, the literal interpretation, Upward, the Vision and Mystery! And now, my hearers, to make an end, I have only one word more to say; In the church, in honor of Easter day Will be presented a Miracle Play; And I hope you will have the grace to attend. Christ bring us at last to his felicity! Pax vobiscum! et Benedicite! IN THE CATHEDRAL CHANT. Kyrie Eleison Christe Eleison! ELSIE. I am at home here in my Father's house! These paintings of the Saints upon the walls Have all familiar and benignant faces. PRINCE HENRY. The portraits of the family of God! Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them. ELSIE. How very grand it is and wonderful! Never have I beheld a church so splendid! Such columns, and such arches, and such windows, So many tombs and statues in the chapels, And under them so many confessionals. They must be for the rich. I should not like To tell my sins in such a church as this. Who built it? PRINCE HENRY. A great master of his craft, Erwin von Steinbach; but not he alone, For many generations labored with him. Children that came to see these Saints in stone, As day by day out of the blocks they rose, Grew old and died, and still the work went on, And on, and on, and is not yet completed. The generation that succeeds our own Perhaps may finish it. The architect Built his great heart into these sculptured stones, And with him toiled his children, and their lives Were builded, with his own, into the walls, As offerings unto God. You see that statue Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes Upon the Pillars of the Angels yonder. That is the image of the master, carved By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. ELSIE. How beautiful is the column that he looks at! PRINCE HENRY. That, too, she sculptured. At the base of it Stand the Evangelists; above their heads Four Angels blowing upon marble trumpets, And over them the blessed Christ, surrounded By his attendant ministers, upholding The instruments of his passion. ELSIE. O my Lord! Would I could leave behind me upon earth Some monument to thy glory, such as this! PRINCE HENRY. A greater monument than this thou leavest In thine own life, all purity and love! See, too, the Rose, above the western portal Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous colors, The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness! ELSIE. And, in the gallery, the long line of statues, Christ with his twelve Apostles watching us! A Bishop in armor, booted and spurred, passes with his train. PRINCE HENRY. But come away; we have not time to look, The crowd already fills the church, and yonder Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet, Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims The Mystery that will now be represented. THE NATIVITY A MIRACLE-PLAY INTROITUS PRAECO. Come, good people, all and each, Come and listen to our speech! In your presence here I stand, With a trumpet in my hand, To announce the Easter Play, Which we represent to-day! First of all we shall rehearse, In our action and our verse, The Nativity of our Lord, As written in the old record Of the Protevangelion, So that he who reads may run! Blows his trumpet. I. HEAVEN. MERCY, at the feet of God. Have pity, Lord! be not afraid To save mankind, whom thou hast made, Nor let the souls that were betrayed Perish eternally! JUSTICE. It cannot be, it must not be! When in the garden placed by thee, The fruit of the forbidden tree He ate, and he must die! MERCY. Have pity, Lord! let penitence Atone for disobedience, Nor let the fruit of man's offence Be endless misery! JUSTICE. What penitence proportionate Can e'er be felt for sin so great? Of the forbidden fruit he ate, And damned must he be! GOD. He shall be saved, if that within The bounds of earth one free from sin Be found, who for his kith and kin Will suffer martyrdom. THE FOUR VIRTUES. Lord! we have searched the world around, From centre to the utmost bound, But no such mortal can be found; Despairing, back we come. WISDOM. No mortal, but a God-made man, Can ever carry out this plan, Achieving what none other can, Salvation unto all! GOD. Go, then, O my beloved Son! It can by thee alone be done; By thee the victory shall be won O'er Satan and the Fall! Here the ANGEL GABRIEL shall leave Paradise and fly towards the earth; the jaws of hell open below, and the Devils walk about, making a great noise. II. MARY AT THE WELL MARY. Along the garden walk, and thence Through the wicket in the garden fence I steal with quiet pace, My pitcher at the well to fill, That lies so deep and cool and still In this sequestered place. These sycamores keep guard around; I see no face, I hear no sound, Save bubblings of the spring, And my companions, who, within, The threads of gold and scarlet spin, And at their labor sing. THE ANGEL GABRIEL. Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace! Here MARY looketh around her, trembling, and then saith: MARY. Who is it speaketh in this place, With such a gentle voice? GABRIEL. The Lord of heaven is with thee now! Blessed among all women thou, Who art his holy choice! MARY, setting down the pitcher. What can this mean? No one is near, And yet, such sacred words I hear, I almost fear to stay. Here the ANGEL, appearing to her, shall say: GABRIEL. Fear not, O Mary! but believe! For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive A child this very day. Fear not, O Mary! from the sky The Majesty of the Most High Shall overshadow thee! MARY. Behold the handmaid of the Lord! According to thy holy word, So be it unto me! Here the Devils shall again make a great noise, under the stage. III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLANETS, BEARING THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM THE ANGELS. The Angels of the Planets Seven, Across the shining fields of heaven The natal star we bring! Dropping our sevenfold virtues down As priceless jewels in the crown Of Christ, our new-born King. RAPHAEL. I am the Angel of the Sun, Whose flaming wheels began to run When God Almighty's breath Said to the darkness and the Night, Let there he light! and there was light! I bring the gift of Faith. ONAFIEL. I am the Angel of the Moon, Darkened to be rekindled soon Beneath the azure cope! Nearest to earth, it is my ray That best illumes the midnight way; I bring the gift of Hope! ANAEL. The Angel of the Star of Love, The Evening Star, that shines above The place where lovers be, Above all happy hearths and homes, On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, I give him Charity! ZOBIACHEL. The Planet Jupiter is mine! The mightiest star of all that shine, Except the sun alone! He is the High Priest of the Dove, And sends, from his great throne above, Justice, that shall atone! MICHAEL. The Planet Mercury, whose place Is nearest to the sun in space, Is my allotted sphere! And with celestial ardor swift I hear upon my hands the gift Of heavenly Prudence here! URIEL. I am the Minister of Mars, The strongest star among the stars! My songs of power prelude The march and battle of man's life, And for the suffering and the strife, I give him Fortitude! ORIFEL. The Angel of the uttermost Of all the shining, heavenly host, From the far-off expanse Of the Saturnian, endless space I bring the last, the crowning grace, The gift of Temperance! A sudden light shines from the windows of the stable in the village below. IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST The stable of the Inn. The VIRGIN and CHILD. Three Gypsy Kings, GASPAR, MELCHIOR, and BELSHAZZAR, shall come in. GASPAR. Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth! Though in a manger thou draw breath, Thou art greater than Life and Death, Greater than Joy or Woe! This cross upon the line of life Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, And through a region with peril rife In darkness shalt thou go! MELCHIOR. Hail to thee, King of Jerusalem! Though humbly born in Bethlehem, A sceptre and a diadem Await thy brow and hand! The sceptre is a simple reed, The crown will make thy temples bleed, And in thine hour of greatest need, Abashed thy subjects stand! BELSHAZZAR. Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom! O'er all the earth thy kingdom come! From distant Trebizond to Rome Thy name shall men adore! Peace and good-will among all men, The Virgin has returned again, Returned the old Saturnian reign And Golden Age once more. THE CHILD CHRIST. Jesus, the Son of God, am I, Born here to suffer and to die According to the prophecy, That other men may live! THE VIRGIN. And now these clothes, that wrapped Him, take And keep them precious, for his sake; Our benediction thus we make, Naught else have we to give. She gives them swaddling-clothes and they depart. V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT Here JOSEPH shall come in, leading an ass, on which are seated MARY and the CHILD. MARY. Here will we rest us, under these O'erhanging branches of the trees, Where robins chant their Litanies And canticles of joy. JOSEPH. My saddle-girths have given way With trudging through the heat to-day; To you I think it is but play To ride and hold the boy. MARY. Hark! how the robins shout and sing, As if to hail their infant King! I will alight at yonder spring To wash his little coat. JOSEPH. And I will hobble well the ass, Lest, being loose upon the grass, He should escape; for, by the mass, He's nimble as a goat. Here MARY shall alight and go to the spring. MARY. O Joseph! I am much afraid, For men are sleeping in the shade; I fear that we shall be waylaid, And robbed and beaten sore! Here a band of robbers shall be seen sleeping, two of whom shall rise and come forward. DUMACHUS. Cock's soul! deliver up your gold! JOSEPH. I pray you, sirs, let go your hold! You see that I am weak and old, Of wealth I have no store. DUMACHUS. Give up your money! TITUS. Prithee cease. Let these people go in peace. DUMACHUS. First let them pay for their release, And then go on their way. TITUS. These forty groats I give in fee, If thou wilt only silent be. MARY. May God he merciful to thee Upon the Judgment Day! JESUS. When thirty years shall have gone by, I at Jerusalem shall die, By Jewish hands exalted high On the accursed tree, Then on my right and my left side, These thieves shall both be crucified, And Titus thenceforth shall abide In paradise with me. Here a great rumor of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a king with his army, and the robbers shall take flight. VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS KING HEROD. Potz-tausend! Himmel-sacrament! Filled am I with great wonderment At this unwelcome news! Am I not Herod? Who shall dare My crown to take, my sceptre bear, As king among the Jews? Here he shall stride up and down and flourish his sword. What ho! I fain would drink a can Of the strong wine of Canaan! The wine of Helbon bring I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, As red as blood, as hot as fire, And fit for any king! He quaffs great goblets of wine. Now at the window will I stand, While in the street the armed band The little children slay; The babe just born in Bethlehem Will surely slaughtered be with them, Nor live another day! Here a voice of lamentation shall be heard in the street. RACHEL. O wicked king! O cruel speed! To do this most unrighteous deed! My children all are slain! HEROD. Ho, seneschal! another cup! With wine of Sorek fill it up! I would a bumper drain! RAHAB. May maledictions fall and blast Thyself and lineage to the last Of all thy kith and kin! HEROD. Another goblet! quick! and stir Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh And calamus therein! SOLDIERS, in the street. Give up thy child into our hands! It is King Herod who commands That he should thus be slain! THE NURSE MEDUSA. O monstrous men! What have ye done! It is King Herod's only son That ye have cleft in twain! HEROD. Ah, luckless day! What words of fear Are these that smite upon my ear With such a doleful sound! What torments rack my heart and head! Would I were dead! would I were dead, And buried in the ground! He falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. Hell opens, and SATAN and ASTAROTH come forth and drag him down. VII. JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS SCHOOLMATES JESUS. The shower is over. Let us play, And make some sparrows out of clay, Down by the river's side. JUDAS. See, how the stream has overflowed Its banks, and o'er the meadow road Is spreading far and wide! They draw water out of the river by channels and form little pools. JESUS makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys do the same. JESUS. Look! look how prettily I make These little sparrows by the lake Bend down their necks and drink! Now will I make them sing and soar So far, they shall return no more Unto this river's brink. JUDAS. That canst thou not! They are but clay, They cannot sing, nor fly away Above the meadow lands! JESUS. Fly, fly! ye sparrows! you are free! And while you live, remember me, Who made you with my hands. Here JESUS shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, chirruping. JUDAS. Thou art a sorcerer, I know; Oft has my mother told me so, I will not play with thee! He strikes JESUS in the right side. JESUS. Ah, Judas! thou hast smote my side, And when I shall be crucified, There shall I pierced be! Here JOSEPH shall come in and say: JOSEPH. Ye wicked boys! why do ye play, And break the holy Sabbath day? What, think ye, will your mothers say To see you in such plight! In such a sweat and such a heat, With all that mud upon your feet! There's not a beggar in the street Makes such a sorry sight! VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL The RABBI BEN ISRAEL, sitting on a high stool, with a long beard, and a rod in his hand. RABBI. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, Throughout this village known full well, And, as my scholars all will tell, Learned in things divine; The Cabala and Talmud hoar Than all the prophets prize I more, For water is all Bible lore, But Mishna is strong wine. My fame extends from West to East, And always, at the Purim feast, I am as drunk as any beast That wallows in his sty; The wine it so elateth me, That I no difference can see Between "Accursed Haman be!" And "Blessed be Mordecai!" Come hither, Judas Iscariot; Say, if thy lesson thou hast got From the Rabbinical Book or not. Why howl the dogs at night? JUDAS. In the Rabbinical Book, it saith The dogs howl, when with icy breath Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, Takes through the town his flight! RABBI. Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes, Comes where a sick man dying lies, What doth he to the wight? JUDAS. He stands beside him, dark and tall, Holding a sword, from which doth fall Into his mouth a drop of gall, And so he turneth white. RABBI. And now, my Judas, say to me What the great Voices Four may be, That quite across the world do flee, And are not heard by men? JUDAS. The Voice of the Sun in heaven's dome, The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, And the Angel of the Rain! RABBI. Right are thine answers every one! Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son, Let us see how thy task is done; Canst thou thy letters say? JESUS. Aleph. RABBI. What next? Do not stop yet! Go on with all the alphabet. Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou forget? Cock's soul! thou'dst rather play! JESUS. What Aleph means I fain would know Before I any farther go! RABBI. Oh, by Saint Peter! wouldst thou so? Come hither, boy, to me. As surely as the letter Jod Once cried aloud, and spake to God, So surely shalt thou feel this rod, And punished shalt thou be! Here RABBI BEN ISRAEL shall lift up his rod to strike Jesus, and his right arm shall be paralyzed. IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS JESUS sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their King. BOYS. We spread our garments on the ground! With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned While like a guard we stand around, And hail thee as our King! Thou art the new King of the Jews! Nor let the passers-by refuse To bring that homage which men use To majesty to bring. Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his garments and say: BOYS. Come hither I and all reverence pay Unto our monarch, crowned to-day! Then go rejoicing on your way, In all prosperity! TRAVELLER. Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority! He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child. BOYS. Set down the litter and draw near! The King of Bethlehem is here! What ails the child, who seems to fear That we shall do him harm? THE BEARERS. He climbed up to the robin's nest, And out there darted, from his rest, A serpent with a crimson crest, And stung him in the arm. JESUS. Bring him to me, and let me feel The wounded place; my touch can heal The sting of serpents, and can steal The poison from the bite! He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry. Cease to lament! I can foresee That thou hereafter known shalt be, Among the men who follow me, As Simon the Canaanite! EPILOGUE In the after part of the day Will be represented another play, Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, Beginning directly after Nones! At the close of which we shall accord, By way of benison and reward, The sight of a holy Martyr's bones! IV THE ROAD TO HIRSCHAU PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with their attendants on horseback. ELSIE. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring! PRINCE HENRY. This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. ELSIE. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the stigma Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. PRINCE HENRY. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may betide, Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's side? ELSIE. All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creaking wain Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and strain. PRINCE HENRY. Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs with the landlord's daughter, While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water. ELSIE. All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his soul with love; Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. PRINCE HENRY. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the highway ends, And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. ELSIE. I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses' feet. They turn down a green lane. ELSIE. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. PRINCE HENRY. Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill; We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. ELSIE. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our side! What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide? PRINCE HENRY. It is the home of the Counts of Calva; well have I known these scenes of old, Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the wold. ELSIE. Hark! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing for rain! Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. PRINCE HENRY. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a little cloud, That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. They pass on. THE CONVENT OF HIRSCHAU IN THE BLACK FOREST. The Convent cellar. FRIAR CLAUS comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons. FRIAR CLAUS. I always enter this sacred place With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, Pausing long enough on each stair To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction on the vines That produce these various sorts of wines! For my part, I am well content That we have got through with the tedious Lent! Fasting is all very well for those Who have to contend with invisible foes; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me, Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind, That are always distressed in body and mind! And at times it really does me good To come down among this brotherhood, Dwelling forever underground, Silent, contemplative, round and sound; Each one old, and brown with mould, But filled to the lips with the ardor of youth, With the latent power and love of truth, And with virtues fervent and manifold. I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, When buds are swelling on every side, And the sap begins to move in the vine, Then in all cellars, far and wide, The oldest as well as the newest wine Begins to stir itself, and ferment, With a kind of revolt and discontent At being so long in darkness pent, And fain would burst from its sombre tun To bask on the hillside in the sun; As in the bosom of us poor friars, The tumult of half-subdued desires For the world that we have left behind Disturbs at times all peace of mind! And now that we have lived through Lent, My duty it is, as often before, To open awhile the prison-door, And give these restless spirits vent. Now here is a cask that stands alone, And has stood a hundred years or more, Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! It is of the quick and not of the dead! In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak That time may have tamed, but has not broke! It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm; But that I do not consider dear, When I remember that every year Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome. And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, The old rhyme keeps running in my brain; At Bacharach on the Rhine, At Hochheim on the Main, And at Wurzburg on the Stein, Grow the three best kinds of wine! They are all good wines, and better far Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. In particular, Wurzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most. This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, Who seems to be much of my way of thinking. Fills a flagon. Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! What a delicious fragrance springs From the deep flagon, while it fills, As of hyacinths and daffodils! Between this cask and the Abbot's lips Many have been the sips and slips; Many have been the draughts of wine, On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs, Less with its longings and more with its prayers. But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul! He drinks. O cordial delicious! O soother of pain! It flashes like sunshine into my brain! A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends! And now a flagon for such as may ask A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, And I will be gone, though I know full well The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell. Behold where he stands, all sound and good, Brown and old in his oaken hood; Silent he seems externally As any Carthusian monk may be; But within, what a spirit of deep unrest! What a seething and simmering in his breast! As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart! Let me unloose this button of wood, And quiet a little his turbulent mood. Sets it running. See! how its currents gleam and shine, As if they had caught the purple hues Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews; Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, Was taken and crucified by the Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach! Perdition upon those infidel Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach! The beautiful town, that gives us wine With the fragrant odor of Muscadine! I should deem it wrong to let this pass Without first touching my lips to the glass, For here in the midst of the current I stand Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, Taking toll upon either hand, And much more grateful to the giver. He drinks. Here, now, is a very inferior kind, Such as in any town you may find, Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. And, after all, it was not a crime, For he won thereby Dorf Huffelsheim. A jolly old toper! who at a pull Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, And ask with a laugh, when that was done, If the fellow had left the other one! This wine is as good as we can afford To the friars who sit at the lower board, And cannot distinguish bad from good, And are far better off than if they could, Being rather the rude disciples of beer, Than of anything more refined and dear! Fills the flagon and departs. THE SCRIPTORIUM FRIAR PACIFICUS transcribing and illuminating. FRIAR PACIFICUS. It is growing dark! Yet one line more, And then my work for to-day is o'er. I come again to the name of the Lord! Ere I that awful name record, That is spoken so lightly among men, Let me pause awhile and wash my pen; Pure from blemish and blot must it be When it writes that word of mystery! Thus have I labored on and on, Nearly through the Gospel of John. Can it be that from the lips Of this same gentle Evangelist, That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, Came the dread Apocalypse! It has a very awful look, As it stands there at the end of the book, Like the sun in an eclipse. Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, Think of writing it, line by line, I stand in awe of the terrible curse, Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse! God forgive me! if ever I Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, Lest my part too should he taken away From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day. This is well written, though I say it! I should not be afraid to display it In open day, on the selfsame shelf With the writings of St. Thecla herself, Or of Theodosius, who of old Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold! That goodly folio standing yonder, Without a single blot or blunder, Would not bear away the palm from mine, If we should compare them line for line. There, now, is an initial letter! Saint Ulric himself never made a better! Finished down to the leaf and the snail, Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail! And now, as I turn the volume over, And see what lies between cover and cover, What treasures of art these pages hold, All ablaze with crimson and gold, God forgive me! I seem to feel A certain satisfaction steal Into my heart, and into my brain, As if my talent had not lain Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, Here is a copy of thy Word, Written out with much toil and pain; Take it, O Lord, and let it be As something I have done for thee! He looks from the window. How sweet the air is! how fair the scene! I wish I had as lovely a green To paint my landscapes and my leaves! How the swallows twitter under the eaves! There, now, there is one in her nest; I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, 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. 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 forever! The peace of God, that passeth undertanding, 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 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 Godfather to our bells. PRINCE HENRY. Your monks are learned And holy men, I trust. ABBOT. There are among them 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!" Ony 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. 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 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 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 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! 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 wood And bishop of gold!
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