| |
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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| Darker shadows, deeper rest, | |
| Underneath and overhead. | |
| Darker, darker, and more wan, | |
| In my breast the shadows fall; | |
| Upward steals the life of man, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
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? | 25 |
| |
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 | 30 |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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 | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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. | 50 |
| |
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, | 55 |
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 | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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. | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| 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; | 80 |
| 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 | 85 |
| 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. | 90 |
| |
