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, 80
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, 85
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! 90
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, 95
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! 100
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, 105
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, 110
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 115
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, 120
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 125
The rascal who drank wine out of a boot.
And, after all, it was not a crime,
For he won thereby Dorf Hüffelsheim.
A jolly old toper! who at a pull
Could drink a postilion’s jack-boot full, 130
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, 135
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.
IV.
III. 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, 5
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. 10
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, 15
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, 20
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 be taken away
From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day. 25
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 30
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. 35
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, 40
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 45
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, 50
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 55
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, 60
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! 65
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. 70
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, 75
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.
IV.
IV. 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, 5
All the sky is grand with clouds,
And athwart the evening air
Wheel the swallows home in cr
owds.
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
IV.
V. 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 clenchèd and convulsive fingers, 5
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? 10
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, 15
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! 20
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! 25
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, 30
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 35
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, 40
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, 45
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, 50
A man of violence and crime,
Whose passions brooked no curb nor check
&
nbsp; Behold me now, in gentler mood,
One of this holy brotherhood.
Give me your hand; here let me kneel; 55
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 60
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! 65
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. 70
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, 75
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 inebriari
Digneris potentia!
FRIAR CUTHBERT.
Not so much noise, my worthy frères, 5
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 linguæ vinculum! 10
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! 15
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. 20
FRIAR CUTHBERT.
Who are they?
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 104
