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.
