The prayer is said,

The service read,

The joyous bridegroom bows his head,

And in tears the good old Master

Shakes the brown hand of his son,

Kisses his daughter’s glowing cheek

In silence, for he cannot speak,

And ever faster

Down his own the tears begin to run.

The worthy pastor—

The shepherd of that wandering flock,

That has the ocean for its wold,

That has the vessel for its fold,

Leaping ever from rock to rock—

Spake, with accents mild and clear,

Words of warning, words of cheer,

But tedious to the bridegroom’s ear.

He knew the chart

Of the sailor’s heart,

All its pleasures and its griefs,

All its shallows and rocky reefs,

All those secret currents, that flow

With such resistless under-tow,

And lift and drift, with terrible force,

The will from its moorings and its course.

Therefore he spake, and thus said he:—

“Like unto ships far off at sea,

Outward or homeward bound, are we.

Before, behind, and all around,

Floats and swings the horizon’s bound,

Seems at its distant rim to rise

And climb the crystal wall of the skies,

And then again to turn and sink,

As if we could slide from its outer blink.

Ah! it is not the sea,

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves,

But ourselves

That rock and rise

With endless and uneasy motion,

Now touching the very skies,

Now sinking into the depths of ocean.

Ah! if our souls but poise and swing

Like the compass in its brazen ring,

Ever level, and ever true

To the toil and the task we have to do,

We shall sail securely, and safely reach

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear,

Will be those of joy and not of fear!”

Then the Master,

With a gesture of command,

Waved his hand;

And at the word,

Loud and sudden there was heard,

All around them and below,

The sound of hammers, blow on blow,

Knocking away the shores and spurs.

And see! she stirs!

She starts,—she moves,—she seems to feel

The thrill of life along her keel,

And, spurning with her foot the ground,

With one exulting, joyous bound,

She leaps into the ocean’s arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,

That to the ocean seemed to say,—

“Take her, O bridegroom, old and grey,

Take her to thy protecting arms,

With all her youth and all her charms!”

How beautiful she is! How fair

She lies within those arms that press

Her form with many a soft caress

Of tenderness and watchful care!

Sail forth into the sea, O ship!

Through wind and wave, right onward steer!

The moistened eye, the trembling lip,

Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life,

O gentle, loving, trusting wife,

And safe from all adversity

Upon the bosom of that sea

Thy comings and thy goings be!

For gentleness and love and trust

Prevail o’er angry wave and gust;

And in the wreck of noble lives

Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!

Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!

Humanity, with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years,

Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

We know what Master laid thy keel,

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,

What anvils rang, what hammers beat,

In what a forge and what a heat

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!

Fear not each sudden sound and shock,

’Tis of the wave and not the rock;

’Tis but the flapping of the sail,

And not a rent made by the gale!

In spite of rock and tempest’s roar,

In spite of false lights on the shore,

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,

Our faith triumphant o’er our fears,

Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

[29] I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage by stating, that

sometimes, though not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged and

sparred. I have availed myself of the exception, as better suited to

my purposes than the general rule; but the reader will see that it is

neither a blunder nor a poetic licence. On this subject a friend in

Portland, Maine, writes me thus:—

“In this State, and also, as I am told, in New York, ships are

sometimes rigged upon the stocks, in order to save time, or to make a

show. There was a fine, large ship launched last summer at Ellsworth,

fully rigged and sparred. Some years ago a ship was launched here, with

her rigging, spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day,

and—was never heard of again. I hope this will not be the fate of your

poem!”

TWILIGHT.

The twilight is sad and cloudy,

The wind blows wild and free,

And like the wings of sea-birds

Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman’s cottage

There shines a ruddier light,

And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,

As if those childish eyes

Were looking into the darkness,

To see some form arise.

And a woman’s waving shadow

Is passing to and fro,

Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, bleak and wild,

As they beat at the crazy casement,

Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,

And the night-wind, wild and bleak,

As they beat at the heart of the mother,

Drive the colour from her cheek?

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.[30]

We sat within the farm-house old,

Whose windows, looking o’er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,

An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,—

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,—

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,

The wooden houses quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night,

Descending, filled the little room;

Our faces faded from the sight,

Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,

Of what we once had thought and said,

Of what had been, and might have been,

And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,

When first they feel, with secret pain,

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,

And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart,

That words are powerless to express,

And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake

Had something strange, I could but mark;

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,

As suddenly, from out the fire

Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendour flashed and failed,

We thought of wrecks upon the main,—

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames,—

The ocean, roaring up the beach,—

The gusty blast,—the bickering flames,—

All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part

Of fancies floating through the brain,—

The long-lost ventures of the heart,

That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!

They were indeed too much akin,

The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

[30] Suggested by one seen by the poet at Devereux Farm, Marblehead.

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,

And on its outer point, some miles away,

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,

A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,

Upheaving, break unheard along its base,

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides

In the white lip and tremor of the face.

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,

Through the deep purple of the twilight air,

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light

With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare!

Not one alone; from each projecting cape

And perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,

Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.

Like the great giant Christopher, it stands

Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,

Wading far out among the rocks and sands,

The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return,

Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells,

And ever joyful, as they see it burn,

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails

Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,

And eager faces, as the light unveils,

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

The mariner remembers when a child,

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;

And when, returning from adventures wild,

He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s brink.

Steadfast, serene, immoveable, the same

Year after year, through all the silent night

Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame,

Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm

Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,

And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din

Of wings and winds and solitary cries,

Blinded and maddened by the light within,

Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,

Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,

But hails the mariner with words of love.

“Sail on!” it says, “sail on, ye stately ships!

And with your floating bridge the ocean span;

Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,

Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!”

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT.[31]

Southward with fleet of ice

Sailed the corsair Death;

Wild and fast blew the blast,

And the east-wind was his breath.

His lordly ships of ice

Glistened in the sun;

On each side, like pennons wide,

Flashing crystal streamlets run.

His sails of white sea-mist

Dripped with silver rain;

But where he passed there were cast

Leaden shadows o’er the main.

Eastward from Campobello

Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;

Three days or more seaward he bore,

Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed,

And ice-cold grew the night;

And never more, on sea or shore,

Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

He sat upon the deck,

The Book was in his hand;

“Do not fear! Heaven is near,”

He said, “by water as by land!”

In the first watch of the night,

Without a signal’s sound,

Out of the sea, mysteriously,

The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star

Were hanging in the shrouds;

Every mast, as it passed,

Seemed to rake the passing clouds.

They grappled with their prize,

At midnight black and cold!

As of a rock was the shock;

Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

Southward through day and dark,

They drift in close embrace,

With mist and rain o’er the open main;

Yet there seems no change of place.

Southward, for ever southward,

They drift through dark and day;

And like a dream in the Gulf-stream

Sinking, vanish all away.

[31] “When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the

Admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his

hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and was

heard by the people of the Hind to say, ‘We are as near heaven by sea

as by land.’ In the following night the lights of the ship suddenly

disappeared. The people in the other vessel kept a good look-out for

him during the remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September they

arrived, through much tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But nothing more

was seen or heard of the Admiral.”—Belknap’s _American Biography_, i.

203.

THE SECRET OF THE SEA.

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal,

Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And the singing of the sailors,

And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad

Haunts me oft, and tarries long,

Of the noble Count Arnaldos

And the sailor’s mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,

Where the sand as silver shines,

With a soft monotonous cadence,

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines;—

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,[32]

With his hawk upon his hand,

Saw a fair and stately galley,

Steering onward to the land;—

How he heard the ancient helmsman

Chant a song so wild and clear,

That the sailing sea-bird slowly

Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried with impulse strong,—

“Helmsman! for the love of heaven,

Teach me, too, that wondrous song!”

“Wouldst thou,” so the helmsman answered,

“Learn the secrets of the sea?

Only those who brave its dangers

Comprehend its mystery!”

In each sail that skims the horizon,

In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies;

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

[32] See Lockhart’s _Spanish Ballads_.

THE EVENING STAR.

Just above yon sandy bar,

As the day grows fainter and dimmer,

Lonely and lovely, a single star

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer.

Into the ocean faint and far

Falls the trail of its golden splendour,

And the gleam of that single star

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender.

Chrysaor, rising out of the sea,

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous,

Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe,

For ever tender, soft, and tremulous.

Thus o’er the ocean faint and far

Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly.

Is it a God, or is it a star,

That, entranced, I gazed on nightly.

_By the Fireside._

RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;

Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers,

May be heaven’s distant lamps.

There is no death! What seems so is transition.

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;

Year after year her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;

For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest,—

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

THE BUILDERS.

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time;

Some with massive deeds and great,

Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show,

Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees,

Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care,

Each minute and unseen part;

For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell,

Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,

Standing in these walls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet

Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,

And one boundless reach of sky.

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS.

A handful of red sand, from the hot clime

Of Arab deserts brought,

Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,

The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been

About those deserts blown!

How many strange vicissitudes has seen,

How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite

Trampled and passed it o’er,

When into Egypt from the patriarch’s sight

His favourite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,

Crushed it beneath their tread;

Or Pharaoh’s flashing wheels into the air

Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth

Held close in her caress,

Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith

Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi’s palms

Pacing the Dead Sea beach,

And singing slow their old Armenian psalms

In half-articulate speech;

Or caravans, that from Bassora’s gate

With westward steps depart;

Or Mecca’s pilgrims, confident of Fate,

And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed!

Now in this crystal tower

Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,

It counts the passing hour.

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;—

Before my dreamy eye

Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,

Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,

This little golden thread

Dilates into a column high and vast,

A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,

Across the boundless plain,

The column and its broader shadow run,

Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These walls again

Shut out the lurid sun,

Shut out the hot immeasurable plain,

The half-hour’s sand is run!

PEGASUS IN POUND.

Once into a quiet village,

Without haste and without heed,

In the golden prime of morning,

Strayed the poet’s wingèd steed.

It was Autumn, and incessant

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,

And, like living coals, the apples

Burned among the withering leaves.

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing

From its belfry gaunt and grim;

’Twas the daily call for labour,

Not a triumph meant for him.

Not the less he saw the landscape,

In its gleaming vapour veiled;

Not the less he breathed the odours

That the dying leaves exhaled.

Thus, upon the village common,

By the school-boys he was found;

And the wise men, in their wisdom,

Put him straightway into pound.

Then the sombre village crier,

Ringing loud his brazen bell,

Wandered down the street proclaiming

There was an estray to sell.

And the curious country people,

Rich and poor, and young and old,

Came in haste to see this wondrous

Wingèd steed, with mane of gold.

Thus the day passed, and the evening

Fell, with vapours cold and dim;

But it brought no food nor shelter,

Brought no straw nor stall, for him.

Patiently, and still expectant,

Looked he through the wooden bars,

Saw the moon rise o’er the landscape,

Saw the tranquil, patient stars;

Till at length the bell at midnight

Sounded from its dark abode,

And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard,

Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.

Then, with nostrils wide distended,

Breaking from his iron chain,

And unfolding far his pinions,

To those stars he soared again.

On the morrow, when the village

Woke to all its toil and care,

Lo! the strange steed had departed,

And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward

Where his struggling hoofs had trod,

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing

From the hoof-marks in the sod.

From that hour, the fount unfailing

Gladdens the whole region round,

Strengthening all who drink its waters,

While it soothes them with its sound.

KING WITLAF’S DRINKING-HORN.

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed,—

That, whenever they sat at their revels,

And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,

And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened

Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

They drank to Christ the Lord,

And to each of the Twelve Apostles

Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs

Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlac,

And St. Basil’s homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,

From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,

And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered,

But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!

We must drink to one Saint more!”

TEGNER’S DRAPA.

I heard a voice that cried,

“Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!”

And through the misty air

Passed like the mournful cry

Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse

Of the dead sun

Borne through the Northern sky.

Blasts from Niffelheim

Lifted the sheeted mists

Around him as he passed.

And the voice for ever cried,

“Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!”

And died away

Through the dreary night,

In accents of despair.

Balder the Beautiful,

God of the summer sun,

Fairest of all the Gods!

Light from his forehead beamed,

Runes were upon his tongue,

As on the warrior’s sword.

All things in earth and air

Bound were by magic spell

Never to do him harm;

Even the plants and stones,

All save the mistletoe,

The sacred mistletoe!

Hœder, the blind old God,

Whose feet are shod with silence,

Pierced through that gentle breast

With his sharp spear, by fraud

Made of the mistletoe,

The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,

With horse and harness,

As on a funeral pyre.

Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,

And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship!

It floated far away

Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed,

Sinking beneath the waves.

Balder returned no more!

So perish the old Gods!

But out of the sea of Time

Rises a new land of song,

Fairer than the old.

Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing.

Build it again,

O ye bards,

Fairer than before!

Ye fathers of the new race,

Feed upon morning dew,

Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead!

The law of love prevails!

Thor, the thunderer,

Shall rule the earth no more,

No more, with threats,

Challenge the meek Christ.

Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North,

Of Vikings and of Jarls!

Of the days of Eld

Preserve the freedom only,

Not the deeds of blood.

THE SINGERS.

God sent his Singers upon earth

With songs of sadness and of mirth,

That they might touch the hearts of men,

And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire,

Held in his hand a golden lyre;

Through groves he wandered, and by streams,

Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,

Stood singing in the market-place,

And stirred with accents deep and loud

The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A grey old man, the third and last,

Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,

While the majestic organ rolled

Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three,

Disputed which the best might be;

For still their music seemed to start

Discordant echoes in each heart.

But the great Master said, “I see

No best in kind, but in degree;

I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

“These are the three great chords of might,

And he whose ear is tuned aright

Will hear no discord in the three,

But the most perfect harmony.”

SUSPIRIA.

Take them, O Death! and bear away

Whatever thou canst call thine own!

Thine image stamped upon this clay,

Doth give thee that, but that alone!

Take them, O Grave! and let them lie

Folded upon thy narrow shelves,

As garments by the soul laid by,

And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!

Our little life is but a gust,

That bends the branches of thy tree,

And trails its blossoms in the dust.

THE OPEN WINDOW.

The old house by the lindens

Stood silent in the shade,

And on the gravelled pathway

The light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery windows

Wide open to the air;

But the faces of the children,

They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog

Was standing by the door;

He looked for his little playmates,

Who would return no more.

They walked not under the lindens,

They played not in the hall;

But shadow, and silence, and sadness

Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches,

With sweet, familiar tone;

But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me,

He could not understand

Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

I pressed his warm, soft hand!

HYMN.

FOR MY BROTHER’S ORDINATION.

Christ to the young man said: “Yet one thing more;

If thou wouldst perfect be,

Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,

And come and follow me!”

Within this temple Christ again, unseen,

Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been

Laid on a young man’s head.

And evermore beside him on his way

The unseen Christ shall move,

That he may lean upon his arm and say,

“Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?”

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,

To make the scene more fair;

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane

Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!

Like the beloved John

To lay his head upon the Saviour’s breast,

And thus to journey on!

GASPAR BECERRA.

By his evening fire the artist

Pondered o’er his secret shame;

Baffled, weary, and disheartened,

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

’Twas an image of the Virgin

That had tasked his utmost skill;

But, alas! his fair ideal

Vanished and escaped him still.

From a distant Eastern island

Had the precious wood been brought;

Day and night the anxious master

At his toil untiring wrought;

Till, discouraged and desponding,

Sat he now in shadows deep,

And the day’s humiliation

Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, “Rise, O Master;

From the burning brand of oak

Shape the thought that stirs within thee!”

And the startled artist woke,—

Woke, and from the smoking embers

Seized and quenched the glowing wood;

And therefrom he carved an image,

And he saw that it was good.

O thou sculptor, painter, poet!

Take this lesson to thy heart:

That is best which lieth nearest;

Shape from that thy work of art.

[Illustration]

_The Golden Legend._

1851.

The old _Legenda Aurea_, or Golden Legend, was originally written in

Latin, in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican

friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292.

He called his book simply _Legends of the Saints_. The epithet of

Golden was given it by his admirers; for, as Wynkin de Worde says,

“Like as passeth gold in value all other metals, so this legend

exceedeth all other books.” But Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind,

calls it “a book written by a man of a leaden heart for the basenesse

of the errours, that are without wit or reason, and of a brazen

forehead, for his impudent boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous

and incredible.”

This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle

Ages, was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean

de Vigney, and in the fifteenth into English by William Caxton. It

has lately been made more accessible by a new French translation: _La

Légende Dorée, traduite du Latin, par M. G. B._ Paris, 1850. There is

a copy of the original, with the _Gesta Longobadorum_ appended, in

the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496.

The title-page is wanting; and the volume begins with the _Tabula

Legendorum_.

I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which

it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and

significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages,

the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of

Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies of life and

death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der

Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. The original may be found in

Mailáth’s _Altdeutsche Gedichte_, with a modern German version. There

is another in Marbách’s _Volksbucher_, No. 32.

PROLOGUE.

_The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral. Night and storm._ LUCIFER, _with the

Powers of the Air, trying to tear down the Cross_.

_Lucifer._ Hasten! hasten!

O ye spirits!

From its station drag the ponderous

Cross of iron, that to mock us

Is uplifted high in air!

_Voices._ O, we cannot.

For around it

All the saints and guardian angels

Throng in legions to protect it;

They defeat us everywhere!

_The Bells._

Laudo Deum verum!

Plebem voco!

Congrego clerum!

_Lucifer._ Lower! lower!

Hover downward!

Seize the loud vociferous bells, and

Clashing, clanging, to the pavement

Hurl them from their windy tower.

_Voices._ All thy thunders

Here are harmless!

For these bells have been anointed,[33]

And baptized with holy water!

They defy our utmost power.

[33] One of the curious mediæval rites was the christening and

anointing of bells. See Appendix.

_The Bells._

Defunctos ploro!

Pestem fugo!

Festa decoro!

_Lucifer._ Shake the casements!

Break the painted

Panes, that flame with gold and crimson:

Scatter them like leaves of Autumn,

Swept away before the blast!

_Voices._ Oh, we cannot;

The Archangel

Michael flames from every window,

With the sword of fire that drove us

Headlong, out of heaven, aghast!

_The Bells._

Funera plango!

Fulgura frango!

Sabbata pango!

_Lucifer._ Aim your lightnings!

At the oaken,

Massive, iron-studded portals!

Sack the house of God, and scatter

Wide the ashes of the dead!

_Voices._ Oh, we cannot!

The Apostles

And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles,

Stand as warders at the entrance,

Stand as sentinels o’erhead!

[Illustration: STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.]

_The Bells._

Excito lentos!

Dissipo ventos!

Paco cruentos!

_Lucifer._ Baffled! baffled!

Inefficient,

Craven spirits! leave this labour

Unto Time, the great Destroyer!

Come away, ere night is gone!

_Voices._ Onward! onward!

With the night-wind,

Over field and farm and forest,

Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet,

Blighting all we breathe upon!

[_They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian Chant._]

_Choir._

Nocte surgentes

Vigilemus omnes!

I.

_The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. A chamber in a tower._ PRINCE

HENRY, _sitting alone, ill and restless. Midnight._

_Prince Henry._ I cannot sleep! my fervid brain

Calls up the vanished Past again,

And throws its misty splendours deep

Into the pallid realms of sleep!

A breath from that far-distant shore

Comes freshening ever more and more,

And wafts o’er intervening seas

Sweet odours from the Hesperides!

A wind, that through the corridor

Just stirs the curtain, and no more,

And, touching the Æolian strings,

Faints with the burden that it brings!

Come back! ye friendships long departed!

That like o’erflowing streamlets started,

And now are dwindled, one by one,

To stony channels in the sun!

Come back! ye friends, whose lives are ended,

Come back, with all that light attended,

Which seemed to darken and decay

When ye arose and went away!

They come, the shapes of joy and woe,

The airy crowds of long-ago,

The dreams and fancies known of yore,

That have been, and shall be no more.

They change the cloisters of the night

Into a garden of delight;

They make the dark and dreary hours

Open and blossom into flowers!

I would not sleep! I love to be

Again in their fair company;

But ere my lips can bid them stay,

They pass and vanish quite away!

Alas! our memories may retrace

Each circumstance of time and place,

Season and scene come back again,

And outward things unchanged remain;

The rest we cannot reinstate;

Ourselves we cannot re-create,

Nor set our souls to the same key

Of the remembered harmony!

Rest! rest! Oh, give me rest and peace!

The thought of life that ne’er shall cease

Has something in it like despair,

A weight I am too weak to bear!

Sweeter to this afflicted breast

The thought of never-ending rest!

Sweeter the undisturbed and deep

Tranquillity of endless sleep!

[_A flash of lightning, out of which_ LUCIFER _appears, in the garb of

a travelling Physician_.]

_Lucifer._ All hail, Prince Henry!

_Prince Henry_ (_starting_). Who is it speaks?

Who and what are you?

_Lucifer._ One who seeks

A moment’s audience with the Prince.

_Prince Henry._ When came you in?

_Lucifer._ A moment since.

I found your study door unlocked,

And thought you answered when I knocked.

_Prince Henry._ I did not hear you.

_Lucifer._ You heard the thunder;

It was loud enough to waken the dead.

And it is not a matter of special wonder

That, when God is walking overhead,

You should not hear my feeble tread.

_Prince Henry._ What may your wish or purpose be?

_Lucifer._ Nothing or everything, as it pleases

Your Highness. You behold in me

Only a travelling Physician;

One of the few who have a mission

To cure incurable diseases,

Or those that are called so.

_Prince Henry._ Can you bring

The dead to life?

_Lucifer._ Yes; very nearly.

And what is a wiser and better thing,

Can keep the living from ever needing

Such an unnatural, strange proceeding,

By showing conclusively and clearly

That death is a stupid blunder merely,

And not a necessity of our lives.

My being here is accidental;

The storm, that against your casement drives,

In the little village below waylaid me.

And there I heard, with a secret delight,

Of your maladies, physical and mental,

Which neither astonished nor dismayed me.

And I hastened hither, though late in the night,

To proffer my aid!

_Prince Henry_ (_ironically_). For this you came!

Ah, how can I ever hope to requite

This honour from one so erudite?

_Lucifer._ The honour is mine, or will be when

I have cured your disease.

_Prince Henry._ But not till then.

_Lucifer._ What is your illness?

_Prince Henry._ It has no name.

A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame,

As in a kiln, burns in my veins,

Sending up vapours to the head;

My heart has become a dull lagoon,

Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains;

I am accounted as one who is dead,

And, indeed, I think I shall be soon.

_Lucifer._ And has Gordonius, the Divine,

In his famous Lily of Medicine,—

I see the book lies open before you,—

No remedy potent enough to restore you?

_Prince Henry._ None whatever!

_Lucifer._ The dead are dead.

And their oracles dumb, when questionèd

Of the new diseases that human life

Evolves in its progress, rank and rife.

Consult the dead upon things that were,

But the living only on things that are.

Have you done this, by the appliance

And aid of doctors?

_Prince Henry._ Ay, whole schools

Of doctors, with their learned rules;

But the case is quite beyond their science.

Even the doctors of Salern

Send me back word they can discern

No cure for a malady like this,

Save one which in its nature is

Impossible, and cannot be!

_Lucifer._ That sounds oracular!

_Prince Henry._ Unendurable!

_Lucifer._ What is their remedy?

_Prince Henry._ You shall see;

Writ in this scroll is the mystery.

_Lucifer_ (_reading_). “Not to be cured, yet not

incurable!

The only remedy that remains

Is the blood that flows from a maiden’s veins,

Who of her own free will shall die,

And give her life as the price of yours!”

That is the strangest of all cures,

And one, I think, you will never try;

The prescription you may well put by,

As something impossible to find

Before the world itself shall end!

And yet who knows? One cannot say

That into some maiden’s brain that kind

Of madness will not find its way.

Meanwhile permit me to recommend,

As the matter admits of no delay,

My wonderful Catholicon,

Of very subtile and magical powers.

_Prince Henry._ Purge with your nostrums and drugs infernal

The spouts and gargoyles of these towers,

Not me! My faith is utterly gone

In every power but the Power Supernal!

Pray tell me, of what school are you?

_Lucifer._ Both of the Old and of the New!

The school of Hermes Trismegistus,

Who uttered his oracles sublime

Before the Olympiads, in the dew

Of the early dusk and dawn of Time,

The reign of dateless old Hephæstus!

As northward, from its Nubian springs,

The Nile, for ever new and old,

Among the living and the dead,

Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled;

So, starting from its fountain-head

Under the lotus-leaves of Isis,

From the dead demigods of eld,

Through long, unbroken lines of kings,

Its course the sacred art has held,

Unchecked, unchanged by man’s devices.

This art the Arabian Geber taught,

And in alembics, finely wrought,

Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered

The secret that so long had hovered

Upon the misty verge of Truth,

The Elixir of Perpetual Youth,

Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech!

Like him, this wondrous lore I teach!

_Prince Henry._ What! an adept?

_Lucifer._ Nor less, nor more!

_Prince Henry._ I am a reader of your books,

A lover of that mystic lore!

With such a piercing glance it looks

Into great Nature’s open eye,

And sees within it trembling lie

The portrait of the Deity!

And yet, alas! with all my pains,

The secret and the mystery

Have baffled and eluded me,

Unseen the grand result remains!

_Lucifer_ (_showing a flask_). Behold it here! this

little flask

Contains the wonderful quintessence,

The perfect flower and efflorescence,

Of all the knowledge man can ask!

Hold it up thus against the light!

_Prince Henry._ How limpid, pure, and crystalline,

How quick, and tremulous, and bright

The little wavelets dance and shine,

As were it the Water of Life in sooth!

_Lucifer._ It is! It assuages every pain,

Cures all disease, and gives again

To age the swift delights of youth.

Inhale its fragrance.

_Prince Henry._ It is sweet.

A thousand different odours meet

And mingle in its rare perfume,

Such as the winds of summer waft

At open windows through a room!

_Lucifer._ Will you not taste it?

_Prince Henry._ Will one draught

Suffice?

_Lucifer._ If not, you can drink more.

_Prince Henry._ Into this crystal goblet pour

So much as safely I may drink.

_Lucifer_ (_pouring_). Let not the quantity alarm you;

You may drink all; it will not harm you.

_Prince Henry._ I am as one who on the brink

Of a dark river stands and sees

The waters flow, the landscape dim

Around him waver, wheel, and swim,

And, ere he plunges, stops to think

Into what whirlpools he may sink;

One moment pauses, and no more,

Then madly plunges from the shore!

Headlong into the mysteries

Of life and death I boldly leap,

Nor fear the fateful current’s sweep,

Nor what in ambush lurks below!

For death is better than disease!

[_An_ ANGEL _with an Æolian harp hovers in the air_.]

_Angel._ Woe! woe! eternal woe!

Not only the whispered prayer

Of love,

But the imprecations of hate,

Reverberate

For ever and ever through the air

Above!

This fearful curse

Shakes the great universe!

_Lucifer_ (_disappearing_). Drink! drink!

And thy soul shall sink

Down into the dark abyss,

Into the infinite abyss,

From which no plummet nor rope

Ever drew up the silver sand of hope!

_Prince Henry_ (_drinking_). It is like a draught of fire!

Through every vein

I feel again

The fever of youth, the soft desire;

A rapture that is almost pain

Throbs in my heart and fills my brain!

O joy! O joy! I feel

The band of steel

That so long and heavily has pressed

Upon my breast

Uplifted, and the malediction

Of my affliction

Is taken from me, and my weary breast

At length finds rest.

_The Angel._ It is but the rest of the fire, from which

the air has been taken!

It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not

shaken!

It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow!

It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow!

With fiendish laughter,

Hereafter,

This false physician

Will mock thee in thy perdition.

_Prince Henry._ Speak! speak!

Who says that I am ill?

I am not ill! I am not weak!

The trance, the swoon, the dream is o’er,

I feel the chill of death no more!

At length,

I stand renewed in all my strength!

Beneath me I can feel

The great earth stagger and reel,

As if the feet of a descending God

Upon its surface trod,

And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel!

This, O brave physician! this

Is thy great Palingenesis!

[_Drinks again._]

_The Angel._ Touch the goblet no more!

It will make thy heart sore

To its very core!

Its perfume is the breath

Of the Angel of Death,

And the light that within it lies

Is the flash of his evil eyes.

Beware! O beware!

For sickness, sorrow, and care

All are there!

_Prince Henry_ (_sinking back_). O thou voice within

my breast!

Why entreat me, why upbraid me,

When the steadfast tongues of truth

And the flattering hopes of youth

Have all deceived me and betrayed me?

Give me, give me rest, O, rest!

Golden visions wave and hover,

Golden vapours, waters streaming,

Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming!

I am like a happy lover

Who illumines life with dreaming!

Brave physician! Rare physician!

Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission.

[_His head falls on his book._]

_The Angel_ (_receding_). Alas! alas!

Like a vapour the golden vision

Shall fade and pass,

And thou wilt find in thy heart again

Only the blight of pain,

And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition!

_Court-yard of the Castle._ HUBERT _standing by the Gateway_.

_Hubert._ How sad the grand old castle looks!

O’erhead, the unmolested rooks

Upon the turret’s windy top

Sit, talking of the farmer’s crop;

Here in the court-yard springs the grass,

So few are now the feet that pass;

The stately peacocks, bolder grown,

Come hopping down the steps of stone,

As if the castle were their own;

And I, the poor old seneschal,

Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall.

Alas! the merry guests no more

Crowd through the hospitable door;

No eyes with youth and passion shine,

No cheeks grow redder than the wine;

No song, no laugh, no jovial din

Of drinking wassail to the pin;[34]

But all is silent, sad, and drear,

And now the only sounds I hear

Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls,

And horses stamping in their stalls!

[34] The cup was marked with wooden pegs at fixed distances, and it was

usual for each carouser to drink only to the next pin or peg, that all

might share alike.

[_A horn sounds._]

What ho! that merry, sudden blast

Reminds me of the days long past!

And, as of old resounding, grate

The heavy hinges of the gate,

And, clattering loud, with iron clank,

Down goes the sounding bridge of plank,

As if it were in haste to greet

The pressure of a traveller’s feet!

_Enter_ WALTER _the Minnesinger_.

_Walter._ How now, my friend! This looks quite lonely!

No banner flying from the walls,

No pages and no seneschals,

No warders, and one porter only!

Is it you, Hubert?

_Hubert._ Ah! Master Walter!

_Walter._ Alas! how forms and faces alter!

I did not know you. You look older!

Your hair has grown much greyer and thinner,

And you stoop a little in the shoulder!

_Hubert._ Alack! I am a poor old sinner,

And, like these towers, begin to moulder;

And you have been absent many a year!

_Walter._ How is the Prince?

_Hubert._. He is not here;

He has been ill: and now has fled.

_Walter._ Speak it out frankly; say he’s dead!

Is it not so?

_Hubert._ No; if you please;

A strange, mysterious disease

Fell on him with a sudden blight.

Whole hours together he would stand

Upon the terrace, in a dream,

Resting his head upon his hand,

Best pleased when he was most alone,

Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone,

Looking down into a stream.

In the Round Tower, night after night,

He sat, and bleared his eyes with books,

Until one morning we found him there

Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon

He had fallen from his chair.

We hardly recognised his sweet looks!

_Walter._ Poor Prince!

_Hubert._ I think he might have mended;

And he did mend; but very soon

The Priests came flocking in like rooks,

With all their crosiers and their crooks,

And so at last the matter ended.

_Walter._ How did it end?

_Hubert._ Why, in Saint Rochus

They made him stand and wait his doom;

And, as if he were condemned to the tomb,

Began to mutter their hocus-pocus.

First, the Mass for the dead they chanted,

Then three times laid upon his head

A shovelful of churchyard clay,

Saying to him, as he stood undaunted,

“This is a sign that thou art dead,

So in thy heart be penitent!”

And forth from the chapel door he went

Into disgrace and banishment,

Clothed in a cloak of hodden grey,

And bearing a wallet, and a bell,

Whose sound should be a perpetual knell

To keep all travellers away.

_Walter._ O, horrible fate! Outcast, rejected,

As one with pestilence infected!

_Hubert._ Then was the family tomb unsealed,

And broken helmet, sword, and shield,

Buried together, in common wreck,

As is the custom, when the last

Of any princely house has passed,

And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast,

A herald shouted down the stair

The words of warning and despair,—

“O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!”

_Walter._ Still in my soul that cry goes on,—

For ever gone! for ever gone!

Ah, what a cruel sense of loss,

Like a black shadow, would fall across

The hearts of all, if he should die!

His gracious presence upon earth

Was as a fire upon a hearth;

As pleasant songs, at morning sung,

The words that dropped from his sweet tongue

Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night,

Made all our slumbers soft and light.

Where is he?

_Hubert._ In the Odenwald.

Some of his tenants, unappalled

By fear of death, or priestly word,—

A holy family, that make

Each meal a Supper of the Lord,—

Have him beneath their watch and ward,

For love of him, and Jesus’ sake!

Pray you come in. For why should I

With out-door hospitality

My prince’s friend thus entertain?

_Walter._ I would a moment here remain.

But you, good Hubert, go before,

Fill me a goblet of May-drink,

As aromatic as the May

From which it steals the breath away,

And which he loved so well of yore;

It is of him that I would think.

You shall attend me, when I call,

In the ancestral banquet-hall.

Unseen companions, guests of air,

You cannot wait on, will be there;

They taste not food, they drink not wine,

But their soft eyes look into mine,

And their lips speak to me, and all

The vast and shadowy banquet-hall

Is full of looks and words divine!

[_Leaning over the parapet._]

The day is done; and slowly from the scene

The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,

And puts them back into his golden quiver!

Below me in the valley, deep and green

As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts

We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river

Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions,

Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent,

And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!

Yes, there it flows, for ever, broad and still,

As when the vanguard of the Roman legions

First saw it from the top of yonder hill!

How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat,

Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag,

The consecrated chapel on the crag,

And the white hamlet gathered round its base,

Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s feet,

And looking up at his beloved face!

O friend! O best of friends! Thy absence more

Than the impending night darkens the landscape o’er!

II.

_A Farm in the Odenwald. A garden; morning_; PRINCE HENRY _seated, with

a book_. ELSIE, _at a distance, gathering flowers_.

_Prince Henry_ (_reading_). One morning, all alone,

Out of his convent of grey stone,

Into the forest older, darker, greyer,

His lips moving as if in prayer,

His head sunken upon his breast

As in a dream of rest,

Walked the Monk Felix. All about

The broad, sweet sunshine lay without,

Filling the summer air;

And within the woodlands as he trod,

The twilight was like the Truce of God

With worldly woe and care;

Under him lay the golden moss;

And above him the boughs of hoary trees

Waved and made the sign of the cross,

And whispered their Benedicites;

And from the ground

Rose an odour sweet and fragrant

Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant

Vines that wandered,

Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but pondered

On the volume in his hand,

A volume of St. Augustine,

Wherein he read of the unseen

Splendours of God’s great town

In the unknown land,

And, with his eyes cast down

In humility, he said:

“I believe, O God,

What herein I have read,

But, alas! I do not understand!”

And lo! he heard

The sudden singing of a bird,

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud

Dropped down,

And among the branches brown

Sat singing

So sweet, and clear, and loud,

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing.

And the Monk Felix closed his book,

And long, long,

With rapturous look,

He listened to the song,

And hardly breathed or stirred,

Until he saw, as in a vision,

The land Elysian,

And in the heavenly city heard

Angelic feet

Fall on the golden flagging of the street.

And he would fain

Have caught the wondrous bird,

But strove in vain;

For it flew away, away,

Far over hill and dell,

And instead of its sweet singing

He heard the convent bell

Suddenly in the silence ringing

For the service of noonday.

And he retraced

His pathway homeward sadly and in haste.

In the convent there was a change!

He looked for each well-known face,

But the faces were new and strange;

New figures sat in the oaken stalls,

New voices chanted in the choir;

Yet the place was the same place,

The same dusky walls

Of cold, grey stone,

The same cloisters and belfry and spire.

A stranger and alone

Among that brotherhood

The Monk Felix stood.

“Forty years,” said a Friar,

“Have I been Prior

Of this convent in the wood,

But for that space

Never have I beheld thy face!”

The heart of the Monk Felix fell:

And he answered, with submissive tone,

“This morning, after the hour of Prime,

I left my cell,

And wandered forth alone,

Listening all the time

To the melodious singing

Of a beautiful white bird,

Until I heard

The bells of the convent ringing

Noon from their noisy towers.

It was as if I dreamed;

For what to me had seemed

Moments only, had been hours!”

“Years,” said a voice close by.

It was an aged monk who spoke,

From a bench of oak

Fastened against the wall;—

He was the oldest monk of all.

For a whole century

Had he been there,

Serving God in prayer,

The meekest and humblest of his creatures.

He remembered well the features

Of Felix, and he said,

Speaking distinct and slow:

“One hundred years ago,

When I was a novice in this place,

There was here a monk, full of God’s grace,

Who bore the name

Of Felix, and this man must be the same.”

And straightway

They brought back to the light of day

A volume old and brown,

A huge tome, bound

In brass and wild-boar’s hide,

Wherein were written down

The names of all who had died

In the convent, since it was edified.

And there they found,

Just as the old monk said,

That on a certain day and date,

One hundred years before,

Had gone forth from the convent gate

The Monk Felix, and never more

Had entered that sacred door.

He had been counted among the dead!

And they knew, at last,

That, such had been the power

Of that celestial and immortal song,

A hundred years had passed,

And had not seemed so long

As a single hour!

ELSIE _comes in with flowers_.

_Elsie._ Here are flowers for you,

But they are not all for you.

Some of them are for the Virgin

And for Saint Cecilia.

_Prince Henry._ As thou standest there,

Thou seemest to me like the angel

That brought the immortal robes

To Saint Cecilia’s bridal chamber.

_Elsie._ But these will fade.

_Prince Henry._ Themselves will fade,

But not their memory,

And memory has the power

To re-create them from the dust.

They remind me, too,

Of martyred Dorothea,

Who from celestial gardens sent

Flowers as her witnesses

To him who scoffed and doubted.

_Elsie._ Do you know the story

Of Christ and the Sultan’s daughter?

That is the prettiest legend of them all.

_Prince Henry._ Then tell it to me.

But first come hither.

Lay the flowers down beside me,

And put both thy hands in mine.

Now tell me the story.

_Elsie._ Early in the morning

The Sultan’s daughter

Walked in her father’s garden,

Gathering the bright flowers,

All full of dew.

_Prince Henry._ Just as thou hast been doing

This morning, dearest Elsie.

_Elsie._ And as she gathered them,

She wondered more and more

Who was the Master of the Flowers,

And made them grow

Out of the cold, dark earth.

“In my heart,” she said,

“I love him; and for him

Would leave my father’s palace

To labour in his garden.”

_Prince Henry._ Dear, innocent child!

How sweetly thou recallest

The long-forgotten legend,

That in my early childhood

My mother told me!

Upon my brain

It reappears once more,

As a birthmark on the forehead

When a hand suddenly

Is laid upon it, and removed!

_Elsie._ And at midnight,

As she lay upon her bed,

She heard a voice

Call to her from the garden,

And, looking forth from her window,

She saw a beautiful youth

Standing among the flowers.

It was the Lord Jesus;

And she went down to him,

And opened the door for him;

And he said to her, “O maiden!

Thou hast thought of me with love,

And for thy sake

Out of my Father’s kingdom

Have I come hither:

I am the Master of the Flowers.

My garden is in Paradise,

And if thou wilt go with me,

Thy bridal garland

Shall be of bright red flowers.”

And then he took from his finger

A golden ring,

And asked the Sultan’s daughter

If she would be his bride.

And when she answered him with love,

His wounds began to bleed,

And she said to him,

“O Love! how red thy heart is,

And thy hands are full of roses.”

“For thy sake,” answered he,

“For thy sake is my heart so red,

For thee I bring these roses.

I gathered them at the cross

Whereon I died for thee!

Come, for my Father calls.

Thou art my elected bride!”

And the Sultan’s daughter

Followed him to his Father’s garden.

_Prince Henry._ Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie?

_Elsie._ Yes, very gladly.

_Prince Henry._ Then the Celestial Bridegroom

Will come for thee also,

Upon thy forehead he will place,

Not his crown of thorns,

But a crown of roses.

In thy bridal chamber,

Like Saint Cecilia,

Thou shalt hear sweet music,

And breathe the fragrance

Of flowers immortal!

Go now and place these flowers

Before her picture.

_A room in the Farmhouse. Twilight._ URSULA _spinning_. GOTTLIEB

_asleep in his chair_.

_Ursula._ Darker and darker! Hardly a glimmer

Of light comes in at the window-pane;

Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer?

I cannot disentangle this skein,

Nor wind it rightly upon the reel.

Elsie!

_Gottlieb_ (_starting_). The stopping of thy wheel

Has wakened me out of a pleasant dream.

I thought I was sitting beside a stream,

And heard the grinding of a mill,

When suddenly the wheels stood still,

And a voice cried “Elsie” in my ear!

It startled me, it seemed so near.

_Ursula._ I was calling her; I want a light.

I cannot see to spin my flax.

Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear?

_Elsie_ (_within_). In a moment!

_Gottlieb._ Where are Bertha and Max?

_Ursula._ They are sitting with Elsie at the door.

She is telling them stories of the wood,

And the Wolf, and Little Red Ridinghood.

_Gottlieb._ And where is the Prince?

_Ursula._ In his room overhead

I heard him walking across the floor,

As he always does, with a heavy tread.

ELSIE _comes in with a lamp_. MAX _and_ BERTHA _follow her, and they

all sing the Evening Song on the lighting of the lamps_.

EVENING SONG.

O gladsome light

Of the Father Immortal,

And of the celestial

Sacred and blessed

Jesus, our Saviour!

Now to the sunset

Again hast thou brought us;

And, seeing the evening

Twilight, we bless thee,

Praise thee, adore thee!

Father Omnipotent!

Son, the Life-giver!

Spirit, the Comforter!

Worthy at all times

Of worship and wonder!

_Prince Henry_ (_at the door_). Amen!

_Ursula._ Who was it said Amen?

_Elsie._ It was the Prince: he stood at the door,

And listened a moment, as we chanted

The evening song. He is gone again.

I have often seen him there before.

_Ursula._ Poor Prince!

_Gottlieb._ I thought the house was haunted!

Poor Prince, alas! and yet as mild

And patient as the gentlest child!

_Max._ I love him because he is so good,

And makes me such fine bows and arrows,

To shoot at the robins and the sparrows,

And the red squirrels in the wood!

_Bertha._ I love him, too!

_Gottlieb._ Ah, yes! we all

Love him, from the bottom of our hearts;

He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange,

He gave us the horses and the carts,

And the great oxen in the stall,

The vineyard, and the forest range!

We have nothing to give him but our love!

_Bertha._ Did he give us the beautiful stork above

On the chimney-top, with its large, round nest?

_Gottlieb._ No, not the stork; by God in heaven,

As a blessing, the dear, white stork was given;

But the Prince has given us all the rest.

God bless him, and make him well again.

_Elsie._ Would I could do something for his sake,

Something to cure his sorrow and pain!

_Gottlieb._ That no one can; neither thou nor I,

Nor any one else.

_Elsie._ And must he die?

_Ursula._ Yes; if the dear God does not take

Pity upon him, in his distress,

And work a miracle!

_Gottlieb._ Or unless

Some maiden, of her own accord,

Offers her life for that of her lord,

And is willing to die in his stead.

_Elsie._ I will!

_Ursula._ Prithee, thou foolish child, be still.

Thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean!

_Elsie._ I mean it truly!

_Max._ Oh, father! this morning,

Down by the mill, in the ravine,

Hans killed a wolf, the very same

That in the night to the sheepfold came,

And ate up my lamb, that was left outside.

_Gottlieb._ I am glad he is dead. It will be a warning

To the wolves in the forest, far and wide.

_Max._ And I am going to have his hide!

_Bertha._ I wonder if this is the wolf that ate

Little Red Ridinghood!

_Ursula._ Oh, no!

That wolf was killed a long while ago.

Come, children, it is growing late.

_Max._ Ah, how I wish I were a man,

As stout as Hans is, and as strong!

I would do nothing else, the whole day long,

But just kill wolves.

_Gottlieb._ Then go to bed,

And grow as fast as a little boy can.

Bertha is half asleep already.

See how she nods her heavy head,

And her sleepy feet are so unsteady,

She will hardly be able to creep upstairs.

_Ursula._ Good night, my children. Here’s the light.

And do not forget to say your prayers

Before you sleep.

_Gottlieb._ Good night!

_Max and Bertha._ Good night!

[_They go out with_ ELSIE.]

_Ursula_ (_spinning_). She is a strange and wayward

child,

That Elsie of ours. She looks so old,

And thoughts and fancies weird and wild

Seem of late to have taken hold

Of her heart, that was once so docile and mild!

_Gottlieb._ She is like all girls.

_Ursula._ Ah no, forsooth!

Unlike all I have ever seen.

For she has visions and strange dreams,

And in all her words and ways, she seems

Much older than she is in truth.

Who would think her but fifteen?

And there has been of late such a change!

My heart is heavy with fear and doubt

That she may not live till the year is out.

She is so strange,—so strange,—so strange!

_Gottlieb._ I am not troubled with any such fear;

She will live and thrive for many a year.

[ELSIE’S _Chamber. Night._ ELSIE _praying_.]

_Elsie._ My Redeemer and my Lord,

I beseech thee, I entreat thee,

Guide me in each act and word,

That hereafter I may meet thee,

Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning,

With my lamp well trimmed and burning?

Interceding

With these bleeding

Wounds upon thy hands and side,

For all who have lived and erred

Thou hast suffered, thou hast died,

Scourged, and mocked, and crucified,

And in the grave hast thou been buried!

If my feeble prayer can reach thee,

O my Saviour, I beseech thee,

Even as thou hast died for me,

More sincerely

Let me follow where thou leadest;

Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest,

Die, if dying I may give

Life to one who asks to live,

And more nearly,

Dying thus, resemble thee!

_The Chamber of_ GOTTLIEB _and_ URSULA. _Midnight._ ELSIE _standing by

their bedside weeping_.

_Gottlieb._ The wind is roaring; the rushing rain

Is loud upon roof and window-pane,

As if the wild Huntsman of Rodenstein,

Boding evil to me and mine,

Were abroad to-night, with his ghostly train!

In the brief lulls of the tempest wild,

The dogs howl in the yard; and hark!

Some one is sobbing in the dark,

Here in the chamber!

_Elsie._ It is I.

_Ursula._ Elsie, what ails thee, my poor child?

_Elsie._ I am disturbed and much distressed,

In thinking our dear Prince must die;

I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest.

_Gottlieb._ What wouldst thou? In the Power Divine

His healing lies, not in our own;

It is in the hand of God alone.

_Elsie._ Nay, he has put it into mine,

And into my heart!

_Gottlieb._ Thy words are wild!

_Ursula._ What dost thou mean? my child! my child!

_Elsie._ That for our dear Prince Henry’s sake

I will myself the offering make,

And give my life to purchase his.

_Ursula._ Am I still dreaming or awake?

Thou speakest carelessly of death,

And yet thou knowest not what it is.

_Elsie._ ’Tis the cessation of our breath.

Silent and motionless we lie;

And no one knoweth more than this.

I saw our little Gertrude die;

She left off breathing, and no more.

I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.

She was more beautiful than before.

Like violets faded were her eyes;

By this we knew that she was dead.

Through the open window looked the skies

Into the chamber where she lay,

And the wind was like the sound of wings,

As if angels came to bear her away.

Ah! when I saw and felt these things,

I found it difficult to stay;

I longed to die, as she had died,

And go forth with her, side by side.

The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead,

And Mary, and our Lord; and I

Would follow in humility

The way by them illuminèd!

_Ursula._ My child! my child! thou must not die!

_Elsie._ Why should I live? Do I not know

The life of woman is full of woe?

Toiling on and on and on,

With breaking heart and tearful eyes,

And silent lips, and in the soul

The secret longings that arise,

Which this world never satisfies!

Some more, some less, but of the whole

Not one quite happy, no, not one!

_Ursula._ It is the malediction of Eve.[35]

[35] See Appendix.

_Elsie._ In place of it, let me receive

The benediction of Mary, then.

_Gottlieb._ Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me!

Most wretched am I among men!

_Ursula._ Alas! that I should live to see

Thy death, belovèd, and to stand

Above thy grave! Ah, woe the day!

_Elsie._ Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie

Beneath the flowers of another land;

For at Salerno, far away

Over the mountains, over the sea,

It is appointed me to die!

And it will seem no more to thee

Than if at the village on market-day

I should a little longer stay

Than I am wont.

_Ursula._ Even as thou sayest!

And how my heart beats when thou stayest!

I cannot rest until my sight

Is satisfied in seeing thee.

What, then, if thou wert dead?

_Gottlieb._ Ah me!

Of our old eyes thou art the light!

The joy of our old hearts art thou!

And wilt thou die?

_Ursula._ Not now! not now!

_Elsie._ Christ died for me, and shall not I

Be willing for my Prince to die?

You both are silent; you cannot speak.

This said I, at our Saviour’s feast,

After confession to the priest,

And even he made no reply.

Does he not warn us all to seek

The happier, better land on high,

Where flowers immortal never wither;

And could he forbid me to go thither?

_Gottlieb._ In God’s own time, my heart’s delight!

When he shall call thee, not before!

_Elsie._ I heard him call. When Christ ascended

Triumphantly, from star to star,

He left the gates of heaven ajar.

I had a vision in the night,

And saw him standing at the door

Of his Father’s mansion, vast and splendid,

And beckoning to me from afar.

I cannot stay!

_Gottlieb._ She speaks almost

As if it were the Holy Ghost

Spake through her lips, and in her stead!

What if this were of God?

_Ursula._ Ah, then

Gainsay dare we not.

_Gottlieb._ Amen!

Elsie! the words that thou hast said

Are strange and new for us to hear,

And fill our hearts with doubt and fear.

Whether it be a dark temptation

Of the Evil One, or God’s inspiration,

We in our blindness cannot say.

We must think upon it, and pray;

For evil and good it both resembles.

If it be of God, his will be done!

May he guard us from the Evil One!

How hot thy hand is! how it trembles!

Go to thy bed, and try to sleep.

_Ursula._ Kiss me. Good night; and do not weep.

[ELSIE _goes out_.]

Ah, what an awful thing is this!

I almost shuddered at her kiss,

As if a ghost had touched my cheek,

I am so childish and so weak!

As soon as I see the earliest grey

Of morning glimmer in the east,

I will go over to the priest,

And hear what the good man has to say!

_A village church. A woman kneeling at the Confessional._

_The Parish Priest_ (_from within_). Go, sin no more!

Thy penance o’er,

A new and better life begin!

God maketh thee for ever free

From the dominion of thy sin!

Go, sin no more! He will restore

The peace that filled thy heart before,

And pardon thine iniquity!

[_The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, and walks slowly

up and down the church._]

O blessed Lord! how much I need

Thy light to guide me on my way!

So many hands, that, without heed,

Still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed!

So many feet that, day by day,

Still wander from thy fold astray!

Unless thou fill me with thy light,

I cannot lead thy flock aright;

Nor, without thy support, can bear

The burden of so great a care,

But am myself a castaway!

[_A pause._]

The day is drawing to its close;

And what good deeds, since first it rose,

Have I presented, Lord, to thee,

As offerings of my ministry?

What wrong repressed, what right maintained,

What struggle passed, what victory gained,

What good attempted and attained?

Feeble, at best, is my endeavour!

I see, but cannot reach, the height

That lies for ever in the light;

And yet for ever, and for ever,

When seeming just within my grasp,

I feel my feeble hands unclasp,

And sink discouraged into night!

For thine own purpose thou hast sent

The strife and the discouragement!

[_A pause._]

Why stayest thou, Prince of Hoheneck?

Why keep me pacing to and fro

Amid these aisles of sacred gloom,

Counting my footsteps as I go,

And marking with each step a tomb?

Why should the world for thee make room,

And wait thy leisure and thy beck?

Thou comest in the hope to hear

Some word of comfort and of cheer.

What can I say? I cannot give

The counsel to do this and live;

But rather, firmly to deny

The tempter, though his power be strong,

And, inaccessible to wrong,

Still like a martyr live and die!

[_A pause._]

The evening air grows dusk and brown;

I must go forth into the town,

To visit beds of pain and death,

Of restless limbs and quivering breath,

And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes

That see, through tears, the sun go down,

But never more shall see it rise.

The poor, in body and estate,

The sick and the disconsolate,

Must not on man’s convenience wait.

[_Goes out._]

_Enter_ _Lucifer_, _as a Priest_.

_Lucifer_ (_with a genuflection, mocking_).

This is the Black Pater-noster.

God was my foster.

He fostered me

Under the book of the Palm-tree!

St. Michael was my dame.

He was born at Bethlehem,

He was made of flesh and blood.

God send me my right food,

My right food, and shelter too,

That I may to yon kirk go,

To read upon yon sweet book

Which the mighty God of heaven shook.

Open, open, hell’s gates!

Shut, shut, heaven’s gates!

All the devils in the air

The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer!

[_Looking round the church._]

What a darksome and dismal place!

I wonder that any man has the face

To call such a hole the House of the Lord,

And the Gate of Heaven,—yet such is the word.

Ceiling and walls, and windows old,

Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould;

Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs,

Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs!

The pulpit, from which such ponderous sermons

Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans,

With about as much real edification

As if a great Bible, bound in lead,

Had fallen and struck them on the head;

And I ought to remember that sensation!

Here stands the holy-water stoup!

Holy-water it may be to many,

But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennæ!

It smells like a filthy fast-day soup!

Near it stands the box for the poor;

With its iron padlock safe and sure.

I and the priest of the parish know

Whither all these charities go;

Therefore, to keep up the institution,

I will add my little contribution!

[_He puts in money._]

Underneath this mouldering tomb,

With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass,

Slumbers a great lord of the village.

All his life was riot and pillage,

But at length, to escape the threatened doom

Of the everlasting, penal fire,

He died in the dress of a mendicant friar,

And bartered his wealth for a daily mass.

But all that afterwards came to pass,

And whether he finds it dull or pleasant,

Is kept a secret for the present,

At his own particular desire.

And here, in a corner of the wall,

Shadowy, silent, apart from all,

With its awful portal open wide,

And its latticed windows on either side,

And its step well worn by the bended knees

Of one or two pious centuries,

Stands the village confessional!

Within it, as an honoured guest,

I will sit me down awhile and rest!

[_Seats himself in the Confessional._]

Here sits the priest; and faint and low,

Like the sighing of an evening breeze,

Comes through these painted lattices

The ceaseless sound of human woe;

Here, while her bosom aches and throbs

With deep and agonizing sobs,

That half are passion, half contrition,

The luckless daughter of perdition

Slowly confesses her secret shame!

The time, the place, the lover’s name!

Here the grim murderer, with a groan,

From his bruised conscience rolls the stone,

Thinking that thus he can atone

For ravages of sword and flame!

Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly,

How a priest can sit here so sedately,

Reading, the whole year out and in,

Naught but the catalogue of sin,

And still keep any faith whatever

In human virtue! Never! never!

I cannot repeat a thousandth part

Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes

That arise, when with palpitating throes

The graveyard in the human heart

Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest,

As if he were an archangel, at least.

It makes a peculiar atmosphere,

This odour of earthly passions and crimes,

Such as I like to breathe, at times,

And such as often brings me here

In the hottest and most pestilential season.

To-day I come for another reason;

To foster and ripen an evil thought

In a heart that is almost to madness wrought,

And to make a murderer out of a prince,

A sleight of hand I learned long since!

He comes. In the twilight he will not see

The difference between his priest and me!

In the same net was the mother caught!

PRINCE HENRY, _entering and kneeling at the Confessional_.

Remorseful, penitent, and lowly,

I come to crave, O Father holy,

Thy benediction on my head.

_Lucifer._ The benediction shall be said

After confession, not before!

’Tis a God-speed to the parting guest,

Who stands already at the door,

Sandalled with holiness, and dressed

In garments pure from earthly stain.

Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast?

Does the same madness fill thy brain?

Or have thy passion and unrest

Vanished for ever from thy mind?

_Prince Henry._ By the same madness still made blind,

By the same passion still possessed,

I come again to the house of prayer,

A man afflicted and distressed!

As in a cloudy atmosphere,

Through unseen sluices of the air,

A sudden and impetuous wind

Strikes the great forest white with fear,

And every branch, and bough, and spray

Points all its quivering leaves one way,

And meadows of grass, and fields of grain,

And the clouds above, and the slanting rain,

And smoke from chimneys of the town,

Yield themselves to it, and bow down,

So does this dreadful purpose press

Onward, with irresistible stress,

And all my thoughts and faculties,

Struck level by the strength of this,

From their true inclination turn,

And all stream forward to Salern!

_Lucifer._ Alas! we are but eddies of dust,

Uplifted by the blast, and whirled

Along the highway of the world

A moment only, then to fall

Back to a common level all,

At the subsiding of the gust!

_Prince Henry._ O holy Father! pardon in me

The oscillation of a mind

Unsteadfast, and that cannot find

Its centre of rest and harmony!

For evermore before mine eyes

This ghastly phantom flits and flies,

And as a madman through a crowd

With frantic gestures and wild cries,

It hurries onward, and aloud

Repeats its awful prophecies!

Weakness is wretchedness! To be strong

Is to be happy! I am weak,

And cannot find the good I seek,

Because I feel and fear the wrong!

_Lucifer._ Be not alarmed! The Church is kind,

And in her mercy and her meekness

She meets half-way her children’s weakness,

Writes their transgressions in the dust!

Though in the Decalogue we find

The mandate written, “Thou shalt not kill!”

Yet there are cases when we must.

In war, for instance, or from scathe

To guard and keep the one true Faith!

We must look at the Decalogue in the light

Of an ancient statute, that was meant

For a mild and general application,

To be understood with the reservation,

That, in certain instances, the Right

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 valour 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 splendour

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 foul 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 Æolian 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 Farmhouse._

_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, endeavour 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 this 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 of the Dead._

Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!

Pray for the Dead!

Pray for the Dead!

_Prince Henry._ Wake not, belovèd! 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 of 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 isles 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 armour 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 Salern,

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 clangour 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 toward 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._ ’Tis 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 Hirschau, 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

Wakes 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 lies

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 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,

Gaily 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![36] 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 a 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!”

[36] See Appendix.

[_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 Mouth 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 motions 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 honour of Easter Day,

Will be represented a Miracle-Play;

And I hope you will all 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 laboured 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 Pillar 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 colours,

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 armour, 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.[37]

[37] A singular chapter in the history of the Middle Ages is that which

gives account of the early Christian Drama, the Mysteries, Moralities,

and Miracle-Plays, which were at first performed in churches, and

afterwards in the streets, on fixed or moveable stages. For the most

part the Mysteries were founded on the historic portions of the Old

and New Testaments, and the Miracle-Plays on the lives of saints;

a distinction not always observed, however, for in Mr. Wright’s

_Early Mysteries and other Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thirteenth

Centuries_, the Resurrection of Lazarus is called a Miracle, and not a

Mystery. The Moralities were plays, in which the Virtues and Vices were

personified. See Appendix.

INTROITUS.

_Præco._ 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 damnèd 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 labour 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’s almighty breath

Said to the Darkness and the Night,

Let there be light! and there was light!

I bring the gift of Faith.

_Gabriel._ 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!

_Angel._ 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 ardour swift

I bear 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 Gipsy Kings_,

GASPAR, MELCHIOR, _and_ BELSHAZZAR, _shall come in_.

_Gaspar._ Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth!

Though in a manger thou drawest thy 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 thy 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 shall_ JOSEPH _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 is 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 good 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 be 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 rumour 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 are all 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 from 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! ye 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 _on 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, _with a long beard, sitting on a high stool,

with a rod in his hand_.