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;
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!
[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 saft 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 hemlock-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,