[He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child.] Boys. Set down the litter and draw near! What ails the child, who seems to fear The Bearers. He climbed up to the Robin's nest, And stung him in the arm. Jesus. Bring him to me, and let me feel [He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry.] Cease to lament! I can foresee EPILOGUE. In the after part of the day At the close of which we shall accord, The sight of a holy Martyr's bones! IV. The road to Hirschau. PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with their attendants, on horseback. Elsie. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring! Prince Henry. This life of ours is a wild æolian harp of many a joyous strain, But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. Elsie. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the stigma Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. Prince Henry. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may betide; Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's side? Elsie. All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creaking wain Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and strain. Prince Henry. Now they stop at the way-side inn, and the waggoner laughs with the landlord's daughter, While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water. Elsie. All through life there are way-side inns, where man may refresh his soul with love; Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. Prince Henry. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the highway ends, And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. Elsie. I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat; The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under horses' feet. [They turn down a green lane.] Elsie. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley, stretching for miles below, Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. Prince Henry. Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill; We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. Elsie. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our side! What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide? Prince Henry. It is the home of the Counts of Calva; well have I known these scenes of old, Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the wold. Elsie. Hark! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing for rain! Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. Prince Henry. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a little cloud, That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. [They pass on.] The Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest. The Convent cellar. FRIAR CLAUS comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons. Friar Claus. I always enter this sacred place To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction of the vines That produce these various sorts of wines! For my part, I am well content That we have got through with the tedious Lent! Who have to contend with invisible foes; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceful man like me, Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind That are always distressed in body and mind. To come down among this brotherhood, Silent, contemplative, round and sound; But filled to the lips with the ardour of youth, I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, The oldest, as well as the newest, wine And fain would burst from its sombre tun The tumult of half-subdued desires And now that we have lived through Lent, To open awhile the prison-door, Now here is a cask that stands alone, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm; At Hochheim on the Main, And at Würzburg on the Stein, This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, [Fills a flagon.] Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! Between this cask and the Abbot's lips On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; [He drinks.] O cordial delicions! O soother of pain! And now a flagon for such as may ask As any Carthusian monk may be; See! how its currents gleam and shine, Descending and mingling with the dews; In that ancient town of Bacharach; In that ancient town of Bacharach! And much more grateful to the giver. [lle drinks.] Here, now, is a very inferior kind, Such as in any town you may find, Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. |