The Golden Legend

* * *

A chamber in a tower. PRINCE HENRY, sitting alone, ill and restless. Prince Henry. I cannot sleep! my fervid brain

Calls up the vanished Past again,

And throws its misty splendors 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 odors from the Hesperides!

A wind, that through the corridor

Just stirs the curtain, and no more,

And, touching the aeolian 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! O, 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 have heard 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 traveling 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 honor from one so erudite? Lucifer. The honor 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 vapors 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 that 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 questioned

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 dawn and dusk of Time,

The reign of dateless old Hephaestus!

As northward, from its Nubian springs,

The Nile, forever 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 such 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 odors 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 dark 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 aeolian harp hovers in the air.)

Angel. Woe! woe! eternal woe!

Not only the whispered prayer

Of love,

But the imprecations of hate,

Reverberate

Forever 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 it 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 vapors, 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 vapor 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 hospital door;

No eyes with youth and passion shine,

No cheeks glow 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 traveler'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 wardens, 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 grayer 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 recognized 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 chaunted.

Then three times laid upon his head

A shovelful of church-yard 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 gray,

And bearing a wallet, and a bell,

Whose sound should be a perpetual knell

To keep all travelers 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,--

Forever gone! forever 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 outdoor 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, forever, 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!

* * *

* * *

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 gray stone,

Into the forest older, darker, grayer,

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-tree

Waved, and made the sign of the cross,

And whispered their Benedicites;

And from the ground

Rose an odor 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 Saint Augustine;

Wherein he read of the unseen

Splendors 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 chaunted in the choir,

Yet the place was the same place,

The same dusky walls

Of cold, gray 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 forth to the light of day

A volume old and brown,

A huge tome, bound

With brass and wild-boar's hide,

Therein 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 roses

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 labor 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 birth-mark 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 shall hear sweet music,

And breathe the fragrance

Of flowers immortal!

Go now and place these flowers

Before her picture.

* * *

A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE.

* * *

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 chaunted

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. O 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. O, 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 fourteen?

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. 'T is 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 illumined! 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!

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, beloved, 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 used. Ursula. Even as thou sayest!

And how my heart beats, when thou stayest!

I cannot rest until my sight

Is satisfied with 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 it 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 in 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 gray

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 forever 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 endeavor!

I see, but cannot reach, the height

That lies forever in the light,

And yet forever and forever,

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 is 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 genuflexion, 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 Gehennae!

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 afterward 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 honored 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 odor 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!

'T is 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 forever 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 Salem! 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 he!

What noble deeds, what fair renown,

Into the grave with thee go down!

What acts of valor 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 splendor

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 shall 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 ?olian 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 FARM-HOUSE.

* * *

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, endeavor 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!

* * *

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 damned 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 toward the earth; the jaws of Hell open below, and the Devils walk about, making a great noise.)

* * *