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!

Poor Prince !

WALTER.

HUBERT.

;

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 gray,
And bearing a wallet, and a bell,
Whose sound should be a perpetual knel!
To keep all travellers away.

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 up-gathers 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 !

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 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 dusk 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 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,
Wherein amazed he read :
"A thousand years in thy sight
Are but as yesterday when it is past,
And as a watch in the night!"
And with his eyes downcast
In humility he said:
"I believe, O Lord,

What is written in thy Word,
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

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."

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

They brought forth 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 roses
To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber.

ELSIE.

But these will fade.