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!
Joseph. I pray you, Sirs, let go your hold! Of wealth I have no store.
Dumachus. Give up your money!
Titus.
Let these good people go in peace!
Dumachus. First let them pay for their release,
(A sudden light shines from the windows of the And then go on their way.
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 BELSHAZZAK, 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 dangers 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 Christen
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,
Nought else have we to give.
(She gives them swaddling clothes, and they depart.)
V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.
Flere shall JOSEPH come in, leading an ass, on
which are seated MARY and the CHILD.
Mary. Here will we rest, 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 ther 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!
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!
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 quaff's great goblets of wine.)
Now at the window will I stand
While in the street the armed band
The little children slay:
The babe thus 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 all are 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 fineage, 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 cammands
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
Are these that smite upon my ear
With such a doleful sound!
What torments wrack 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 worins. 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 form little pools. JESUS makes twelve sparrowz of clay, and the other boys do the same.) Jesus. Look! look! how prettily I make These little spar ows 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
They cannot sing, nor fly away
Above the meadow lands!
Jesus. Fly, fly! ye sparrows! you are free! And while you live. remember me,
Who made you with my hands.
(Here Jesus shall lap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, churruping.) 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.
Rabbi. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel,
Throughout this village known full well,
And, as my scholars all will tell,
Learned in things divine;
The Kabala and Talmud hoar
Than all the prophets prize I more,
For water is all Bible lore.
But Mishna is strong wine.
My fame extends from West to East,
And always, at the Purim feast.
I am as drunk as any beast
That wallows in his sty!
The wine it so elateth me,
That I no difference can see
Between "Accursed Haman be!"
And Blessed be Mordecai!"
Come hither, Judas Iscariot,
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got
From the Rabbinical Book or not.
Why howl the dogs at night?
Judas. In the Rabbinical Book, it saith,
The dogs howl, when with icy breath
Great Sammaël, the Angel of Death,
Takes through the town his flight!
Rabbi. Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes, Comes where a sick inan dying lies,
What doth he to the wight?
Judas. He stands beside him, dark and tall,
Holding a sword, from which doth fall
Into his mouth a drop of gall,
And so he turneth white.
Rabbi. And now, my Judas, say to me
What the great Voices Four may be,
That quite across the world do flee,
And are not heard by men?
Judas. The Voice of the Sun in heaven's dome,
The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome,
The Voice of a Soul that goeth home,
And the Angel of the Rain!
Rabbi. Well have ye answered every one!
Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son,
Let us see how thy task is done.
Canst thou thy letters say?
Jesus. Aleph.
What next? Do not stop yet. Go on with all the alphabet.
Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou forget?
Cock's soul! thou'dst rather play!
Jesus. What Aleph means I fain would know, Before I any farther go!
Rabbi. O, by Saint Peter! wouldst thou so?
Come hither, boy, to me.
As surely as the letter Jod
Once cried aloud, and spake to God,
So surely shalt thou feel this rod,
And punished shalt thou be!
Here RABBI BEN ISRAEL shall lift up his rod to strike Jesus, and his right arm shall be para. lyzed.
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 dis-
tend 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 our 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 cach tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood and the wold.
Elsie. Hark! trom 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 à little cloud, That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud.
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. Lalways enter this sacred place, With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, Pausing long enough on each stair
To breathe an ejaculatory prayer,
That produce these various sorts of wines!
And a benediction on the vines
For my part, I am well content
That we have got through with the tedious Lent!
Fasting is all very well for those
Who have to contend with invisible foes;
But I am quite sure it does not agree
With a quiet, peaceable man like me,
Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind
That are always distressed in body and mind!
And at times it really does me good
To come down among this brotherhood.
Dwelling for ever under ground.
Silent, contemplative, round and sound;
Each one old, and brown with mould,
But filled to the lips with the ardour of youth,
With the latent power and love of truth,
And with virtues fervent and manifold.
I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide,
When buds are swelling on every side,
And the sap begins to move in the vine,
Then in all the cellars, far and wide,
The oldest, as well as the newest, wine
Begins to stir itself, and ferment,'
With a kind of revolt and discontent
At being so long in darkness pent,
And fain would burst from its sombre tun
To bask on the hill-side in the sun;
As in the bosom of us poor friars,
The tumult of half-subdued desires
For the world that we have left behind
Disturbs at times all peace of mind!
And now that we have lived through Lent,
My duty it is, as often before,
To open awhile the prison-door,
And give these restless spirits vent.
Now here is a cask that stands alone,
And has stood a hundred years or more,
Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar,
Trailing and sweeping along the floor,
Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave,
Taciturn, sombré, sedate and grave,
Till his beard has grown through the table of
stone!
It is of the quick and not of the dead!
In its veins the blood is hot and red,
And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak
It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine,
That time may have tamed, but has not broke.
Is one of the three best kinds of wine.
And cost some hundred florins the ohm;
When I remember that every year
But that I do not consider dear,
Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome.
And whenever a goblet thereof I drain,
The old rhyme keeps running in my brain,
At Bacharach on the Rhine,
At Hocheim on the Main,
And at Würzburg on the Stein,
Grow the three best kinds of wine!
They are all good wines, and better far
Than those of the Neckar, or those of Ahr.
In particular, Würzburg well may boast
Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost,.
Which of all wines I like the inost.
This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking.
Who seems to be much of my way of thinking.
(Fills a flagon.)
Ah! how the streamlet langhs and sings!
What a delicious fragrance springs
From the deep flagon, while it fills,
As of hyacinths and daffodils!
Between this cask and the Abbot's lips
Many have been the sips and slips;
On their way to his, that have stopped at mine;
Many have been the draughts of wine,
And many a time my soul has hankered
For a deep draught out of his silver tankard,
When it should have been busy with other
Less with its longings and more with its prayers.
O cordial delicious! O soother of pain!
It flashes like sunshine into my brain!
A benison rest on the Bishop who sends
Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends!
And now a flagon for such as may ask
A draught from. the noble Bacharach cask,
And I will be gone, though I know full well
The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell.
Behold where he stands, all sound and good,
Brown and old in his oaken hood;
Silent he seems externally
As any Carthusian monk may be:
But within what a spirit of deep unrest!
What a seething and simmering in his breast!
As if the heaving of his great heart
Would burst his belt of oak apart!
Let me unloose this button of wood,
And quiet a little his turbulent mood.
See! how its currents gleam and shine,
As if they had caught the purple hues
Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine,
Descending and mingling with the dews:
Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood
Of the innocent boy, who some years back,
Was taken and crucified by the Jews,
In that ancient town of Bacharach!
Perdition upon those infidel Jews,
In that ancient town of Bacharach!
The beautiful town, that gives us wine
With the fragrant odour of Muscadine!
I should deem it wrong to let this pass
Without first touching my lips to the glass,
For here in the midst of the current I stand,
Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river,
Taking toll upon either hand,
And much more grateful to the giver.
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:
And, after all, it was not a crime,
For he won thereby Dorff Huffelsheim.
A jolly old toper! who at a pull
Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full,
And ask with a laugh, when that was done,
If the fellow had left the other one!
This wine is as good as we can afford
To the friars, who sit at the lower board,
And cannot distinguish bad from good,
And are far better off than if they could,
Being rather the rude disciples of beer,
Than of anything more refined and dear!
(Fills the other flagon, and departs.)
The Scriptorium. FRIAR PACIFICUS, transcribing and illuminating
Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark! Yet one line more,
And then my work for to-day is o'er.
I come again to the name of the Lord!
Ere I that awful name record,
That is spoken so lightly among men.
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen;
Pure from blemish and blot must it be
When it writes that word of mystery!
Thus have I laboured on and on,
Nearly through the Gospel of John,
Can it be that from the lips
Of this same gentle Evangelist,
That Christ himself perhaps has kissed,
Came the dread Apocalypse!
It has a very awful look,
As it stands there at the end of the book,
Like the sun in an eclipse.
POETICAL WORKS
Ah me! when I think of that vision divine,
Think of writing it, line by line,
I stand in awe of the terrible curse,
Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse!
God forgive me! if ever I
Take aught from the book of that Prophecy,
Lest my part too should be taken away
From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.
This is well written, though I say it!
I could not be afraid to display it,
In open day, on the seif-same shelf
With the writings of St. Thecla herself,
Or of Theodosius, who of old
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold!
That goodly folio standing yonder,
Without a single blot or blunder,
Would not bear away the palm from mine,
If we should compare them line for line.
There, now, is an initial letter!
St. Ulric himself never made a better !
Finished down to the leaf and the snail,
Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail!
And now as I turn the volume over,
And see what lies between cover and cover,
What treasures of art these pages hold,
All a-blaze with crimson and gold,
God forgive me! I seem to feel
A certain satisfaction steal
Into my heart, and into my brain,
As if my talent had not lain
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.
Yes, I might also say to the Lord,
Here is a copy of thy Word,
Written out with much toil and pain;
Take it, O Lord, and let it be
As something I have done for thee!
(He looks from the window.) How sweet the air is! How fair the scene! I wish I had as lovely green
To paint my landscapes and my leaves!
How the swallows twitter under the eaves
There, now, there is one in her nest;
I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast,
And will sketch her thus in her quiet nook,
For the margin of my Gospel book.
I can see no more. Through the valley yonder
A shower is passing; I hear the thunder
Mutter its curses in the air,
The Devil's own and only prayer!
The dusty road is brown with rain,
And, speeding on with might and main,
Hitherward rides a gallant train,
They do not parley, they cannot wait,
But hurry in at the convent gate.
What a fair lady! and beside her
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider
Now she gives him her hand to alight:
They will beg a shelter for the night.
I will go down to the corridor,
And try to see that face once more;
It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint,
Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. (Goes ont.)
The cloisters. The ABBOTERNESTUS pacing to
and fro.
Abbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade;
Evening damps begin to fall,
Evening shadows are displayed.
Round me, o'er me, everywhere,
All the sky is grand with clouds,
And athwart the evening air
Wheel the swallows home in crowds.
Shafts of sunshine from the west
Paint the dusky windows red;
Darker shadows, deeper rest,
Underneath and overhead
Darker, darker, and more wan,
In my breast the shadows fall,
Upward steals the life of man,
Even as you say. Prince Henry. And, if I err not, it is very old. Abbot. Within these cloisters lie already buried Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, Of blessed memory.
Prince Henry. And whose tomb is that, Which bears the brass escutcheon? Abbot. A benefactor's. Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood Godfather to our bells. Prince Henry. And holy men, I trust. Abbot. There are among them Learned and holy men. Yet in this age We need another Hildebrand, to shake And purify us like mighty wind.
Your monks are learned
The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder
God does not lose his patience with it wholly,
And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,
Within these walls where all should be at peace,
I have my trials. Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp. to deaden its vibrations.
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness
And weariness of life, that makes me ready
To say to the dead abbots under us,
"Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk
Of evening twilight coming, and have not
Completed half my task; and so at times
The thought of my short-comings in this life
Falls like a shadow on the life to come.
Prince Henry. We must all die, and not the old alone;
The young have no exemption from that doom. Abbot. Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must!
That is the difference. Prince Henry.
I have heard much laud Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium Is famous among all, your manuscripts Praised for their beauty and their excellence. Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If you desire it,
You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile
Shall the Refectorarius bestow
Your horses and attendants for the night.
(They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.)
The Chapel. Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister leading an old monk who is blind. Prince Henry. They are all gone, save one who lingers,
Absorbed in deep and silent prayer.
As if his heart could find no rest,
At times he beats his heaving breast
With clenched and convulsive fingers,
Then lifts them trembling in the air.
A chorister, with golden hair,
Guides hitherward his heavy pace.
Can it be so? Or does my sight
Deceive me in the uncertain light?
Ah, no! I recognise that face,
Though Time has touched it in his flight,
And changed the auburn hair to white.
It is Count Hugo of the Rhine,
The deadliest foe of all our race,
And baleful unto me and mine!
The Blind Monk. Who is it that doth stand so
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Of what I was. O, Hoheneck!
The passionate will, the pride, the wrath,
That bore me headlong on my path,
Stumbled and staggered into fear,
And failed me in my mad career,
As a tired steed some evil-doer,
Alone upon a desolate moor,
Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind,
And hearing loud and close behind
The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer.
Then suddenly from the dark there came
A voice that called me by my name,
And said to me "Kneel down and pray!"
And so my terror passed away,
Passed utterly away for ever.
Contrition, penitence, remorse,
Came on me with o'erwhelming force;
A hope, a longing, an endeavour,
By days of penance and nights of prayer,
To frustrate and defeat despair!
Calm, deep, and still is now my heart,
With tranquil waters overflowed:
A lake whose unseen fountains start,
Where once the hot volcano glowed.'
And you, O Prince of Honeneck!
Have known me in that earlier time,
A man of violence and crime,
Whose passions brooked no curb nor check,
Beheld me now, in gentler mood,
One of this holy brotherhood.
Give me your hand; here let me kneel;
Make your reproaches sharp as steel;
Spurn me and smite me on each cheek;
No violence can harm the meek,
There is no wound Christ cannot heal.
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