Part 16 (2/2)

The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder G.o.d does not lose his patience with it wholly, And shatter it like gla.s.s! 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 shortcomings 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 ma.n.u.scripts 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. .h.i.therward his heavy pace.

Can it be so? Or does my sight Deceive me in the uncertain light?

Ah no! I recognize 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 hateful unto me and mine!

_The Blind Monk_. Who is it that doth stand so near His whispered words I almost hear?

_Prince Henry_. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine!

I know you, and I see the scar, The brand upon your forehead, s.h.i.+ne And redden like a baleful star!

_The Blind Monk_. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck Of what I was. O Hoheneck!

The pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sed away, Pa.s.sed utterly away forever.

Contrition, penitence, remorse, Came on me, with o'erwhelming force; A hope, a longing, an endeavor, 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 Hoheneck!

Have known me in that earlier time, A man of violence and crime, Whose pa.s.sions brooked no curb nor check.

Behold 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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