Part 21 (1/2)
(_They pa.s.s on_.)
AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS.
_A halt under the trees at noon_.
_Prince Henry_ Here let us pause a moment in the trembling Shadow and suns.h.i.+ne of the roadside trees, And, our tired horses in a group a.s.sembling, Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; They lag behind us with a slower pace; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place.
Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade!
Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!
_Elsie._ What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there!
And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, Blossoms of grapevines scent the sunny air.
_Prince Henry._ Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!
_Elsie._ It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.
_Pilgrims (chaunting the Hymn of St. Hildebert)_ Me receptet Sion illa, Sion David, urbs tranquilla, Cujus faber auctor lucis, Cujus portae lignum crucis, Cujus claves lingua Petri, Cujus cives semper laeti, Cujus muri lapis vivus, Cujus custos Rex festivus!
_Lucifer (as a Friar in the procession)._ Here am I, too, in the pious band, In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed!
The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives.
All day long I beat my breast, And chaunt with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest.
And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, Such a hurly-burly in country inns, Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins!
Of all the contrivances of the time For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!
_Prince Henry._ If from the outward man we judge the inner, And cleanliness is G.o.dliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, Must be that Carmelite now pa.s.sing near.
_Lucifer._ There is my German Prince again, Thus far on his journey to Salern, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; But it's a long road that has no turn!
Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play.
But first I must act to my heart's content This mummery and this merriment, And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent.
Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along, Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, Chanting their wonderful piff and paff, And, to make up for not understanding the song, Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong!
Were it not for my magic garters and staff, And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long.
_Pilgrims (chaunting)._ In hac uibe, lux solennis, Ver aeternum, pax perennis, In hac odor implens caelos, In hac semper festum melos!
_Prince Henry._ Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring ba.s.s, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face?
_Elsie._ It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.
_Prince Henry._ And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel.
Good morrow, Friar!
_Friar Cuthbert._ Good morrow, n.o.ble Sir!
_Prince Henry._ I speak in German, for, unless I err, You are a German.
_Friar Cuthbert._ I cannot gainsay you.
But by what instinct, or what secret sign, Meeting me here, do you straightway divine That northward of the Alps my country lies?