The Golden Legend: 4. 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 aeolian 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 wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs with the landlord's daughter, While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water. _Elsie._ All through life there are wayside 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 cheery 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 each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the wold. _Elsie._ Hark! from 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 a little cloud, That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. (_They pass on._) * * * * * 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._ I always enter this sacred place With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, Pausing long enough on each stair To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction on the vines That produce these various sorts of wines! 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 forever under ground, Silent, contemplative, round and sound; Each one old, and brown with mould, But filled to the lips with the ardor 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 hillside 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, sombre, 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 That time may have tamed, but has not broke; It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm; But that I do not consider dear, When I remember that every year 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 Hochheim on the Main, And at Wuerzburg 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 the Ahr In particular, Wuerzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most. 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 laughs 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; Many have been the draughts of wine, On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; 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 affairs, Less with its longings and more with its prayers. But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul! (_He drinks._) 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. (_Sets it running._) 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 odor 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. (_He drinks._) 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 Dorf Hueffelsheim. 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 today 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 labored 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. 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 should not be afraid to display it, In open day, on the selfsame 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! King Rene 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 ablaze 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 almost 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 a 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, In the margin of my Gospel book. (_He makes a sketch._) 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 out._) * * * * * THE CLOISTERS. * * * * * _The_ ABBOT ERNESTUS _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, As the sunshine from the wall. From the wall into the sky, From the roof along the spire; Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher. (_Enter_ PRINCE HENRY.) _Prince Henry._ Christ is arisen! _Abbot._ Amen! he is arisen! His peace be with you! _Prince Henry._ Here it reigns forever! The peace of God, that passeth understanding, Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors, Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent? _Abbot._ I am. _Prince Henry._ And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, Who crave your hospitality to-night. _Abbot._ You are thrice welcome to our humble walls. You do us honor; and we shall requite it, I fear, but poorly, entertaining you With Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine, The remnants of our Easter holidays. _Prince Henry._ How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau? Are all things well with them? _Abbot._ All things are well. _Prince Henry._ A noble convent! I have known it long By the report of travellers. I now see Their commendations lag behind the truth. You lie here in the valley of the Nagold As in a nest: and the still river, gliding Along its bed, is like an admonition How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample, And your revenues large. God's benediction Rests on your convent. _Abbot._ By our charities We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master, When he departed, left us in his will, As our best legacy on earth, the poor! These we have always with us; had we not, Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. _Prince Henry._ If I remember right, the Counts of Calva Founded your convent. _Abbot._ 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._ Your monks are learned 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 a mighty wind. 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 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 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 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, shine And redden like a baleful star! _The Blind Monk_. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck 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 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 passions 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! Yes; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek, Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake! _Prince Henry._ Arise, Count Hugo! let there be No farther strife nor enmity Between us twain; we both have erred! Too rash in act, too wroth in word, From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant attitude, Each thoughtless of the other's right, And each reliant on his might. But now our souls are more subdued; The hand of God, and not in vain, Has touched us with the fire of pain. Let us kneel down, and side by side Pray, till our souls are purified, And pardon will not be denied! (_They kneel._) * * * * * THE REFECTORY. * * * * * _Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar._ _Friar Paul (sings)._ Ave! color vini clari, Dulcis potus, non aman, Tua nos inebriari Digneris potentia! _Friar Cuthbert._ Not so much noise, my worthy freres, You'll disturb the Abbot at his prayers. _Friar Paul (sings)._ O! quam placens in colore! O! quam fragrans in odore! O! quam sapidum in ore! Dulce linguse vinculum! _Friar Cuthbert._ I should think your tongue had broken its chain! _Friar Paul (sings)._ Felix venter quern intrabis! Felix guttur quod rigabis! Felix os quod tu lavabis! Et beata labia! _Friar Cuthbert._ Peace! I say, peace! Will you never cease! You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again! _Friar John._ No danger! to-night he will let us alone, As I happen to know he has guests of his own. _Friar Cuthbert._ Who are they? _Friar John._ A German Prince and his train, Who arrived here just before the rain. There is with him a damsel fair to see, As slender and graceful as a reed! When she alighted from her steed, It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree. _Friar Cuthbert._ None of your pale-faced girls for me! (_Kisses the girl at his side_.) _Friar John._ Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! do not drink any farther, I beg! _Friar Paul (sings)._ In the days of gold, The days of old, Cross of wood And bishop of gold! _Friar Cuthbert (to the girl)._ What an infernal racket and din! No need not blush so, that's no sin. You look very holy in this disguise, Though there's something wicked in your eyes! _Friar Paul (continues.)_ Now we have changed That law so good, To cross of gold And bishop of wood! _Friar Cuthbert._ I like your sweet face under a hood. Sister! how came you into this way? _Girl._ It was you, Friar Cuthbert, who led me astray. Have you forgotten that day in June, When the church was so cool in the afternoon, And I came in to confess my sins? That is where my ruin begins. _Friar John._ What is the name of yonder friar, With an eye that glows like a coal of fire, And such a black mass of tangled hair? _Friar Paul._ He who is sitting there, With a rollicking, Devil may care, Free and easy look and air, As if he were used to such feasting and frollicking? _Friar John._ The same. _Friar Paul._ He's a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going, and whence he came. _Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar! _Friar Paul._ You must raise your voice a little higher, He does not seem to hear what you say. Now, try again! He is looking this way. _Friar John._ Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence you came, and where you are going, And anything else that is worth the knowing. So be so good as to open your head. _Lucifer._ I am a Frenchman born and bred, Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard. _Monks._ Never a word! _Lucifer._ You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany. From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very seashore where, In his great despair, Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, Filling the night with woe, And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise! Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within, Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin! Ha! that is a convent! that is an abbey! Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby! But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells of the fallow-deer, And then what cheer! What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they, With their strong wines, And their concubines, And never a bell, With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night, To send you grumbling down dark stairs, To mumble your prayers, But the cheery crow Of cocks in the yard below, After daybreak, an hour or so, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer! Ah, my friends! I'm afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame, And the more is the shame, It is the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think! Come, drink, drink, Drink, and die game! _Monks,_ And your Abbot What's-his-name? _Lucifer._ Abelard! _Monks._ Did he drink hard? _Lucifer._ O, no! Not he! He was a dry old fellow, Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. There he stood, Lowering at us in sullen mood, As if he had come into Brittany Just to reform our brotherhood! (_A roar of laughter_.) But you see It never would do! For some of us knew a thing or two, In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys! For instance, the great ado With old Fulbert's niece, The young and lovely Heloise! _Friar John._ Stop there, if you please, Till we drink to the fair Heloise. _All (drinking and shouting)._ Heloise! Heloise! (_The Chapel-bell tolls_.) _Lucifer (starting)._ What is that bell for? Are you such asses As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses? _Friar Cuthbert._ It is only a poor, unfortunate brother, Who is gifted with most miraculous powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours, And, by way of penance and Christian meekness, Of creeping silently out of his cell To take a pull at that hideous bell; So that all the monks who are lying awake May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, And adapted to his peculiar weakness! _Friar John._ From frailty and fall-- _All._ Good Lord, deliver us all! _Friar Cuthbert._ And before the bell for matins sounds, He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, Merely to say it is time to arise. But enough of that. Go on, if you please, With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys. _Lucifer._ Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice, One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abelard kept away From the chapel that day, And a poor, young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine, Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! But look! do you see at the window there That face, with a look of grief and despair, That ghastly face, as of one in pain? _Monks._ Who? where? _Lucifer._ As I spoke, it vanished away again. _Friar Cuthbert._ It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius. That fellow is always playing the scout, Creeping and peeping and prowling about; And then he regales The Abbot with Scandalous tales. _Lucifer_. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers Telling scandalous tales of the others? Out upon him, the lazy loon! I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it. _Monks_. How shall we do it? _Lucifer_. Do you, brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall, And open it suddenly when I call. Then seize the villain by the hair, And hold him there, And punish him soundly, once for all. _Friar Cuthbert_. As St. Dustan of old, We are told, Once caught the Devil by the nose! _Lucifer_. Ha! ha! that story is very clever, But has no foundation whatsoever. Quick! for I see his face again Glaring in at the window pane; Now! now! and do not spare your blows. (FRIAR PAUL _opens the window suddenly, and seizes_ SIEBALD. _They beat him._) _Friar Siebald_. Help! help! are you going to slay me? _Friar Paul_. That will teach you again to betray me! _Friar Siebald_. Mercy! mercy! _Friar Paul_ (_shouting and beating_). Rumpas bellorum lorum, Vim confer amorum Morum verorum, rorun. Tu plena polorum! _Lucifer_. Who stands in the doorway yonder, Stretching out his trembling hand, Just as Abelard used to stand, The flash of his keen, black eyes Forerunning the thunder? _The Monks (in confusion)_. The Abbot! the Abbot! _Friar Cuthbert (to the girl)_. Put on your disguise! _Friar Francis_. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon! _Friar Cuthbert_. Pull the brown hood over your face, Lest you bring me into disgrace! _Abbot_. What means this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, To pollute this convent with your revels? Were Peter Damian still upon earth, To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, He would write your names, with pen of gall, In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all! Away, you drunkards! to your cells, And pray till you hear the matin-bells; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul! And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders bare; Nothing atones for such a sin But the blood that follows the discipline. And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me Alone into the sacristy; You, who should be a guide to your brothers, And are ten times worse than all the others, For you I've a draught that has long been brewing You shall do a penance worth the doing! Away to your prayers, then, one and all! I wonder the very, convent wall Does not crumble and crush you in its fall! * * * * * THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERY. * * * * * _The_ ABBESS IRMINGARD _sitting with_ ELSIE _in the moonlight._ _Irmingard_ The night is silent, the wind is still, The moon is looking from yonder hill Down upon convent, and grove, and garden; The clouds have passed away from her face, Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, Only the tender and quiet grace Of one, whose heart had been healed with pardon! And such am I. My soul within Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. But now its wounds are healed again; Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain; For across that desolate land of woe, O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go, A wind from heaven began to blow; And all my being trembled and shook, As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, And I was healed, as the sick are healed, When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book! As thou sittest in the moonlight there, Its glory flooding thy golden hair, And the only darkness that which lies In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, I feel my soul drawn unto thee, Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, As to one I have known and loved before; For every soul is akin to me That dwells in the land of mystery! I am the Lady Irmingard, Born of a noble race and name! Many a wandering Suabian bard, Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard, Has found through me the way to fame. Brief and bright were those days, and the night Which followed was full of a lurid light. Love, that of every woman's heart Will have the whole, and not a part, That is to her, in Nature's plan, More than ambition is to man, Her light, her life, her very breath, With no alternative but death, Found me a maiden soft and young, Just from the convent's cloistered school, And seated on my lowly stool, Attentive while the minstrels sung. Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, Fairest, noblest, best of all, Was Walter of the Vogelweid, And, whatsoever may betide, Still I think of him with pride! His song was of the summer-time The very birds sang in his rhyme; The sunshine, the delicious air, The fragrance of the flowers, were there, And I grew restless as I heard, Restless and buoyant as a bird, Down soft, aerial currents sailing, O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom, And through the momentary gloom Of shadows o'er the landscape trailing, Yielding and borne I knew not where, But feeling resistance unavailing. And thus, unnoticed and apart, And more by accident than choice. I listened to that single voice Until the chambers of my heart Were filled with it by night and day, One night,--it was a night in May,-- Within the garden, unawares, Under the blossoms in the gloom, I heard it utter my own name With protestations and wild prayers; And it rang through me, and became Like the archangel's trump of doom, Which the soul hears, and must obey; And mine arose as from a tomb. My former life now seemed to me Such as hereafter death may be, When in the great Eternity We shall awake and find it day. It was a dream, and would not stay; A dream, that in a single night Faded and vanished out of sight. My father's anger followed fast This passion, as a freshening blast Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage It may increase, but not assuage. And he exclaimed: 'No wandering bard Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard! For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck By messenger and letter sues.' Gently, but firmly, I replied: 'Henry of Hoheneck I discard! Never the hand of Irmingard Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride!' This said I, Walter, for thy sake: This said I, for I could not choose. After a pause, my father spake In that cold and deliberate tone Which turns the hearer into stone, And seems itself the act to be That follows with such dread certainty; 'This, or the cloister and the veil!' No other words than these he said, But they were like a funeral wail; My life was ended, my heart was dead. That night from the castle-gate went down, With silent, slow, and stealthy pace, Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds, Taking the narrow path that leads Into the forest dense and brown, In the leafy darkness of the place, One could not distinguish form nor face, Only a bulk without a shape, A darker shadow in the shade; One scarce could say it moved or stayed, Thus it was we made our escape! A foaming brook, with many a bound, Followed us like a playful hound; Then leaped before us, and in the hollow Paused, and waited for us to follow, And seemed impatient, and afraid That our tardy flight should be betrayed By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made, And when we reached the plain below, He paused a moment and drew rein To look back at the castle again; And we saw the windows all aglow With lights, that were passing to and fro; Our hearts with terror ceased to beat; The brook crept silent to our feet; We knew what most we feared to know. Then suddenly horns began to blow; And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp, And our horses snorted in the damp Night-air of the meadows green and wide, And in a moment, side by side, So close, they must have seemed but one, The shadows across the moonlight run, And another came, and swept behind, Like the shadow of clouds before the wind! How I remember that breathless flight Across the moors, in the summer night! How under our feet the long, white road Backward like a river flowed, Sweeping with it fences and hedges, Whilst farther away, and overhead, Paler than I, with fear and dread, The moon fled with us, as we fled Along the forest's jagged edges! All this I can remember well; But of what afterward befell I nothing farther can recall Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall; The rest is a blank and darkness all. When I awoke out of this swoon, The sun was shining, not the moon, Making a cross upon the wall With the bars of my windows narrow and tall; And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray, From early childhood, day by day, Each morning, as in bed I lay! I was lying again in my own room! And I thanked God, in my fever and pain, That those shadows on the midnight plain Were gone, and could not come again! I struggled no longer with my doom! This happened many years ago. I left my father's home to come Like Catherine to her martyrdom, For blindly I esteemed it so. And when I heard the convent door Behind me close, to ope no more, I felt it smite me like a blow, Through all my limbs a shudder ran, And on my bruised spirit fell The dampness of my narrow cell As night-air on a wounded man, Giving intolerable pain. But now a better life began, I felt the agony decrease By slow degrees, then wholly cease, Ending in perfect rest and peace! It was not apathy, nor dulness, That weighed and pressed upon my brain, But the same passion I had given To earth before, now turned to heaven With all its overflowing fulness. Alas! the world is full of peril! The path that runs through the fairest meads, On the sunniest side of the valley, leads Into a region bleak and sterile! Alike in the high-born and the lowly, The will is feeble, and passion strong. We cannot sever right from wrong; Some falsehood mingles with all truth; Nor is it strange the heart of youth Should waver and comprehend but slowly The things that are holy and unholy! But in this sacred and calm retreat, We are all well and safely shielded From winds that blow, and waves that beat, From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, To which the strongest hearts have yielded. Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, For our celestial bridegroom yearning; Our hearts are lamps forever burning, With a steady and unwavering flame, Pointing upward, forever the same, Steadily upward toward the Heaven! The moon is hidden behind a cloud; A sudden darkness fills the room, And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, Shine like jewels in a shroud. On the leaves is a sound of falling rain; A bird, awakened in its nest, Gives a faint twitter of unrest, Then smoothes its plumes and sleeps again. No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near. Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue Of riding many a dusty league; Sink, then, gently to thy slumber; Me so many cares encumber, So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.