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 honour; 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. Abbot. truth. Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood 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. The Chapel. (They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.) 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 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! The Blind Monk. Count Hugo once, 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,' Behold me now, in gentler mood, No farther strife nor enmity Each thoughtless of the other's right, The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a Friar. Friar Paul (sings). Ave! color vini clari, Dulcis potus, non amari, Digneris potentia! Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise, Who arrived here just before the rain. Friar Cuthbert. None of your pale- None of your damsels of high degree! Friar John. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg! (11) But do not drink any farther, I beg! Friar Paul (sings). In the days of gold, And bishop of gold! Friar Cuthbert. What an infernal racket and riot! Can you not drink your wine in quiet? Why fill the convent with such scandals, As if we were so many drunken Vandals? Friar Paul (continues). Now we have changed And bishop of wood! Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since you are in the mood 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. Is the convent of St. Gildas de Of which, very like, you never have heard. Monks. Never a word. Lucifer. You must know, then, it is Called the diocese of Vannes, 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, 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. Of cocks in the yard below, And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds, These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. Through the forest, hunting the deer! And the more is the shame. "Tis the greatest folly Not to be jolly; That's what I think! Come, drink, drink, Monks. And your Abbot What's-hisname? powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours, Of creeping silently out of his cell May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake, And adapted to his peculiar weakness! Friar John. From frailty and fallAll. 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, With your story about St. Cildas de N 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. And punish him soundly, once for all. Friar Cuthbert. As St. Dunstan of old, 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 rorum Tu plena polorum! Lucifer. Who stands in the doorway The Monks (in confusion.) The Friar Cuthbert. And what is the He seems to have taken you by surprise. Friar Francis. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon! Friar Cuthbert. Pull the brown hood over your face! This will bring us into disgrace! Abbot. What means this revel and carouse? Is this a tavern and drinking-house? Are you Christian monks, or heathendevils, 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, |