A Farm in the Odenwald

A garden; morning; PRINCE HENRY seated, with a book.ELSIE at a distance gathering flowers.

PRINCE HENRY, reading.One morning, all alone,Out of his convent of gray stone,Into the forest older, darker, grayer,His lips moving, as if in prayer,His head sunken upon his breastAs in a dream of rest,Walked the Monk Felix. All aboutThe broad, sweet sunshine lay without,Filling the summer air;And within the woodlands as he trod,The dusk was like the truce of GodWith worldly woe and care;Under him lay the golden moss;And above him the boughs of hoary treesWaved, and made the sign of the cross,And whispered their Benedicites;And from the groundRose an odor sweet and fragrantOf the wild-flowers and the vagrantVines that wandered,Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but ponderedOn the volume in his hand,Wherein amazed he read:"A thousand years in thy sightAre but as yesterday when it is past,And as a watch in the night!"And with his eyes downcastIn humility he said:"I believe, O Lord,What is written in thy Word,But alas! I do not understand!"

And lo! he heardThe sudden singing of a bird,A snow-white bird, that from a cloudDropped down,And among the branches brownSat singing,So sweet, and clear, and loud,It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing.And the Monk Felix closed his book,And long, long,With rapturous look,He listened to the song,And hardly breathed or stirred,Until he saw, as in a vision,The land Elysian,And in the heavenly city heardAngelic feetFall on the golden flagging of the streetAnd he would fainHave caught the wondrous bird,But strove in vain;For it flew away, away,Far over hill and dell,And instead of its sweet singingHe heard the convent bellSuddenly in the silence ringingFor the service of noonday.And he retracedHis pathway sadly and in haste.

In the convent there was a change!He looked for each well-known face,But the faces were new and strange;New figures sat in the oaken stalls,New voices chanted in the choir;Yet the place was the same place,The same dusky wallsOf cold, gray stone,The same cloisters and belfry and spire.

A stranger and aloneAmong that brotherhoodThe Monk Felix stood."Forty years," said a Friar,"Have I been PriorOf this convent in the wood,But for that spaceNever have I beheld thy face!"

The heart of the Monk Felix fellAnd he answered, with submissive tone,This morning after the hour of Prime,I left my cell,And wandered forth alone,Listening all the timeTo the melodious singingOf a beautiful white bird,Until I heardThe bells of the convent ringingNoon from their noisy towers.It was as if I dreamed;For what to me had seemedMoments only, had been hours!"

"Years!" said a voice close by.It was an aged monk who spoke,From a bench of oakFastened against the wall;--He was the oldest monk of all.For a whole centuryHad he been there,Serving God in prayer,The meekest and humblest of his creatures.He remembered well the featuresOf Felix, and he said,Speaking distinct and slow:"One hundred years ago,When I was a novice in this place,There was here a monk, full of God's grace,Who bore the nameOf Felix, and this man must be the same."

And straightwayThey brought forth to the light of dayA volume old and brown,A huge tome, boundIn brass and wild-boar's hide,Wherein were written downThe names of all who had diedIn the convent, since it was edified.And there they found,Just as the old monk said,That on a certain day and date,One hundred years before,Had gone forth from the convent gateThe Monk Felix, and never moreHad entered that sacred door.He had been counted among the dead!And they knew, at last,That, such had been the powerOf that celestial and immortal song,A hundred years had passed,And had not seemed so longAs a single hour!

ELSIE.Here are flowers for you,But they are not all for you.Some of them are for the VirginAnd for Saint Cecilia.

As thou standest there,Thou seemest to me like the angelThat brought the immortal rosesTo Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber.

ELSIE.But these will fade.

Themselves will fade,But not their memory,And memory has the powerTo re-create them from the dust.They remind me, too,Of martyred Dorothea,Who from Celestial gardens sentFlowers as her witnessesTo him who scoffed and doubted.

ELSIE.Do you know the storyOf Christ and the Sultan's daughter!That is the prettiest legend of them all.

Then tell it to me.But first come hither.Lay the flowers down beside me,And put both thy hands in mine.Now tell me the story.

ELSIE.Early in the morningThe Sultan's daughterWalked in her father's garden,Gathering the bright flowers,All full of dew.

Just as thou hast been doingThis morning, dearest Elsie.

ELSIE.And as she gathered themShe wondered more and moreWho was the Master of the Flowers,And made them growOut of the cold, dark earth."In my heart," she said,"I love him; and for himWould leave my father's palace,To labor in his garden."

Dear, innocent child!How sweetly thou recallestThe long-forgotten legend.That in my early childhoodMy mother told me!Upon my brainIt reappears once more,As a birth-mark on the foreheadWhen a hand suddenlyIs raised upon it, and removed!

ELSIE.And at midnight,As she lay upon her bed,She heard a voiceCall to her from the garden,And, looking forth from her window,She saw a beautiful youthStanding among the flowers.It was the Lord Jesus;And she went down to Him,And opened the door for Him;And He said to her, "O maiden!Thou hast thought of me with love,And for thy sakeOut of my Father's kingdomHave I come hither:I am the Master of the Flowers.My garden is in Paradise,And if thou wilt go with me,Thy bridal garlandShall be of bright red flowers."And then He took from his fingerA golden ring,And asked the Sultan's daughterIf she would be his bride.And when she answered Him with love,His wounds began to bleed,And she said to Him,"O Love! how red thy heart is,And thy hands are full of roses.""For thy sake," answered He,"For thy sake is my heart so red,For thee I bring these roses;I gathered them at the crossWhereon I died for thee!I Come, for my Father calls.Thou art my elected bride!"And the Sultan's daughterFollowed Him to his Father's garden.

Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie?

ELSIE.Yes, very gladly.

Then the Celestial BridegroomWill come for thee also.Upon thy forehead He will place,Not his crown of thorns,But a crown of roses.In thy bridal chamber,Like Saint Cecilia,Thou shalt hear sweet music,And breathe the fragranceOf flowers immortal!Go now and place these flowersBefore her picture.