The Cloisters

ABBOT.Slowly, slowly up the wallSteals 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 airWheel the swallows home in crowds.Shafts of sunshine from the westPaint 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 dieAre but sunbeams lifted higher.

Christ is arisen!

ABBOT.Amen! He is arisen!His peace be with you!

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.

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 youWith Paschal eggs, and our poor convent wine,The remnants of our Easter holidays.

How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau?Are all things well with them?

ABBOT.All things are well.

A noble convent! I have known it longBy the report of travellers. I now seeTheir commendations lag behind the truth.You lie here in the valley of the NagoldAs in a nest: and the still river, glidingAlong its bed, is like an admonitionHow all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample,And your revenues large. God's benedictionRests on your convent.

ABBOT.By our charitiesWe 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.

If I remember right, the Counts of CalvaFounded your convent.

ABBOT.Even as you say.

And, if I err not, it is very old.

ABBOT.Within these cloisters lie already buriedTwelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flagsOn which we stand, the Abbot William lies,Of blessed memory.

And whose tomb is that,Which bears the brass escutcheon?

ABBOT.A benefactor's.Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stoodGodfather to our bells.

Your monks are learnedAnd holy men, I trust.

ABBOT.There are among themLearned and holy men. Yet in this ageWe need another Hildebrand, to shakeAnd purify us like a mighty wind.The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonderGod 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 handUpon my heart, gently, not smiting it,But as a harper lays his open palmUpon his harp to deaden its vibrations,Ashes are on my head, and on my lipsSackcloth, and in my breast a heavinessAnd weariness of life, that makes me readyTo say to the dead Abbots under us,"Make room for me!" Ony I see the duskOf evening twilight coming, and have notCompleted half my task; and so at timesThe thought of my shortcomings in this lifeFalls like a shadow on the life to come.

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.

I have heard much laudOf your transcribers, Your ScriptoriumIs famous among all; your manuscriptsPraised for their beauty and their excellence.

ABBOT.That is indeed our boast. If you desire itYou shall behold these treasures. And meanwhileShall the Refectorarius bestowYour horses and attendants for the night.