The Angel (with the aeolian harp).

Take heed! take heed!

Noble art thou in thy birth,

By the good and the great of earth
Hast thou been taught!
Be noble in every thought
And in every deed!

Let not the illusion of thy senses
Betray thee to deadly offences.
Be strong! be good! be pure!
The right only shall endure,

All things else are but false pretences.
I entreat thee, I implore,
Listen no more

To the suggestions of an evil spirit,
That even now is there,
Making the foul seem fair,

And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit!

A room in the Farmhouse. Gottlieb. It is decided! For many days,

And nights as many, we have had
A nameless terror in our breast,
Making us timid and afraid

Of God, and his mysterious ways!
We have been sorrowful and sad;
Much have we suffered, much have
prayed

That he would lead us as is best,
And show us what his will required.
It is decided; and we give

Our child, O Prince, that you may live!
Ursula. It is of God. He has inspired
This purpose in her; and through pain,
Out of a world of sin and woe,
He takes her to himself again.
The mother's heart resists no longer;
With the Angel of the Lord in vain
It wrestled, for he was the stronger.
Gottlieb. As Abraham offered long

Prince Henry. Still is the night.
The sound of feet

Has died away from the empty street,
And like an artisan, bending down
His head on his anvil, the dark town
Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet.
Sleepless and restless, I alone,

In the dusk and damp of these walls of

stone,

Wander and weep in my remorse!
Crier of the Dead (ringing a bell).
Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Hark! with what
accents loud and hoarse

This warder on the walls of death
Sends forth the challenge of his breath!
I see the dead that sleep in the grave!
They rise up, and their garments wave
Dimly and spectral as they rise,
With the light of another world in their
eyes!

Crier of the Dead
Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Why for the dead,
who are at rest?

Pray for the living, in whose breast
The struggle between right and wrong
Is raging terrible and strong,

As when good angels war with devils!
This is the Master of the Revels,
Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes
The health of absent friends, and
pledges,

Not in bright goblets crowned with

Silent as night is, and as deep!
There walks a sentinel at thy gate
Whose heart is heavy and desolate,
And the heavings of whose bosom
number

The respirations of thy slumber,
As if some strange, mysterious fate
Had linked two hearts in one, and mine
Went madly wheeling about thine,
Only with wider and wilder sweep!
Crier of the Dead (at a distance).
Wake! wake!

All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

Prince Henry. Lo! with what depth
of blackness thrown

Against the clouds, far up the skies
The walls of the cathedral rise,
Like a mysterious grove of stone,
With fitful lights and shadows blending,
As from behind, the moon, ascending,
Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown!
The wind is rising; but the boughs
Rise not and fall not with the wind
That through their foliage sobs and
soughs;

Only the cloudy rack behind,
Drifting onward, wild and ragged,
Gives to each spire and buttress jagged
A seeming motion undefined.

Below on the square, an armed knight,
Still as a statue, and as white,

Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams

Has drawn thee from thy German farm

Into the old Alsatian city?

Prince Henry. A tale of wonder and
of pity!

A wretched man, almost by stealth
Dragging my body to Salern,

In the vain hope and search for health,
And destined never to return.
Already thou hast heard the rest.
But what brings thee, thus armed and
dight

In the equipments of a knight? Walter. Dost thou not see upon my breast

The cross of the Crusaders shine?
My pathway leads to Palestine.
Prince Henry. Ah, would that way
were also mine!

O noble poet! thou whose heart
Is like a nest of singing birds
Rocked on the topmost bough of life,
Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart,
And in the clangour of the strife
Mingle the music of thy words?

Walter. My hopes are high, my
heart is proud,

And like a trumpet long and loud, Thither my thoughts all clang and ring! My life is in my hand, and lo!,

I

grasp and bend it as a bow,

And shoot forth from its trembling string An arrow, that shall be, perchance, Like the arrow of the Israelite king Shot from the window towards the east,

That of the Lord's deliverance!

Prince Henry. My life, alas! is what
thou seest!

O enviable fate! to be
Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee
With lyre and sword, with song and
steel;

A hand to smite, a heart to feel!
Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy
sword,

Thou givest all unto thy Lord;
While I, so mean and abject grown,
Am thinking of myself alone,

M

Walter. Be patient! Time will rein

state

Thy health and fortunes.

Prince Henry.

'Tis too late! I cannot strive against my fate! Walter. Come with me; for my steed is weary;

Our journey has been long and dreary,
And, dreaming of his stall, he dints
With his impatient hoofs the flints.
Prince Henry (aside). I am ashamed,
in my disgrace,

To look into that noble face!
To-morrow, Walter, let it be.

Walter. To-morrow, at the dawn of
day,

I shall again be on my way.
Come with me to the hostelry,
For I have many things to say.
Our journey into Italy

Perchance together we may make;
Wilt thou not do it for my sake?

Prince Henry. A sick man's pace
would but impede

Thine eager and impatient speed. Besides, my pathway leads me round To Hirschau, in the forest's bound, Where I assemble man and steed, And all things for my journey's need.

(They go out.)

Lucifer flying over the city). Sleep, sleep, O city! till the light Wakes you to sin and crime again, Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, I scatter downward through the night My maledictions dark and deep. I have more martyrs in your walls Than God has; and they cannot sleep: They are my bondsmen and my thralls; Their wretched lives are full of pain, Wild agonies of nerve and brain; And every heart-beat, every breath, Is a convulsion worse than death! Sleep, sleep, O city! though within The circuit of your walls there lies No habitation free from sin, And all its nameless miseries; The aching heart, the aching head, Grief for the living and the dead, And foul corruption of the time, Disease, distress, and want, and woe, And crimes, and passions that may grow Until they ripen into crime!

Square in front of the Cathedral. Easter Sunday. FRIAR CUTHBERT preaching to the crowd from a pulpit in the open air. PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE Crossing the square.

Prince Henry. This is the day, when
from the dead

Our Lord arose, and everywhere,
Out of their darkness and despair,
Triumphant over fears and foes,
The hearts of his disciples rose,-
When to the women, standing near,
The Angel in shining vesture said,
"The Lord is risen, he is not here!
And, mindful that the day is come,
On all the hearths in Christendom
The fires are quenched, to be again
Rekindled from the sun, that high
Is dancing in the cloudless sky.
The churches are all decked with
flowers.

The salutations among men

Are but the Angel's words divine,
"Christ is arisen!" and the bells
Catch the glad murmur, as it swells,
And chant together in their towers.
All hearts are glad; and free from care
The faces of the people shine.
See what a crowd is in the square,
Gaily and gallantly arrayed!

Elsie. Let us go back; I am afraid!
Prince Henry. Nay, let us mount
the church-steps here,

Under the doorway's sacred shadow; We can see all things, and be freer From the crowd that madly heaves and presses!

Elsie. What a gay pageant! what bright dresses!

It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow.

What is that yonder on the square? Prince Henry. A pulpit in the open

air,

And a friar, who is preaching to the crowd

In a voice so deep and clear and loud, That, if we listen and give heed, His lowest words will reach the ear. Friar Cuthbert (gesticulating and cracking a postilion's whip). What ho! good people! do you not hear?

Dashing along at the top of his speed, Booted and spurred, on his jaded steed, A courier comes with words of cheer. Courier what is the news, I pray? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From court."

Then I do not believe it; you say it in sport.

(Cracks his whip again.)

Ah, here comes another, riding this

way;

We soon shall know what he has to say. Courier! what are the tidings to-day? "Christ is arisen!" Whence come you? "From town."

Then I do not believe it! away with you, clown!

(Cracks his whip more violently.) And here comes a third, who is spurring amain;

What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein,

Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam?

"Christ is arisen!" Whence come

you? "From Rome." Ah, now I believe. He is risen indeed. Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed.

(Great applause among the crowd.) To come back to my text! (8) When the news was first spread

That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead,

Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven;

And as great the dispute as to who

should carry

The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. Old Father Adam was first to propose, As being the author of all our woes; But he was refused, for fear, said they, He would stop to eat apples on the way! Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, Because he might meet with his brother Cain!

Noah, too, was refused, lest his weak

ness for wine

Should delay him at every tavern-sign; And John the Baptist could not get a

vote,

On account of his old-fashioned camel'shair coat;

And the penitent thief, who died on the cross,

Was reminded that all his bones were broken!

Till at last, when each in turn had spoken,

The company being still at a loss,
The Angel who rolled away the stone,
Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone,
And filled with glory that gloomy prison,
And said to the Virgin, "The Lord is
arisen!"

(The Cathedral bells ring.) But hark! the bells are beginning to chime;

And I feel that I am growing hoarse.
I will put an end to my discourse,
And leave the rest for some other time.
For the bells themselves are the best of
preachers;

Their brazen lips are learned teachers,
From their pulpits of stone, in the upper

air,

Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw,
Shriller than trumpets under the Law,
Now a sermon and now a prayer.
The clangorous hammer is the tongue,
This way, that beaten and swung,
way,
That from mouth of brass, as from
Mouth of Gold,

May be taught the Testaments, New and Old.

And above it the great cross-beam of wood

Representeth the Holy Rood, Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung,

And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung Is the mind of man,

round

that round and

Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! And the rope, with its twisted cordage three,

Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity

Of Morals, and Symbols, and History; And the upward and downward motions show

That we touch upon matters high and low;

And the constant change and transmu. tation