* * * * * 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.