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 chaunted in the choir, Yet the place was the same place, The same dusky walls Of cold, gray stone, The same cloisters and belfry and spire. A stranger and alone Among that brotherhood The Monk Felix stood "Forty years," said a Friar. "Have I been Prior Of this convent in the wood, But for that space Never have I beheld thy face!" The heart of the Monk Felix fell: And he answered with submissive tone, "This morning, after the hour of Prime, I left my cell, And wandered forth alone, Listening all the time To the melodious singing Of a beautiful white bird, Until I heard The bells of the convent ringing Noon from their noisy towers, It was as if I dreamed; For what to me had seemed Moments only, had been hours!" "Years!" said a voice close by. It was an aged monk who spoke, From a bench of oak Fastened against the wall;-- He was the oldest monk of all. For a whole century Had he been there, Serving God in prayer, The meekest and humblest of his creatures. He remembered well the features Of 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 name Of Felix, and this man must be the same." And straightway They brought forth to the light of day A volume old and brown, A huge tome, bound With brass and wild-boar's hide, Therein were written down The names of all who had died In 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 gate The Monk Felix, and never more Had entered that sacred door. He had been counted among the dead! And they knew, at last, That, such had been the power Of that celestial and immortal song, A hundred years had passed, And had not seemed so long As a single hour! (ELSIE _comes in with flowers._) _Elsie._ Here are flowers for you, But they are not all for you. Some of them are for the Virgin And for Saint Cecilia. _Prince Henry._ As thou standest there, Thou seemest to me like the angel That brought the immortal roses To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber. _Elsie._ But these will fade. _Prince Henry._ Themselves will fade, But not their memory, And memory has the power To re-create them from the dust. They remind me, too, Of martyred Dorothea, Who from celestial gardens sent Flowers as her witnesses To him who scoffed and doubted. _Elsie._ Do you know the story Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter? That is the prettiest legend of them all. _Prince Henry._ 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 morning The Sultan's daughter Walked in her father's garden, Gathering the bright flowers, All full of dew.