_Count._ Now for our sport, which ends not in the field. GLEE. I. When Phoebus' rays no more appear, And falc'ners further sport decline; When ploughmen from their fields repair, And mournful night-birds rend the air, Then give me wine: And at home the chase shall reign, For in wine it lives again. II. When loud the chilling tempest blows, And winter makes all Nature pine; When lowing herds, and rooks, and crows Do droop and moan at frost and snows, Then give me wine, &c. [_Exeunt._ SCENE IV.--_The garden of Corbey abbey, with practicable gates, over which is a projecting tablet, with an inscription nearly effaced. In the back, an ascending avenue through pine trees: in the centre a statue of Charlemagne; on the base of which is written, "Charlemagne grants the power of sanctuary and of pardon to the abbots of Corbey forever."_ _Enter_ Bernardo _and_ St. Clair _from the abbey._ _St. Clair._ Nay, brother, you're to blame. The church, the court, all Germany, applaud the proud election of the monk Bellarmin; for Corbey abbey was too long disgraced by our late worldly abbot's vices. _Bern._ And our new abbot will retrieve its fame. The monk Bellarmin has no worldly vice. Speak, for I know him not. _St. Clair._ Not know Bellarmin! _Bern._ I know some fourteen years are past, since, in the dead of night, a stranger, faint with terror and distress, implor'd assistance at our abbey-gate, and, in return for our protecting care, since join'd our order. I know, beside, that stranger is Bellarmin. But for the rest, what means that pallid cheek, the hollow eye, and those stern gloomy looks, repelling sympathy, creating strong disgust. _St. Clair._ Peace, peace, Bernardo!--he may have suffered wrongs, but never has committed them; and firm in conscious dignity and honour, Bellarmin may have spirit to revive what former abbots, truckling to authority; what servile priesthood, dreading lordly power, so long has suffer'd to lie dormant--the edict of our mighty founder, the edict of immortal Charlemagne! [_Pointing to the tablet._ _Bern._ He, our new abbot! he restore our abbey's ancient and peculiar charter! (_pointing to the tablet._) St. Clair, he dare not, for guilt and courage ne'er had joint abode. _St. Clair._ Guilt! _Bern._ Ay; why ever, else, on naming the return of our brave warriors from the holy land, does he betray such latent anger? And, when, last night, 'twas thought their presence would increase the glory of his installation, why such avowed and rancorous opposition? He bears about him hidden discontent, and I will fathom to the lowest depth this most mysterious being! Mark! he comes! observe! observe! [_They retire up the stage._ _Enter_ Abbot, _through the avenue._