Chapter XXXVII: Epilogue (2)

PRINCE HENRY. This is indeed the blessed Mary's land, Virgin and mother of our dear redeemer! All hearts are touched and softened at her name, Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant, The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, Pay homage to her as one ever present! And even as children, who have much offended A too indulgent father, in great shame, Penitent, and yet not daring unattended To go into his presence, at the gate Speak with their sister, and confiding wait Till she goes in before and intercedes; So men, repenting of their evil deeds, And yet not venturing rashly to draw near With their requests an angry father's ear, Offer to her their prayers and their confession, And she for them in heaven makes intercession. And if our faith had given us nothing more Than this example of all womanhood, So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure, This were enough to prove it higher and truer Than all the creeds the world had known before.

PILGRIMS, chanting afar off.
Urbs coelestis, urbs beata,
Supra petram collocata,
Urbs in portu satis tuto
De longinquo te saluto,
Te saluto, te suspiro,
Te affecto, te requiro!

THE INN AT GENOA

A terrace overlooking the sea. Night.

PRINCE HENRY. It is the sea, it is the sea, In all its vague immensity, Fading and darkening in the distance! Silent, majestical, and slow, The white ships haunt it to and fro, With all their ghostly sails unfurled, As phantoms from another world Haunt the dim confines of existence! But ah! how few can comprehend Their signals, or to what good end From land to land they come and go! Upon a sea more vast and dark The spirits of the dead embark, All voyaging to unknown coasts. We wave our farewells from the shore, And they depart, and come no more, Or come as phantoms and as ghosts.

Above the darksome sea of death Looms the great life that is to be, A land of cloud and mystery, A dim mirage, with shapes of men Long dead and passed beyond our ken, Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath Till the fair pageant vanisheth, Leaving us in perplexity, And doubtful whether it has been A vision of the world unseen, Or a bright image of our own Against the sky in vapors thrown.

LUCIFER, singing from the sea. Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it, But thou hast the power to end it! The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, Deep it lies at thy very feet; There is no confessor like unto Death! Thou canst not see him, but he is near; Thou needst not whisper above thy breath, And he will hear; He will answer the questions, The vague surmises and suggestions, That fill thy soul with doubt and fear!

PRINCE HENRY. The fisherman, who lies afloat, With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, Is singing softly to the Night! But do I comprehend aright The meaning of the words he sung So sweetly in his native tongue? Ah yes! the sea is still and deep. All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er; A plunge, a bubble an no more; And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free From martyrdom and agony.

ELSIE, coming from her chamber upon the terrace. The night is calm and cloudless, And still as still can be, And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea. They gather, and gather, and gather, Until they crowd the sky, And listen, in breathless silence, To the solemn litany. It begins in rocky caverns, As a voice that chants alone To the pedals of the organ In monotonous undertone; And anon from shelving beaches, And shallow sands beyond, In snow-white robes uprising The ghostly choirs respond. And sadly and unceasing The mournful voice sings on, And the snow-white choirs still answer Christe eleison!

PRINCE HENRY. Angel of God! thy finer sense perceives Celestial and perpetual harmonies! Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, Hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze, And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. But I hear discord only and despair, And whispers as of demons in the air!

AT SEA

IL PADRONE. The wind upon our quarter lies, And on before the freshening gale, That fills the snow-white lateen sail, Swiftly our light felucca flies, Around the billows burst and foam; They lift her o'er the sunken rock, They beat her sides with many a shock, And then upon their flowing dome They poise her, like a weathercock! Between us and the western skies The hills of Corsica arise; Eastward in yonder long blue line, The summits of the Apennine, And southward, and still far away, Salerno, on its sunny bay. You cannot see it, where it lies.

PRINCE HENRY. Ah, would that never more mine eyes Might see its towers by night or day!

ELSIE. Behind us, dark and awfully, There comes a cloud out of the sea, That bears the form of a hunted deer, With hide of brown, and hoofs of black And antlers laid upon its back, And fleeing fast and wild with fear, As if the hounds were on its track!

PRINCE HENRY. Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls In shapeless masses, like the walls Of a burnt city. Broad and red The flies of the descending sun Glare through the windows, and o'erhead, Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, Long shafts of silvery light arise, Like rafters that support the skies!

ELSIE. See! from its summit the lurid levin Flashes downward without warning, As Lucifer, son of the morning, Fell from the battlements of heaven!

IL PADRONE. I must entreat you, friends, below! The angry storm begins to blow, For the weather changes with the moon. All this morning, until noon, We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. Only a little hour ago I was whistling to Saint Antonio For a capful of wind to fill our sail, And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. Last night I saw St. Elmo's stars, With their glimmering lanterns, all at play On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars, And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. Cheerily, my hearties! yo heave ho! Brail up the mainsail, and let her go As the winds will and Saint Antonio!

Do you see that Livornese felucca, That vessel to the windward yonder, Running with her gunwale under? I was looking when the wind o'ertook her, She had all sail set, and the only wonder Is that at once the strength of the blast Did not carry away her mast. She is a galley of the Gran Duca, That, through the fear of the Algerines, Convoys those lazy brigantines, Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. Now all is ready, high and low; Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio!

Ha! that is the first dash of the rain, With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, Just enough to moisten our sails, And make them ready for the strain. See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her, And speeds away with a bone in her mouth! Now keep her head toward the south, And there is no danger of bank or breaker. With the breeze behind us, on we go; Not too much, good Saint Antonio!

VI

THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO

A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate of the College.

SCHOLASTIC. There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield, Hung up as a challenge to all the field! One hundred and twenty-five propositions, Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue Against all disputants, old and young. Let us see if doctors or dialecticians Will dare to dispute my definitions, Or attack any one of my learned theses. Here stand I; the end shall be as God pleases. I think I have proved, by profound researches, The error of all those doctrines so vicious Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, That are making such terrible work in the churches, By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, And done into Latin by that Scottish beast, Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to maintain, In the face of the truth, the error infernal, That the universe is and must be eternal; At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with God can be accidental; Then asserting that God before the creation Could not have existed, because it is plain That, had He existed, He would have created; Which is begging the question that should be debated, And moveth me less to anger than laughter. All nature, he holds, is a respiration Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, hereafter Will inhale it into his bosom again, So that nothing but God alone will remain. And therein he contradicteth himself; For he opens the whole discussion by stating, That God can only exist in creating. That question I think I have laid on the shelf!

He goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing, and followed by pupils.

DOCTOR SERAFINO. I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain, That a word which is only conceived in the brain Is a type of eternal Generation; The spoken word is the Incarnation.

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, With all his wordy chaffer and traffic?

DOCTOR SERAFINO. You make but a paltry show of resistance; Universals have no real existence!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. Your words are but idle and empty chatter; Ideas are eternally joined to matter!

DOCTOR SERAFINO. May the Lord have mercy on your position, You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs!

DOCTOR CHERUBINO. May he send your soul to eternal perdition, For your Treatise on the Irregular verbs!

They rush out fighting. Two Scholars come in.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Monte Cassino, then, is your College. What think you of ours here at Salern?

SECOND SCHOLAR. To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, I hardly yet have had time to discern. So much, at least, I am bound to acknowledge: The air seems healthy, the buildings stately, And on the whole I like it greatly.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Yes, the air is sweet; the Calabrian hills Send us down puffs of mountain air; And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills With its coolness cloister, and court, and square. Then at every season of the year There are crowds of guests and travellers here; Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders From the Levant, with figs and wine, And bands of wounded and sick Crusaders, Coming back from Palestine.

SECOND SCHOLAR. And what are the studies you pursue? What is the course you here go through?

FIRST SCHOLAR. The first three years of the college course Are given to Logic alone, as the source Of all that is noble, and wise, and true.

SECOND SCHOLAR. That seems rather strange, I must confess, In a Medical School; yet, nevertheless, You doubtless have reasons for that.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Oh yes For none but a clever dialectician Can hope to become a great physician; That has been settled long ago. Logic makes an important part Of the mystery of the healing art; For without it how could you hope to show That nobody knows so much as you know? After this there are five years more Devoted wholly to medicine, With lectures on chirurgical lore, And dissections of the bodies of swine, As likest the human form divine.

SECOND SCHOLAR. What are the books now most in vogue?

FIRST SCHOLAR. Quite an extensive catalogue; Mostly, however, books of our own; As Gariopontus' Passionarius, And the writings of Matthew Platearius; And a volume universally known As the Regimen of the School of Salern, For Robert of Normandy written in terse And very elegant Latin verse. Each of these writings has its turn. And when at length we have finished these Then comes the struggle for degrees, Will all the oldest and ablest critics; The public thesis and disputation, Question, and answer, and explanation Of a passage out of Hippocrates, Or Aristotle's Analytics. There the triumphant Magister stands! A book is solemnly placed in his hands, On which he swears to follow the rule And ancient forms of the good old School; To report if any confectionarius Mingles his drugs with matters various, And to visit his patients twice a day, And once in the night, if they live in town, And if they are poor, to take no pay. Having faithfully promised these, His head is crowned with a laurel crown; A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, The Magister Artium et Physices Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. And now, as we have the whole morning before us, Let us go in, if you make no objection, And listen awhile to a learned prelection On Marcus Aurelius Cassioderus.

They go in. Enter Lucifer as a Doctor.

LUCIFER. This is the great School of Salern! A land of wrangling and of quarrels, Of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn, Where every emulous scholar hears, In every breath that comes to his ears, The rustling of another's laurels! The air of the place is called salubrious; The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it Au odor volcanic, that rather mends it, And the building's have an aspect lugubrious, That inspires a feeling of awe and terror Into the heart of the beholder. And befits such an ancient homestead of error, Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, And yearly by many hundred hands Are carried away in the zeal of youth, And sown like tares in the field of truth, To blossom and ripen in other lands.

What have we here, affixed to the gate? The challenge of some scholastic wight, Who wishes to hold a public debate On sundry questions wrong or right! Ah, now this is my great delight! For I have often observed of late That such discussions end in a fight. Let us see what the learned wag maintains With such a prodigal waste of brains.

Reads.

"Whether angels in moving from place to place Pass through the intermediate space. Whether God himself is the author of evil, Or whether that is the work of the Devil. When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, And whether he now is chained in hell." I think I can answer that question well! So long as the boastful human mind Consents in such mills as this to grind, I sit very firmly upon my throne! Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, To see men leaving the golden grain To gather in piles the pitiful chaff That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain, To have it caught up and tossed again On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne!

But my guests approach! there is in the air A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden Of Paradise, in the days that were! An odor of innocence and of prayer, And of love, and faith that never fails, Such as the fresh young heart exhales Before it begins to wither and harden! I cannot breathe such an atmosphere! My soul is filled with a nameless fear, That after all my trouble and pain, After all my restless endeavor, The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, The most ethereal, most divine, Will escape from my hands for ever and ever. But the other is already mine! Let him live to corrupt his race, Breathing among them, with every breath, Weakness, selfishness, and the base And pusillanimous fear of death. I know his nature, and I know That of all who in my ministry Wander the great earth to and fro, And on my errands come and go, The safest and subtlest are such as he.

Enter PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with attendants.

PRINCE HENRY. Can you direct us to Friar Angelo?

LUCIFER. He stands before you.

PRINCE HENRY. Then you know our purpose. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this The maiden that I spake of in my letters.

LUCIFER. It is a very grave and solemn business! We must nor be precipitate. Does she Without compulsion, of her own free will, Consent to this?

PRINCE HENRY. Against all opposition, Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations, She will not be persuaded.

LUCIFER. That is strange! Have you thought well of it?

ELSIE. I come not here To argue, but to die. Your business is not To question, but to kill me. I am ready, I am impatient to be gone from here Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again The spirit of tranquillity within me.

PRINCE HENRY. Would I had not come here! Would I were dead, And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, And hadst not known me! Why have I done this? Let me go back and die.

ELSIE. It cannot be; Not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway Flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat. I must fulfil my purpose.

PRINCE HENRY. I forbid it! Not one step further. For I only meant To put thus far thy courage to the proof. It is enough. I, too, have strength to die, For thou hast taught me!

ELSIE. O my Prince! remember Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand. You do not look on life and death as I do. There are two angels, that attend unseen Each one of us, and in great books record Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down The good ones, after every action closes His volume, and ascends with it to God. The other keeps his dreadful day-book open Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, The record of the action fades away, And leaves a line of white across the page. Now if my act be good, as I believe, It cannot be recalled. It is already Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready.

To her attendants. Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, And you will have another friend in heaven. Then start not at the creaking of the door Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it.

To PRINCE HENRY. And you, O Prince! bear back my benison Unto my father's house, and all within it. This morning in the church I prayed for them, After confession, after absolution, When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them. God will take care of them, they need me not. And in your life let my remembrance linger, As something not to trouble and disturb it, But to complete it, adding life to life. And if at times beside the evening fire, You see my face among the other faces, Let it not be regarded as a ghost That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you. Nay, even as one of your own family, Without whose presence there were something wanting. I have no more to say. Let us go in.

PRINCE HENRY. Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life, Believe not what she says, for she is mad, And comes here not to die, but to be healed.

ELSIE. Alas! Prince Henry!

LUCIFER.
Come with me; this way.

ELSIE goes in with LUCIFER, who thrusts PRINCE HENRY back and closes the door.

PRINCE HENRY. Gone! and the light of all my life gone with her! A sudden darkness falls upon the world! Oh, what a vile and abject thing am I That purchase length of days at such a cost! Not by her death alone, but by the death Of all that's good and true and noble in me All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, All love, and faith, and hope, and heart are dead! All my divine nobility of nature By this one act is forfeited forever. I am a Prince in nothing but in name!

To the attendants. Why did you let this horrible deed be done? Why did you not lay hold on her, and keep her From self destruction? Angelo! murderer!

Struggles at the door, but cannot open it.

ELSIE, within. Farewell, dear Prince! farewell!

PRINCE HENRY.
Unbar the door!

LUCIFER. It is too late!

PRINCE HENRY.
It shall not be too late.

They burst the door open and rush in.

THE FARM-HOUSE IN THE ODENWALD

URSULA spinning. A summer afternoon. A table spread.

URSULA. I have marked it well,--it must be true,-- Death never takes one alone, but two! Whenever he enters in at a door, Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, He always leaves it upon the latch, And comes again ere the year is o'er. Never one of a household only! Perhaps it is a mercy of God, Lest the dead there under the sod, In the land of strangers, should be lonely! Ah me! I think I am lonelier here! It is hard to go,--but harder to stay! Were it not for the children, I should pray That Death would take me within the year! And Gottlieb!--he is at work all day, In the sunny field, or the forest murk, But I know that his thoughts are far away, I know that his heart is not in his work! And when he comes home to me at night He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, And I see the great tears in his eyes, And try to be cheerful for his sake. Only the children's hearts are light. Mine is weary, and ready to break. God help us! I hope we have done right; We thought we were acting for the best!

Looking through the open door.

Who is it coming under the trees? A man, in the Prince's livery dressed! He looks about him with doubtful face, As if uncertain of the place. He stops at the beehives;--now he sees The garden gate;--he is going past! Can he be afraid of the bees? No; he is coming in at last! He fills my heart with strange alarm!

Enter a Forester.

FORESTER. Is this the tenant Gottlieb's farm?

URSULA. This is his farm, and I his wife. Pray sit. What may your business be?

FORESTER. News from the Prince!

URSULA.
Of death or life?

FORESTER. You put your questions eagerly!

URSULA. Answer me, then! How is the Prince?

FORESTER. I left him only two hours since Homeward returning down the river, As strong and well as if God, the Giver, Had given him back his youth again.

URSULA, despairing. Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead!

FORESTER. That, my good woman, I have not said. Don't cross the bridge till you come to it, Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit.

URSULA. Keep me no longer in this pain!

FORESTER. It is true your daughter is no more;-- That is, the peasant she was before.

URSULA. Alas! I am simple and lowly bred, I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. And it is not well that you of the court Should mock me thus, and make a sport Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, For you, too, were of mother born!

FORESTER. Your daughter lives, and the Prince is well! You will learn erelong how it all befell. Her heart for a moment never failed; But when they reached Salerno's gate, The Prince's nobler self prevailed, And saved her for a noble fate. And he was healed, in his despair, By the touch of St. Matthew's sacred bones; Though I think the long ride in the open air, That pilgrimage over stocks and stones, In the miracle must come in for a share.

URSULA. Virgin! who lovest the poor and lowly, If the loud cry of a mother's heart Can ever ascend to where thou art, Into thy blessed hands and holy Receive my prayer of praise and thanksgiving! Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear it Into the awful presence of God; For thy feet with holiness are shod, And if thou hearest it He will hear it. Our child who was dead again is living!

FORESTER. I did not tell you she was dead; If you thought so 't was no fault of mine; At this very moment while I speak, They are sailing homeward down the Rhine, In a splendid barge, with golden prow, And decked with banners white and red As the colors on your daughter's cheek. They call her the Lady Alicia now; For the Prince in Salerno made a vow That Elsie only would he wed.

URSULA. Jesu Maria! what a change! All seems to me so weird and strange!

FORESTER. I saw her standing on the deck, Beneath an awning cool and shady; Her cap of velvet could not hold The tresses of her hair of gold, That flowed and floated like the stream, And fell in masses down her neck. As fair and lovely did she seem As in a story or a dream Some beautiful and foreign lady. And the Prince looked so grand and proud, And waved his hand thus to the crowd That gazed and shouted from the shore, All down the river, long and loud.

URSULA. We shall behold our child once more; She is not dead! She is not dead! God, listening, must have overheard The prayers, that, without sound or word, Our hearts in secrecy have said! Oh, bring me to her; for mine eyes Are hungry to behold her face; My very soul within me cries; My very hands seem to caress her, To see her, gaze at her, and bless her; Dear Elsie, child of God and grace!

Goes out toward the garden.

FORESTER. There goes the good woman out of her head; And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here; A very capacious flagon of beer, And a very portentous loaf of bread. One would say his grief did not much oppress him. Here's to the health of the Prince, God bless him!

He drinks.

Ha! it buzzes and stings like a hornet! And what a scene there, through the door! The forest behind and the garden before, And midway an old man of threescore, With a wife and children that caress him. Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it With a merry, echoing blast of my cornet!

Goes out blowing his horn.

THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON THE RHINE

PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE standing on the terrace at evening.

The sound of tells heard from a distance.

PRINCE HENRY. We are alone. The wedding guests Ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks, And the descending dark invests The Niederwald, and all the nests Among its hoar and haunted oaks.

ELSIE. What bells are those, that ring so slow, So mellow, musical, and low?

PRINCE HENRY. They are the bells of Geisenheim, That with their melancholy chime Ring out the curfew of the sun.

ELSIE. Listen, beloved.

PRINCE HENRY. They are done! Dear Elsie! many years ago Those same soft bells at eventide Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, As, seated by Fastrada's side At Ingelheim, in all his pride He heard their sound with secret pain.

ELSIE. Their voices only speak to me Of peace and deep tranquillity, And endless confidence in thee!

PRINCE HENRY. Thou knowest the story of her ring, How, when the court went back to Aix, Fastrada died; and how the king Sat watching by her night and day, Till into one of the blue lakes, Which water that delicious land, They cast the ring, drawn from her hand: And the great monarch sat serene And sad beside the fated shore, Nor left the land forevermore.

ELSIE. That was true love.

PRINCE HENRY. For him the queen Ne'er did what thou hast done for me.

ELSIE. Wilt thou as fond and faithful be? Wilt thou so love me after death?

PRINCE HENRY. In life's delight, in death's dismay, In storm and sunshine, night and day, In health, in sickness, in decay, Here and hereafter, I am thine! Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath the calm, blue waters of thine eyes, Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, And, undisturbed by this world's breath, With magic light its jewels shine! This golden ring, which thou hast worn Upon thy finger since the morn, Is but a symbol and a semblance, An outward fashion, a remembrance, Of what thou wearest within unseen, O my Fastrada, O my queen! Behold! the hill-trips all aglow With purple and with amethyst; While the whole valley deep below Is filled, and seems to overflow, With a fast-rising tide of mist. The evening air grows damp and chill; Let us go in.

ELSIE. Ah, not so soon. See yonder fire! It is the moon Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips And through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light, And makes the heart in love with night.

PRINCE HENRY. Oft on this terrace, when the day Was closing, have I stood and gazed, And seen the landscape fade away, And the white vapors rise and drown Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, While far above the hill-tops blazed. But then another hand than thine Was gently held and clasped in mine; Another head upon my breast Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. Why dost thou lift those tender eyes With so much sorrow and surprise? A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand, Was that which in my own was pressed, A manly form usurped thy place, A beautiful, but bearded face, That now is in the Holy Land, Yet in my memory from afar Is shining on us like a star. But linger not. For while I speak, A sheeted spectre white and tall, The cold mist climbs the castle wall, And lays his hand upon thy cheek!

They go in.