JESUS makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the other boys do the same.
JESUS.
Look! look how prettily I make These little sparrows by the lake Bend down their necks and drink! Now will I make them sing and soar So far, they shall return no more Unto this river's brink.
JUDAS.
That canst thou not! They are but clay, They cannot sing, nor fly away Above the meadow lands! JESUS.
Fly, fly! ye sparrows! you are free! And while you live, remember me, Who made you with my hands.
Here JESUS shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, chirruping.
JUDAS.
Thou art a sorcerer, I know; Oft has my mother told me so, I will not play with thee! He strikes JESUS in the right side.
JESUS.
Ah, Judas! thou hast smote my side, And when I shall be crucified, There shall I pierced be! Here JOSEPH shall come in and say: JOSEPH.
Ye wicked boys! why do ye play, And break the holy Sabbath day?
What, think ye, will your mothers say To see you in such plight! In such a sweat and such a heat, With all that mud upon your feet! There's not a beggar in the street Makes such a sorry sight! VIII.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL The RABBI BEN ISRAEL, sitting on a high stool, with a long beard, and a rod in his hand.
RABBI.
I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, Throughout this village known full well, And, as my scholars all will tell, Learned in things divine; The Cabala and Talmud hoar Than all the prophets prize I more, For water is all Bible lore, But Mishna is strong wine.
My fame extends from West to East, And always, at the Purim feast, I am as drunk as any beast That wallows in his sty; The wine it so elateth me, That I no difference can see Between "Accursed Haman be!" And "Blessed be Mordecai!" Come hither, Judas Iscariot; Say, if thy lesson thou hast got From the Rabbinical Book or not.
Why howl the dogs at night?
JUDAS.
In the Rabbinical Book, it saith The dogs howl, when with icy breath Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, Takes through the town his flight! RABBI.
Well, boy! now say, if thou art wise, When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes, Comes where a sick man dying lies, What doth he to the wight?
JUDAS.
He stands beside him, dark and tall, Holding a sword, from which doth fall Into his mouth a drop of gall, And so he turneth white.
RABBI.
And now, my Judas, say to me What the great Voices Four may be, That quite across the world do flee, And are not heard by men?
JUDAS.
The Voice of the Sun in heaven's dome, The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, And the Angel of the Rain! RABBI.
Right are thine answers every one! Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son, Let us see how thy task is done; Canst thou thy letters say?
JESUS.
Aleph.
RABBI.
What next?
Do not stop yet! Go on with all the alphabet.
Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou forget?
Cock's soul! thou'dst rather play! JESUS.
What Aleph means I fain would know Before I any farther go! RABBI.
Oh, by Saint Peter! wouldst thou so?
Come hither, boy, to me.
As surely as the letter Jod Once cried aloud, and spake to God, So surely shalt thou feel this rod, And punished shalt thou be! Here RABBI BEN ISRAEL shall lift up his rod to strike Jesus, and his right arm shall be paralyzed.
IX.

CROWNED WITH FLOWERS JESUS sitting among his playmates, crowned with flowers as their King.
BOYS.
We spread our garments on the ground! With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned While like a guard we stand around, And hail thee as our King! Thou art the new King of the Jews! Nor let the passers-by refuse To bring that homage which men use To majesty to bring.
Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his garments and say: BOYS.
Come hither I and all reverence pay Unto our monarch, crowned to-day! Then go rejoicing on your way, In all prosperity! TRAVELLER.
Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority! He passes by; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child.
BOYS.
Set down the litter and draw near! The King of Bethlehem is here! What ails the child, who seems to fear That we shall do him harm?
THE BEARERS.
He climbed up to the robin's nest, And out there darted, from his rest, A serpent with a crimson crest, And stung him in the arm.
JESUS.
Bring him to me, and let me feel The wounded place; my touch can heal The sting of serpents, and can steal The poison from the bite! He touches the wound, and the boy begins to cry.
Cease to lament! I can foresee That thou hereafter known shalt be, Among the men who follow me, As Simon the Canaanite! EPILOGUE In the after part of the day Will be represented another play, Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, Beginning directly after Nones! At the close of which we shall accord, By way of benison and reward, The sight of a holy Martyr's bones! IV THE ROAD TO HIRSCHAU PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with their attendants on horseback.
ELSIE.
Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring! PRINCE HENRY.
This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain.
ELSIE.
Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the stigma Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma.
PRINCE HENRY.
Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may betide, Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's side?
ELSIE.
All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creaking wain Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and strain.
PRINCE HENRY.
Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs with the landlord's daughter, While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water.
ELSIE.
All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his soul with love; Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above.
PRINCE HENRY.
Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the highway ends, And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends.
ELSIE.
I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses' feet.
They turn down a green lane.
ELSIE.
Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow.
PRINCE HENRY.
Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill; We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still.
ELSIE.
Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our side! What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide?
PRINCE HENRY.
It is the home of the Counts of Calva; well have I known these scenes of old, Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the wold.
ELSIE.
Hark! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing for rain! Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain.
PRINCE HENRY.
They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a little cloud, That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud.
They pass on.
THE CONVENT OF HIRSCHAU IN THE BLACK FOREST.
The Convent cellar.

FRIAR CLAUS comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons.
FRIAR CLAUS.
I always enter this sacred place With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent pace, Pausing long enough on each stair To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction on the vines That produce these various sorts of wines! For my part, I am well content That we have got through with the tedious Lent! Fasting is all very well for those Who have to contend with invisible foes; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me, Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind, That are always distressed in body and mind! And at times it really does me good To come down among this brotherhood, Dwelling forever underground, Silent, contemplative, round and sound; Each one old, and brown with mould, But filled to the lips with the ardor of youth, With the latent power and love of truth, And with virtues fervent and manifold.
I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, When buds are swelling on every side, And the sap begins to move in the vine, Then in all cellars, far and wide, The oldest as well as the newest wine Begins to stir itself, and ferment, With a kind of revolt and discontent At being so long in darkness pent, And fain would burst from its sombre tun To bask on the hillside in the sun; As in the bosom of us poor friars, The tumult of half-subdued desires For the world that we have left behind Disturbs at times all peace of mind! And now that we have lived through Lent, My duty it is, as often before, To open awhile the prison-door, And give these restless spirits vent.
Now here is a cask that stands alone, And has stood a hundred years or more, Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone! It is of the quick and not of the dead! In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak That time may have tamed, but has not broke! It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm; But that I do not consider dear, When I remember that every year Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome.
And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, The old rhyme keeps running in my brain; At Bacharach on the Rhine, At Hochheim on the Main, And at Wurzburg on the Stein, Grow the three best kinds of wine! They are all good wines, and better far Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr.
In particular, Wurzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most.
This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, Who seems to be much of my way of thinking.
Fills a flagon.
Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings! What a delicious fragrance springs From the deep flagon, while it fills, As of hyacinths and daffodils! Between this cask and the Abbot's lips Many have been the sips and slips; Many have been the draughts of wine, On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs, Less with its longings and more with its prayers.
But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul! He drinks.
O cordial delicious! O soother of pain! It flashes like sunshine into my brain! A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends! And now a flagon for such as may ask A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, And I will be gone, though I know full well The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell.
Behold where he stands, all sound and good, Brown and old in his oaken hood; Silent he seems externally As any Carthusian monk may be; But within, what a spirit of deep unrest! What a seething and simmering in his breast! As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart! Let me unloose this button of wood, And quiet a little his turbulent mood.
Sets it running.
See! how its currents gleam and shine, As if they had caught the purple hues Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews; Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, Was taken and crucified by the Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach! Perdition upon those infidel Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach! The beautiful town, that gives us wine With the fragrant odor of Muscadine! I should deem it wrong to let this pass Without first touching my lips to the glass, For here in the midst of the current I stand Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river, Taking toll upon either hand, And much more grateful to the giver.
He drinks.
Here, now, is a very inferior kind, Such as in any town you may find, Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot.
And, after all, it was not a crime, For he won thereby Dorf Huffelsheim.
A jolly old toper! who at a pull Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, And ask with a laugh, when that was done, If the fellow had left the other one! This wine is as good as we can afford To the friars who sit at the lower board, And cannot distinguish bad from good, And are far better off than if they could, Being rather the rude disciples of beer, Than of anything more refined and dear! Fills the flagon and departs.
THE SCRIPTORIUM FRIAR PACIFICUS transcribing and illuminating.
FRIAR PACIFICUS.
It is growing dark! Yet one line more, And then my work for to-day is o'er.
I come again to the name of the Lord! Ere I that awful name record, That is spoken so lightly among men, Let me pause awhile and wash my pen; Pure from blemish and blot must it be When it writes that word of mystery! Thus have I labored on and on, Nearly through the Gospel of John.
Can it be that from the lips Of this same gentle Evangelist, That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, Came the dread Apocalypse! It has a very awful look, As it stands there at the end of the book, Like the sun in an eclipse.
Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, Think of writing it, line by line, I stand in awe of the terrible curse, Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse! God forgive me! if ever I Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, Lest my part too should be taken away From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.
This is well written, though I say it! I should not be afraid to display it In open day, on the selfsame shelf With the writings of St.Thecla herself, Or of Theodosius, who of old Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold! That goodly folio standing yonder, Without a single blot or blunder, Would not bear away the palm from mine, If we should compare them line for line.
There, now, is an initial letter! Saint Ulric himself never made a better! Finished down to the leaf and the snail, Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail! And now, as I turn the volume over, And see what lies between cover and cover, What treasures of art these pages hold, All ablaze with crimson and gold, God forgive me! I seem to feel A certain satisfaction steal Into my heart, and into my brain, As if my talent had not lain Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, Here is a copy of thy Word, Written out with much toil and pain; Take it, O Lord, and let it be As something I have done for thee! He looks from the window.
How sweet the air is! how fair the scene! I wish I had as lovely a green To paint my landscapes and my leaves! How the swallows twitter under the eaves! There, now, there is one in her nest; I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook For the margin of my Gospel book.
He makes a sketch.
I can see no more.

Through the valley yonder A shower is passing; I hear the thunder Mutter its curses in the air, The devil's own and only prayer! The dusty road is brown with rain, And, speeding on with might and main, Hitherward rides a gallant train.
They do not parley, they cannot wait, But hurry in at the convent gate.
What a fair lady! and beside her What a handsome, graceful, noble rider! Now she gives him her hand to alight; They will beg a shelter for the night.
I will go down to the corridor, And try to see that face once more; It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.
Goes out.
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.