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.
ABBOT.
There are among them Learned and holy men.