He has inspired This purpose in her: and through pain, Out of a world of sin and woe, He takes her to Himself again.
The mother's heart resists no longer; With the Angel of the Lord in vain It wrestled, for he was the stronger.
GOTTLIEB.
As Abraham offered long ago His son unto the Lord, and even The Everlasting Father in heaven Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, So do I offer up my daughter! URSULA hides her face.
ELSIE.
My life is little, Only a cup of water, But pure and limpid.
Take it, O my Prince! Let it refresh you, Let it restore you.
It is given willingly, It is given freely; May God bless the gift! PRINCE HENRY, And the giver! GOTTLIEB.
Amen! PRINCE HENRY.
I accept it! GOTTLIEB.
Where are the children?
URSULA.
They are already asleep.
GOTTLIEB.
What if they were dead?
IN THE GARDEN ELSIE.
I have one thing to ask of you.
PRINCE HENRY.
What is it?
It is already granted.
ELSIE.
Promise me, When we are gone from here, and on our way Are journeying to Salerno, you will not, By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade me And turn me from my purpose; but remember That as a pilgrim to the Holy City Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon Occupied wholly, so would I approach The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, With my petition, putting off from me All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off my feet.
Promise me this.
PRINCE HENRY.
Thy words fall from thy lips Like roses from the lips of Angelo: and angels Might stoop to pick them up! ELSIE.
Will you not promise?
PRINCE HENRY.
If ever we depart upon this journey, So long to one or both of us, I promise.
ELSIE.
Shall we not go, then?
Have you lifted me Into the air, only to hurl me back Wounded upon the ground?
and offered me The waters of eternal life, to bid me Drink the polluted puddles of the world?
PRINCE HENRY.
O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost teach me! The life which is, and that which is to come, Suspended hang in such nice equipoise A breath disturbs the balance; and that scale In which we throw our hearts preponderates, And the other, like an empty one, flies up, And is accounted vanity and air! To me the thought of death is terrible, Having such hold on life.

To thee it is not So much even as the lifting of a latch; Only a step into the open air Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its transparent walls! O pure in heart! from thy sweet dust shall grow Lilies, upon whose petals will be written "Ave Maria" in characters of gold! III A STREET IN STRASBURG Night.

PRINCE HENRY wandering alone, wrapped in a cloak.
PRINCE HENRY.
Still is the night.

The sound of feet Has died away from the empty street, And like an artisan, bending down His head on his anvil, the dark town Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet.
Sleepless and restless, I alone, In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone, Wander and weep in my remorse! CRIER OF THE DEAD, ringing a bell.
Wake! wake! All ye that sleep! Pray for the Dead! Pray for the Dead! PRINCE HENRY.
Hark! with what accents loud and hoarse This warder on the walls of death Sends forth the challenge of his breath! I see the dead that sleep in the grave! They rise up and their garments wave, Dimly and spectral, as they rise, With the light of another world in their eyes! CRIER OF THE DEAD.
Wake! wake! All ye that sleep! Pray for the Dead! Pray for the Dead! PRINCE HENRY, Why for the dead, who are at rest?
Pray for the living, in whose breast The struggle between right and wrong Is raging terrible and strong, As when good angels war with devils! This is the Master of the Revels, Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes The health of absent friends, and pledges, Not in bright goblets crowned with roses, And tinkling as we touch their edges, But with his dismal, tinkling bell.
That mocks and mimics their funeral knell.
CRIER OP THE DEAD.
Wake! wake! All ye that sleep! Pray for the Dead! Pray for the Dead! PRINCE HENRY.
Wake not, beloved! be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep! There walks a sentinel at thy gate Whose heart is heavy and desolate, And the heavings of whose bosom number The respirations of thy slumber, As if some strange, mysterious fate Had linked two hearts in one, and mine Went madly wheeling about thine, Only with wider and wilder sweep! CRIER OP THE DEAD, at a distance.
Wake! wake! All ye that sleep! Pray for the Dead! Pray for the Dead! PRINCE HENRY.
Lo! with what depth of blackness thrown Against the clouds, far up the skies The walls of the cathedral rise, Like a mysterious grove of stone, With fitful lights and shadows blending, As from behind, the moon ascending, Lights its dim aisles and paths unknown! The wind is rising; but the boughs Rise not and fall not with the wind, That through their foliage sobs and soughs; Only the cloudy rack behind, Drifting onward, wild and ragged, Gives to each spire and buttress jagged A seeming motion undefined.
Below on the square, an armed knight, Still as a statue and as white, Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver Upon the points of his armor bright As on the ripples of a river.
He lifts the visor from his cheek, And beckons, and makes as he would speak.
WALTER the Minnesinger.
Friend! can you tell me where alight Thuringia's horsemen for the night?
For I have lingered in the rear, And wander vainly up and down.
PRINCE HENRY.
I am a stranger in the town.
As thou art; but the voice I hear Is not a stranger to mine ear.
Thou art Walter of the Vogelweid! WALTER.
Thou hast guessed rightly; and thy name Is Henry of Hoheneck! PRINCE HENRY.
Ay, the same.
WALTER, embracing him.
Come closer, closer to my side! What brings thee hither?
What potent charm Has drawn thee from thy German farm Into the old Alsatian city?
PRINCE HENRY.
A tale of wonder and of pity! A wretched man, almost by stealth Dragging my body to Salem, In the vain hope and search for health, And destined never to return.
Already thou hast heard the rest.
But what brings thee, thus armed and dight In the equipments of a knight?
WALTER.
Dost thou not see upon my breast The cross of the Crusaders shine?
My pathway leads to Palestine.
PRINCE HENRY.
Ah, would that way were also mine! O noble poet! thou whose heart Is like a nest of singing-birds Rocked on the topmost bough of life, Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, And in the clangor of the strife Mingle the music of thy words?
WALTER.
My hopes are high, my heart is proud, And like a trumpet long and loud, Thither my thoughts all clang and ring! My life is in my hand, and lo! I grasp and bend it as a bow, And shoot forth from its trembling string An arrow, that shall be, perchance, Like the arrow of the Israelite king Shot from the window towards the east.
That of the Lord's deliverance! PRINCE HENRY.
My life, alas! is what thou seest! O enviable fate! to be Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee With lyre and sword, with song and steel; A hand to smite, a heart to feel! Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword, Thou givest all unto thy Lord; While I, so mean and abject grown, Am thinking of myself alone, WALTER.
Be patient; Time will reinstate Thy health and fortunes.
PRINCE HENRY.
'T is too late! I cannot strive against my fate! WALTER.
Come with me; for my steed is weary; Our journey has been long and dreary, And, dreaming of his stall, he dints With his impatient hoofs the flints.
PRINCE HENRY, aside.
I am ashamed, in my disgrace, To look into that noble face! To-morrow, Walter, let it be.
WALTER.
To-morrow, at the dawn of day, I shall again be on my way.
Come with me to the hostelry, For I have many things to say.
Our journey into Italy Perchance together we may make; Wilt thou not do it for my sake?
PRINCE HENRY.
A sick man's pace would but impede Thine eager and impatient speed.
Besides, my pathway leads me round To Hirsehau, in the forest's bound, Where I assemble man and steed, And all things for my journey's need.
They go out.
LUCIFER, flying over the city.
Sleep, sleep, O city! till the light Wake you to sin and crime again, Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, I scatter downward through the night My maledictions dark and deep.
I have more martyrs in your walls Than God has; and they cannot sleep; They are my bondsmen and my thralls; Their wretched lives are full of pain, Wild agonies of nerve and brain; And every heart-beat, every breath, Is a convulsion worse than death! Sleep, sleep, O city! though within The circuit of your walls there be No habitation free from sin, And all its nameless misery; The aching heart, the aching head, Grief for the living and the dead, And foul corruption of the time, Disease, distress, and want, and woe, And crimes, and passions that may grow Until they ripen into crime! SQUARE IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL Easter Sunday.

FRIAR CUTHBERT preaching to the crowd from a pulpit in the open air.