How did it end?

WALTER.

HUBERT.

Why, in Saint Rochus

They made him stand, and wait his doom;
And, as if he were condemned to the tomb,
Began to mutter their hocus-pocus.
First, the Mass for the Dead they chaunted,
Then three times laid upon his head
A shovelful of church-yard clay,
Saying to him, as he stood undaunted,
"This is a sign that thou art dead,
So in thy heart be penitent!"

And forth from the chapel door he went
Into disgrace and banishment,

Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray,

And bearing a wallet, and a bell,
Whose sound should be a perpetual knell
To keep all travellers away.

WALTER.

O, horrible fate! Outcast, rejected,
As one with pestilence infected!

HUBERT.

Then was the family tomb unsealed,
And broken helmet, sword and shield,
Buried together, in common wreck,
As is the custom, when the last
Of any princely house has passed,
And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast,
A herald shouted down the stair
The words of warning and despair, -
"O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!"

WALTER.

Still in my soul that cry goes on,
For ever gone! for ever gone!
Longfellow. II.

Ah, what a cruel sense of loss,

Like a black shadow, would fall across
The hearts of all, if he should die!
His gracious presence upon earth
Was as a fire upon a hearth;

As pleasant songs, at morning sung,

The words that dropped from his sweet tongue Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night, Made all our slumbers soft and light.

Where is he?

HUBERT.

In the Odenwald.

Some of his tenants, unappalled
By fear of death, or priestly word,
A holy family, that make

Each meal a Supper of the Lord,

Have him beneath their watch and ward,
For love of him, and Jesus' sake!
Pray you come in. For why should I

With out-door hospitality

My prince's friend thus entertain?

WALTER.

I would a moment here remain.

But you, good Hubert, go before,
Fill me a goblet of May-drink,
As aromatic as the May

From which it steals the breath away,
And which he loved so well of yore;
It is of him that I would think.
You shall attend me, when I call,
In the ancestral banquet-hall.
Unseen companions, guests of air,
You cannot wait on, will be there;
They taste not food, they drink not wine,
But their soft eyes look into mine,
And their lips speak to me, and all

The vast and shadowy banquet-hall
Is full of looks and words divine!

Leaning over the parapet.
The day is done; and slowly from the scene
The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts,
And puts them back into his golden quiver!
Below me in the valley, deep and green
As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts
We drink its wine, the swift and mantling river
Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions,
Etched with the shadows of its sombre margent,
And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent!
Yes, there it flows, for ever, broad and still,
As when the vanguard of the Roman legions
First saw it from the top of yonder hill!
How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat,

Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag,
The consecrated chapel on the

crag,

And the white hamlet gathered round its base,
Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet,

And looking up at his beloved face!

O friend!

O best of friends! Thy absence more Than the impending night darkens the landscape o'er!

II.

A FARM IN THE ODENWALD.

A garden; morning; PRINCE HENRY seated, with a book. ELSIE, at a distance, gathering flowers.

PRINCE HENRY, reading.

ONE morning, all alone,

Out of his convent of gray stone,

Into the forest older, darker, grayer,

His lips moving as if in prayer,

His head sunken upon his breast
As in a dream of rest,

Walked the Monk Felix. All about

The broad, sweet sunshine lay without,

Filling the summer air,

And within the woodlands as he trod,

The twilight was like the Truce of God

With worldly woe and care;

Under him lay the golden moss;

And above him the boughs of hemlock-trees

Waved, and made the sign of the cross,

And whispered their Benedicites;

And from the ground

Rose an odor sweet and fragrant

Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant

Vines that wandered,

Seeking the sunshine, round and round.

These he heeded not, but pondered
On the volume in his hand,
A volume of Saint Augustine,
Wherein he read of the unseen

Splendors of God's great town
In the unknown land,

And, with his eyes cast down
In humility, he said:
"I believe, O God,
What herein I have read,

But alas! I do not understand!"

And lo! he heard

The sudden singing of a bird,

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud

Dropped down,

And among the branches brown

Sat singing

So sweet, and clear, and loud,

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing.

And the Monk Felix closed his book,

And long, long,

With rapturous look,

He listened to the song,

And hardly breathed or stirred,

Until he saw, as in a vision,

The land Elysian,

And in the heavenly city heard

Angelic feet

Fall on the golden flagging of the street.

And he would fain

Have caught the wondrous bird,

But strove in vain;

For it flew away, away,

Far over hill and dell,

And instead of its sweet singing

He heard the convent bell
Suddenly in the silence ringing

For the service of noonday,

And he retraced

His pathway homeward sadly and in haste.