Section 14

in some convulsive spasm, the summits of the hills had cracked, and made a road for the cataract, That raves and rages down the steep!

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha!

Guide. Never any bridge but this Could stand across the wild abyss; All the rest, of wood or stone, By the Devil's hand were overthrown. He toppled crags from the precipice, And whatsoe'er was built by day In the night was swept away; None could stand but this alone.

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha!

Guide. I showed you in the valley a boulder Marked with the imprint of his shoulder; As he was bearing it up this way, A peasant, passing, cried, 「Herr Jé!「 And the Devil dropped it in his fright, And vanished suddenly out of sight!

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha!

Guide. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, For pilgrims on their way to Rome, Built this at last, with a single arch, Under which, on its endless march, Runs the river, white with foam, Like a thread through the eye of a needle. And the Devil promised to let it stand, Under compact and condition That the first living thing which crossed Should be surrendered into his hand, And be beyond redemption lost.

Lucifer (under the bridge). Ha! ha! perdition!

Guide. At length, the bridge being all completed, The Abbot, standing at its head, Threw across it a loaf of bread, Which a hungry dog sprang after, And the rocks reechoed with peals of laughter To see the Devil thus defeated!

      (_They pass on_)

Lucifer (under the bridge) Ha! ha! defeated! For journeys and for crimes like this To let the bridge stand o'er the abyss!

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THE ST. GOTHARD PASS.

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Prince Henry. This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them, Like patriarchs old among their shining tents.

Elsie. How bleak and bare it is! Nothing but mosses Grow on these rocks.

Prince Henry. Yet are they not forgotten; Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them.

Elsie. See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks! It seems to me The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels!

Prince Henry. Thou art St. Catherine, and invisible angels Bear thee across these chasms and precipices, Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone!

Elsie. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was, Upon angelic shoulders! Even now I Seem uplifted by them, light as air! What sound is that?

Prince Henry. The tumbling avalanches!

Elsie How awful, yet how beautiful!

Prince Henry. These are The voices of the mountains! Thus they ope Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other, In the primeval language, lost to man.

Elsie. What land is this that spreads itself beneath us?

Prince Henry Italy! Italy!

Elsie Land of the Madonna! How beautiful it is! It seems a garden Of Paradise!

Prince Henry. Nay, of Gethsemane To thee and me, of passion and of prayer! Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago I wandered as a youth among its bowers, And never from my heart has faded quite Its memory, that, like a summer sunset, Encircles with a ring of purple light All the horizon of my youth.

Guide. O friends! The days are short, the way before us long; We must not linger, if we think to reach The inn at Belinzona before vespers!

      (_They pass on_.)

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AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS.

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A halt under the trees at noon.

Prince Henry Here let us pause a moment in the trembling Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees, And, our tired horses in a group assembling, Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants; They lag behind us with a slower pace; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place. Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade! Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade!

Elsie. What a delightful landscape spreads before us, Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there! And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er us, Blossoms of grapevines scent the sunny air.

Prince Henry. Hark! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet!

Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet.

Pilgrims (chaunting the Hymn of St. Hildebert) Me receptet Sion illa, Sion David, urbs tranquilla, Cujus faber auctor lucis, Cujus portae lignum crucis, Cujus claves lingua Petri, Cujus cives semper laeti, Cujus muri lapis vivus, Cujus custos Rex festivus!

Lucifer (as a Friar in the procession). Here am I, too, in the pious band, In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed! The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hildebrand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives. All day long I beat my breast, And chaunt with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest. And at night such lodging in barns and sheds, Such a hurly-burly in country inns, Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins! Of all the contrivances of the time For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine!

Prince Henry. If from the outward man we judge the inner, And cleanliness is godliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, Must be that Carmelite now passing near.

Lucifer. There is my German Prince again, Thus far on his journey to Salern, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain; But it's a long road that has no turn! Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play. But first I must act to my heart's content This mummery and this merriment, And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent. Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along, Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff, Chanting their wonderful piff and paff, And, to make up for not understanding the song, Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong! Were it not for my magic garters and staff, And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long.

Pilgrims (chaunting). In hâc uibe, lux solennis, Ver aeternum, pax perennis, In hâc odor implens caelos, In hâc semper festum melos!

Prince Henry. Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face?

Elsie. It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air.

Prince Henry. And he has crossed o'er mountain, field, and fell, On that good steed, that seems to bear him well, The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs! He, too, was in the play, Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. Good morrow, Friar!

Friar Cuthbert. Good morrow, noble Sir!

Prince Henry. I speak in German, for, unless I err, You are a German.

Friar Cuthbert. I cannot gainsay you. But by what instinct, or what secret sign, Meeting me here, do you straightway divine That northward of the Alps my country lies?

Prince Henry. Your accent, like St, Peter's, would betray you, Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes, Moreover, we have seen your face before, And heard you preach at the Cathedral door On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square We were among the crowd that gathered there, And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill, As if, by leaning o'er so many years To walk with little children, your own will Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, A kind of stooping in its form and gait, And could no longer stand erect and straight. Whence come you now?

Friar Cuthbert. From the old monastery Of Hirschau, in the forest; being sent Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, To see the image of the Virgin Mary, That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes speaks, And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, To touch the hearts of the impenitent.

Prince Henry. O, had I faith, as in the days gone by, That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery!

Lucifer (at a distance). Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert!

Friar Cuthbert. Farewell, Prince! I cannot stay to argue and convince.

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 evi