Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882). Complete Poetical Works. 1893.

Christus: A Mystery

Part II. The Golden Legend. IV. IV. The Cloisters

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.

Christ is arisen!

Amen! He is arisen!

His peace be with you!

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?

I am.

And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck,

Who crave your hospitality to-night.

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.

How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau?

Are all things well with them?

All things are well.

A noble convent! I have known it long

By the report of travellers. 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.

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.

If I remember right, the Counts of Calva

Founded your convent.

Even as you say.

And, if I err not, it is very old.

Within these cloisters lie already buried

Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags

On which we stand, the Abbot William lies,

Of blessed memory.

And whose tomb is that,

Which bears the brass escutcheon?

A benefactor’s.

Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood

Godfather to our bells.

Your monks are learned

And holy men, I trust.

There are among them

Learned and holy men. Yet in this age

We need another Hildebrand, to shake

And purify us like a mighty wind.

The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder

God does not lose his patience with it wholly,

And shatter it like glass! Even here, at times,

Within these walls, where all should be at peace,

I have my trials. Time has laid his hand

Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,

But as a harper lays his open palm

Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.

Ashes are on my head, and on my lips

Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness

And weariness of life, that makes me ready

To say to the dead Abbots under us,

“Make room for me!” Only I see the dusk

Of evening twilight coming, and have not

Completed half my task; and so at times

The thought of my shortcomings in this life

Falls like a shadow on the life to come.

We must all die, and not the old alone;

The young have no exemption from that doom.

Ah, yes! the young may die, but the old must!

That is the difference.

I have heard much laud

Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium

Is famous among all; your manuscripts

Praised for their beauty and their excellence.

That is indeed our boast. If you desire it,

You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile

Shall the Refectorarius bestow

Your horses and attendants for the night.