Hubert. No; if you please;
A strange, mysterious disease
Fell on him with a sudden blight. 
Whole hours together he would stand
Upon the terrace, in a dream,
Resting his head upon his hand,
Best pleased when he was most alone,
Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone,
Looking down into a stream. 
In the Round Tower, night after night,
He sat, and bleared his eyes with books;
Until one morning we found him there
Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon
He had fallen from his chair. 
We hardly recognized his sweet looks!

  Walter. Poor Prince!

Hubert. I think he might have mended;
And he did mend; but very soon
The Priests came flocking in, like rooks,
With all their crosiers and their crooks,
And so at last the matter ended.

  Walter. How did it end?

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 travelers 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,—­
Forever gone! forever gone! 
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 outdoor hospitality
My prince’s friend thus entertain?