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 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 up-gathers 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, forever, 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