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.
ABBOT.
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.
PRINCE HENRY.
If I remember right, the Counts of Calva
Founded your convent.
ABBOT.
Even as you say.
PRINCE HENRY.
And, if I err not, it is very old.
ABBOT.
Within these cloisters lie already buried
Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags
On which we stand, the Abbot William lies,
Of blessed memory.
PRINCE HENRY.
And whose tomb is that,
Which bears the brass escutcheon?
ABBOT.
A benefactor's.
Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood
Godfather to our bells.
PRINCE HENRY.
Your monks are learned
And holy men, I trust.
ABBOT.
There are among them
Learned and holy men.
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