Abbot— And some
Have even made this abbey here their den?
Father Benedict—Would make it so.
Abbot— And from these holy halls
Steal forth and prey—well, let us say, upon
Your flock?
Father Benedict—They have preyed there.
Abbot— Since when?
Father Benedict—And with the fleeces wiped their heathen mouths,
These wolves of Hell.
Abbot— Benedict!
Father Benedict— Ay, wolves of Hell.
Hear what I say. Ah, Father, Father!
Sometimes we think our Lord is dead in heaven,
His enemies so thrive upon the earth.
We see the Devil's squatters on our lands
With deeds that seem to bear the seal of Heaven;
Yea, everything they do seems blest of Heaven.
They plow and sow; God gives them sun and rain.
Their fields wave green; the frosts are kept at bay.
They build their barns; Heaven holds her storms in leash
And seems to slumber while the singing foe
Silver their scythes beneath the harvest moon.
But when the season plumps the golden ears
And Satan brings his sacks to get the grain,
God puts his sickle in and takes the crop.
Father Benedict— Ay, sends Benedict.
When vines are bending and the song is heard
Of Bacchus revelling in the bubbling must,
The golden trumpets of the sun in heaven
Proclaim a festival and wake the skies.
Angels come tripping to the foaming vats
And, while the devils tread the vintage out,
Brim their bright casks with gushing purple meath
To crown the crystal goblets of the saints,
Leaving the pulp to slop the swine of Hell.