University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II: DRAMATIC WORKS AND APPENDICES

DRAMATIC WORKS

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE

AN HISTORIC DRAMA

ACT I

Scene

—The Thuilleries.
Barrere.
The tempest gathers—be it mine to seek
A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him.
But where? and how? I fear the Tyrant's soul—
Sudden in action, fertile in resource,
And rising awful 'mid impending ruins;
In splendor gloomy, as the midnight meteor,
That fearless thwarts the elemental war.
When last in secret conference we met,
He scowl'd upon me with suspicious rage,
Making his eye the inmate of my bosom.
I know he scorns me—and I feel, I hate him—
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble!

[Exit.
Enter Tallien and Legendre.
Tallien.
It was Barrere, Legendre! didst thou mark him?
Abrupt he turn'd, yet linger'd as he went,
And towards us cast a look of doubtful meaning.

Legendre.
I mark'd him well. I met his eye's last glance;
It menac'd not so proudly as of yore.
Methought he would have spoke—but that he dar'd not—
Such agitation darken'd on his brow.

Tallien.
'Twas all-distrusting guilt that kept from bursting
Th' imprison'd secret struggling in the face:
E'en as the sudden breeze upstarting onwards
Hurries the thundercloud, that pois'd awhile
Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen.

Legendre.
Perfidious Traitor!—still afraid to bask
In the full blaze of power, the rustling serpent
Lurks in the thicket of the Tyrant's greatness,
Ever prepared to sting who shelters him.
Each thought, each action in himself converges;
And love and friendship on his coward heart
Shine like the powerless sun on polar ice;
To all attach'd, by turns deserting all,
Cunning and dark—a necessary villain!

Tallien.
Yet much depends upon him—well you know
With plausible harangue 'tis his to paint
Defeat like victory—and blind the mob
With truth-mix'd falsehood. They led on by him,
And wild of head to work their own destruction,
Support with uproar what he plans in darkness.

Legendre.
O what a precious name is Liberty
To scare or cheat the simple into slaves!
Yes—we must gain him over: by dark hints
We'll shew enough to rouse his watchful fears,
Till the cold coward blaze a patriot.
O Danton! murder'd friend! assist my counsels—
Hover around me on sad Memory's wings,
And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart.
Tallien! if but to-morrow's fateful sun
Beholds the Tyrant living—we are dead!

Tallien.
Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings—

Legendre.
Fear not—or rather fear th' alternative,
And seek for courage e'en in cowardice—
But see—hither he comes—let us away!
His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon,
And high of haughty spirit, young St. Just.

[Exeunt.
Enter Robespierre, Couthon, St. Just, and Robespierre Junior.
Robespierre.
What? did La Fayette fall before my power?
And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues?
The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue?
And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold?
Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them?
What! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point
Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom?
And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien?
Th' Adonis Tallien? banquet-hunting Tallien?
Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box? Him,
Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow
Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers!

St. Just.
I cannot fear him—yet we must not scorn him.
Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus,
Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony?
The state is not yet purified: and though
The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies
The thick black sediment of all the factions—
It needs no magic hand to stir it up!

Couthon.
O we did wrong to spare them—fatal error!
Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died?
And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes?
I've fear'd him, since his iron heart endured
To make of Lyons one vast human shambles,
Compar'd with which the sun-scorcht wilderness
Of Zara were a smiling paradise.

St. Just.
Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one
Who flies from silent solitary anguish,
Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar
Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar
Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself.
A calm is fatal to him—then he feels
The dire upboilings of the storm within him.
A tiger mad with inward wounds!—I dread
The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt.

Robespierre.
Is not the Commune ours? The stern tribunal?
Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet?
And Henriot? We'll denounce an hundred, nor
Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.

Robespierre Junior.
Nay—I am sick of blood; my aching heart
Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors
That still have gloom'd the rise of the Republic.
I should have died before Toulon, when war
Became the patriot!

Robespierre.
Most unworthy wish!
He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors,
Would be himself a traitor, were he not
A coward! 'Tis congenial souls alone
Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate.
O thou art brave, my brother! and thine eye
Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle—
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest!
There is unsoundness in the state—To-morrow
Shall see it cleans'd by wholesome massacre!

Robespierre Junior.
Beware! already do the sections murmur—
‘O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre—
The tyrant guardian of the country's freedom!’

Couthon.
'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves!
Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart
Of cold Barrere!

Robespierre.
I see the villain in him!

Robespierre Junior.
If he—if all forsake thee—what remains?

Robespierre.
Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul
And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues!
The giant Victories my counsels form'd
Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes,
Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless.

[Exeunt caeteri. Manet Couthon.
Couthon
(solus).
So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues
Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition!
Still, Robespierre! thou'lt guard thy country's freedom
To despotize in all the patriot's pomp.
While Conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours,
Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers—blood-stain'd tyrant!
Yet what is Conscience? Superstition's dream,
Making such deep impression on our sleep—
That long th' awakened breast retains its horrors!
But he returns—and with him comes Barrere.

[Exit Couthon.
Enter Robespierre and Barrere.
Robespierre.
There is no danger but in cowardice.—
Barrere! we make the danger, when we fear it.
We have such force without, as will suspend
The cold and trembling treachery of these members.

Barrere.
'Twill be a pause of terror.—

Robespierre.
But to whom?
Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest,
Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors!
Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
A pause!—a moment's pause?—'Tis all their life.

Barrere.
Yet much they talk—and plausible their speech.
Couthon's decree has given such powers, that—

Robespierre.
That what?

Barrere.
The freedom of debate—

Robespierre.
Transparent mask!
They wish to clog the wheels of government,
Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine
To bribe them to their duty—English patriots!
Are not the congregated clouds of war
Black all around us? In our very vitals
Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion?
Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings
Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears
Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice?
Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first
Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it;
And to the virtuous patriot rendered light
By the necessities that gave it birth:
The other fouls the fount of the republic,
Making it flow polluted to all ages:
Inoculates the state with a slow venom,
That once imbibed, must be continued ever.
Myself incorruptible I ne'er could bribe them—
Therefore they hate me.

Barrere.
Are the sections friendly?

Robespierre.
There are who wish my ruin—but I'll make them
Blush for the crime in blood!

Barrere.
Nay—but I tell thee,
Thou art too fond of slaughter—and the right
(If right it be) workest by most foul means!

Robespierre.
Self-centering Fear! how well thou canst ape Mercy!
Too fond of slaughter!—matchless hypocrite!
Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died?
Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets
Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'erwearied
Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood?
And when (O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square
Sick Fancy groan'd o'er putrid hills of slain,
Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day?
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors,
And, like a blood-hound, crouch'd for murder! Now
Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar,
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother,
Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of—Mercy!

Barrere.
O prodigality of eloquent anger!
Why now I see thou'rt weak—thy case is desperate!
The cool ferocious Robespierre turn'd scolder!

Robespierre.
Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow
Reserves the whetted dagger for his own.
Denouncéd twice—and twice I saved his life!

[Exit.
Barrere.
The sections will support them—there's the point!
No! he can never weather out the storm—
Yet he is sudden in revenge—No more!
I must away to Tallien.

[Exit.

Scene changes to the house of Adelaide.

Adelaide enters, speaking to a Servant.
Adelaide.
Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee?
Did Tallien answer, he would soon return?

Servant.
He is in the Thuilleries—with him Legendre—
In deep discourse they seem'd: as I approach'd
He waved his hand as bidding me retire:
I did not interrupt him.

[Returns the letter.
Adelaide.
Thou didst rightly.
[Exit Servant.
O this new freedom! at how dear a price
We've bought the seeming good! The peaceful virtues
And every blandishment of private life,
The father's cares, the mother's fond endearment,
All sacrificed to liberty's wild riot.
The wingéd hours, that scatter'd roses round me,
Languid and sad drag their slow course along,
And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings.
But I will steal away these anxious thoughts
By the soft languishment of warbled airs,
If haply melodies may lull the sense
Of sorrow for a while.

[Soft music.
Enter Tallien.
Tallien.
Music, my love? O breathe again that air!
Soft nurse of pain, it sooths the weary soul
Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of evening
That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples.

Tallien.
I thank thee, Adelaide! 'twas sweet, though mournful.
But why thy brow o'ercast, thy cheek so wan?
Thou look'st as a lorn maid beside some stream
That sighs away the soul in fond despairing,
While sorrow sad, like the dank willow near her,
Hangs o'er the troubled fountain of her eye.

Adelaide.
Ah! rather let me ask what mystery lowers
On Tallien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong—
Thy soul distemper'd, can my heart be tranquil?

Tallien.
Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was spilt?
Asks he not vengeance on these patriot murderers?
It has been borne too tamely. Fears and curses
Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams
Threaten the assassin hand of Robespierre.
He dies!—nor has the plot escaped his fears.

Adelaide.
Yet—yet—be cautious! much I fear the Commune—
The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his
Fast link'd in close indissoluble union.
The pale Convention—

Tallien.
Hate him as they fear him,
Impatient of the chain, resolv'd and ready.

Adelaide.
Th' enthusiast mob, confusion's lawless sons—

Tallien.
They are aweary of his stern morality,
The fair-mask'd offspring of ferocious pride.
The sections too support the delegates:
All—all is ours! e'en now the vital air
Of Liberty, condens'd awhile, is bursting
(Force irresistible!) from its compressure—
To shatter the arch chemist in the explosion!

Enter Billaud Varennes and Bourdon l'Oise.
[Adelaide retires.
Bourdon l'Oise.
Tallien! was this a time for amorous conference?
Henriot, the tyrant's most devoted creature,
Marshals the force of Paris: The fierce Club,
With Vivier at their head, in loud acclaim
Have sworn to make the guillotine in blood
Float on the scaffold.—But who comes here?

Enter Barrere abruptly.
Barrere.
Say, are ye friends to freedom? I am her's!
Let us, forgetful of all common feuds,
Rally around her shrine! E'en now the tyrant
Concerts a plan of instant massacre!

Billaud Varennes.
Away to the Convention! with that voice
So oft the herald of glad victory,
Rouse their fallen spirits, thunder in their ears
The names of tyrant, plunderer, assassin!
The violent workings of my soul within
Anticipate the monster's blood!

[Cry from the street of—No Tyrant! Down with the Tyrant!
Tallien.
Hear ye that outcry?—If the trembling members
Even for a moment hold his fate suspended,
I swear by the holy poniard, that stabbed Caesar,
This dagger probes his heart!

[Exeunt omnes.

ACT II

Scene

—The Convention.
Robespierre mounts the Tribune.
Once more befits it that the voice of Truth,
Fearless in innocence, though leaguered round
By Envy and her hateful brood of hell,
Be heard amid this hall; once more befits
The patriot, whose prophetic eye so oft
Has pierced thro' faction's veil, to flash on crimes
Of deadliest import. Mouldering in the grave
Sleeps Capet's caitiff corse; my daring hand
Levelled to earth his blood-cemented throne,
My voice declared his guilt, and stirred up France
To call for vengeance. I too dug the grave
Where sleep the Girondists, detested band!
Long with the shew of freedom they abused
Her ardent sons. Long time the well-turn'd phrase,
The high-fraught sentence and the lofty tone
Of declamation, thunder'd in this hall,
Till reason midst a labyrinth of words
Perplex'd, in silence seem'd to yield assent.
I durst oppose. Soul of my honoured friend,
Spirit of Marat, upon thee I call—
Thou know'st me faithful, know'st with what warm zeal
I urg'd the cause of justice, stripp'd the mask
From faction's deadly visage, and destroy'd
Her traitor brood. Whose patriot arm hurl'd down
Hébert and Rousin, and the villain friends
Of Danton, foul apostate! those, who long
Mask'd treason's form in liberty's fair garb,
Long deluged France with blood, and durst defy
Omnipotence! but I it seems am false!
I am a traitor too! I—Robespierre!
I—at whose name the dastard despot brood
Look pale with fear, and call on saints to help them!
Who dares accuse me? who shall dare belie
My spotless name? Speak, ye accomplice band,
Of what am I accus'd? of what strange crime
Is Maximilian Robespierre accus'd,
That through this hall the buz of discontent
Should murmur? who shall speak?

Billaud Varennes.
O patriot tongue
Belying the foul heart! Who was it urg'd
Friendly to tyrants that accurst decree,
Whose influence brooding o'er this hallowed hall,
Has chill'd each tongue to silence? Who destroyed
The freedom of debate, and carried through
The fatal law, that doom'd the delegates,
Unheard before their equals, to the bar
Where cruelty sat throned, and murder reign'd
With her Dumas coequal? Say—thou man
Of mighty eloquence, whose law was that?

Couthon.
That law was mine. I urged it—I propos'd—
The voice of France assembled in her sons
Assented, though the tame and timid voice
Of traitors murmur'd. I advis'd that law—
I justify it. It was wise and good.

Barrere.
Oh, wonderous wise and most convenient too!
I have long mark'd thee, Robespierre—and now
Proclaim thee traitor—tyrant!

[Loud applauses.
Robespierre.
It is well.
I am a traitor! oh, that I had fallen
When Regnault lifted high the murderous knife,
Regnault the instrument belike of those
Who now themselves would fain assassinate,
And legalise their murders. I stand here
An isolated patriot—hemmed around
By faction's noisy pack; beset and bay'd
By the foul hell-hounds who know no escape
From Justice' outstretch'd arm, but by the force
That pierces through her breast.

[Murmurs, and shouts of—Down with the Tyrant!
Robespierre.
Nay, but I will be heard. There was a time
When Robespierre began, the loud applauses
Of honest patriots drown'd the honest sound.
But times are chang'd, and villainy prevails.

Collot d'Herbois.
No—villainy shall fall. France could not brook
A monarch's sway—sounds the dictator's name
More soothing to her ear?

Bourdon l'Oise.
Rattle her chains
More musically now than when the hand
Of Brissot forged her fetters; or the crew
Of Hébert thundered out their blasphemies,
And Danton talk'd of virtue?

Robespierre.

Tallien.
Freedom lives!
Oppression falls—for France has felt her chains,
Has burst them too. Who traitor-like stept forth
Amid the hall of Jacobins to save
Camille Desmoulins, and the venal wretch
D'Eglantine?

Robespierre.
I did—for I thought them honest.
And Heaven forefend that Vengeance e'er should strike,
Ere justice doom'd the blow.

Barrere.
Traitor, thou didst.
Yes, the accomplice of their dark designs,
Awhile didst thou defend them, when the storm
Lower'd at safe distance. When the clouds frown'd darker,
Fear'd for yourself and left them to their fate.
Oh, I have mark'd thee long, and through the veil
Seen thy foul projects. Yes, ambitious man,
Self-will'd dictator o'er the realm of France,
The vengeance thou hast plann'd for patriots
Falls on thy head. Look how thy brother's deeds
Dishonour thine! He the firm patriot,
Thou the foul parricide of Liberty!

Robespierre Junior.
Barrere—attempt not meanly to divide
Me from my brother. I partake his guilt,
For I partake his virtue.

Robespierre.
Brother, by my soul,
More dear I hold thee to my heart, that thus
With me thou dar'st to tread the dangerous path
Of virtue, than that Nature twined her cords
Of kindred round us.

Barrere.
Yes, allied in guilt,
Even as in blood ye are. O, thou worst wretch,
Thou worse than Sylla! hast thou not proscrib'd,
Yea, in most foul anticipation slaughter'd
Each patriot representative of France?

Bourdon l'Oise.
Was not the younger Caesar too to reign
O'er all our valiant armies in the south,
And still continue there his merchant wiles?

Robespierre Junior.
His merchant wiles! Oh, grant me patience, heaven!
Was it by merchant wiles I gain'd you back
Toulon, when proudly on her captive towers
Wav'd high the English flag? or fought I then
With merchant wiles, when sword in hand I led
Your troops to conquest? fought I merchant-like,
Or barter'd I for victory, when death
Strode o'er the reeking streets with giant stride,
And shook his ebon plumes, and sternly smil'd
Amid the bloody banquet? when appall'd
The hireling sons of England spread the sail
Of safety, fought I like a merchant then?
Oh, patience! patience!

Bourdon l'Oise.
How this younger tyrant
Mouths out defiance to us! even so
He had led on the armies of the south,
Till once again the plains of France were drench'd
With her best blood.

Collot d'Herbois.
Till once again display'd
Lyons' sad tragedy had call'd me forth
The minister of wrath, whilst slaughter by
Had bathed in human blood.

Dubois Crancé.
No wonder, friend,
That we are traitors—that our heads must fall
Beneath the axe of death! when Caesar-like
Reigns Robespierre, 'tis wisely done to doom
The fall of Brutus. Tell me, bloody man,
Hast thou not parcell'd out deluded France,
As it had been some province won in fight,
Between your curst triumvirate? You, Couthon,
Go with my brother to the southern plains;
St. Just, be yours the army of the north;
Meantime I rule at Paris.

Robespierre.
Matchless knave!
What—not one blush of conscience on thy cheek—
Not one poor blush of truth! most likely tale!
That I who ruined Brissot's towering hopes,
I who discover'd Hébert's impious wiles,
And sharp'd for Danton's recreant neck the axe,
Should now be traitor! had I been so minded,
Think ye I had destroyed the very men
Whose plots resembled mine? bring forth your proofs
Of this deep treason. Tell me in whose breast
Found ye the fatal scroll? or tell me rather
Who forg'd the shameless falsehood?

Collot d'Herbois.
Ask you proofs?
Robespierre, what proofs were ask'd when Brissot died?

Legendre.
What proofs adduced you when the Danton died?
When at the imminent peril of my life
I rose, and fearless of thy frowning brow,
Proclaim'd him guiltless?

Robespierre.
[Loud applauses.

Enter St. Just, and mounts the Tribune.
St. Just.
I come from the Committee—charged to speak
Of matters of high import. I omit
Their orders. Representatives of France,
Boldly in his own person speaks St. Just
What his own heart shall dictate.

Tallien.
Hear ye this,
Insulted delegates of France? St. Just
From your Committee comes—comes charg'd to speak
Of matters of high import, yet omits
Their orders! Representatives of France,
That bold man I denounce, who disobeys
The nation's orders.—I denounce St. Just.

[Loud applauses.
St. Just.
Hear me!

[Violent murmurs.
Robespierre.
He shall be heard!

Bourdon l'Oise.
Must we contaminate this sacred hall
With the foul breath of treason?

Collot d'Herbois.
Drag him away!
Hence with him to the bar.

Couthon.
Oh, just proceedings!
Robespierre prevented liberty of speech—
And Robespierre is a tyrant! Tallien reigns,
He dreads to hear the voice of innocence—
And St. Just must be silent!

Legendre.
Heed we well
That justice guide our actions. No light import
Attends this day. I move St. Just be heard.

Freron.
Inviolate be the sacred right of man.
The freedom of debate.

[Violent applauses.
St. Just.
I may be heard then! much the times are chang'd,
When St. Just thanks this hall for hearing him.
Robespierre is call'd a tyrant. Men of France,
Judge not too soon. By popular discontent
Was Aristides driven into exile,
Was Phocion murder'd. Ere ye dare pronounce
Robespierre is guilty, it befits ye well,
Consider who accuse him. Tallien,
Bourdon of Oise—the very men denounced,
For that their dark intrigues disturb'd the plan
Of government. Legendre the sworn friend
Of Danton, fall'n apostate. Dubois Crancé,
He who at Lyons spared the royalists—
Collot d'Herbois—

Bourdon l'Oise.
What—shall the traitor rear
His head amid our tribune—and blaspheme
Each patriot? shall the hireling slave of faction—

St. Just.
I am of no one faction. I contend
Against all factions.

Tallien.
I espouse the cause
Of truth. Robespierre on yester morn pronounced
Upon his own authority a report.
To-day St. Just comes down. St. Just neglects
What the Committee orders, and harangues
From his own will. O citizens of France
I weep for you—I weep for my poor country—
I tremble for the cause of Liberty,
When individuals shall assume the sway,
And with more insolence than kingly pride
Rule the Republic.

Billaud Varennes.
Shudder, ye representatives of France,
Shudder with horror. Henriot commands
The marshall'd force of Paris. Henriot,
Foul parricide—the sworn ally of Hébert,
Denounced by all—upheld by Robespierre.
Who spar'd La Valette? who promoted him,
Stain'd with the deep dye of nobility?
Who to an ex-peer gave the high command?
Who screen'd from justice the rapacious thief?
Who cast in chains the friends of Liberty?
Robespierre, the self-stil'd patriot Robespierre—
Robespierre, allied with villain Daubigné—
Robespierre, the foul arch-tyrant Robespierre.

Bourdon l'Oise.
He talks of virtue—of morality—
Consistent patriot! he Daubigné's friend!
Henriot's supporter virtuous! preach of virtue,
Yet league with villains, for with Robespierre
Villains alone ally. Thou art a tyrant!
I stile thee tyrant, Robespierre!

[Loud applauses.
Robespierre.
Take back the name. Ye citizens of France—

[Violent clamour. Cries of—Down with the Tyrant!
Tallien.
Oppression falls. The traitor stands appall'd—
Guilt's iron fangs engrasp his shrinking soul—
He hears assembled France denounce his crimes!
He sees the mask torn from his secret sins—
He trembles on the precipice of fate.
Fall'n guilty tyrant! murder'd by thy rage
How many an innocent victim's blood has stain'd
Fair freedom's altar! Sylla-like thy hand
Mark'd down the virtues, that, thy foes removed,
Perpetual Dictator thou might'st reign,
And tyrannize o'er France, and call it freedom!
Long time in timid guilt the traitor plann'd
His fearful wiles—success emboldened sin—
And his stretch'd arm had grasp'd the diadem
Ere now, but that the coward's heart recoil'd,
Lest France awak'd should rouse her from her dream,
And call aloud for vengeance. He, like Caesar,
With rapid step urged on his bold career,
Even to the summit of ambitious power,
And deem'd the name of King alone was wanting.
Was it for this we hurl'd proud Capet down?
Is it for this we wage eternal war
Against the tyrant horde of murderers,
The crownéd cockatrices whose foul venom
Infects all Europe? was it then for this
We swore to guard our liberty with life,
That Robespierre should reign? the spirit of freedom
Is not yet sunk so low. The glowing flame
That animates each honest Frenchman's heart
Not yet extinguish'd. I invoke thy shade,
Immortal Brutus! I too wear a dagger;
And if the representatives of France,
Through fear or favour, should delay the sword
Of justice, Tallien emulates thy virtues;
Tallien, like Brutus, lifts the avenging arm;
Tallien shall save his country.

[Violent applauses.
Billaud Varennes.
I demand
The arrest of all the traitors. Memorable
Will be this day for France.

Robespierre.
Yes! Memorable
This day will be for France—for villains triumph.

Lebas.
I will not share in this day's damning guilt.
Condemn me too.

[Great cry—Down with the Tyrants!
(The two Robespierres, Couthon, St. Just, and Lebas are led off.)

ACT III

Scene continues.

Collot d'Herbois.
Caesar is fall'n! The baneful tree of Java,
Whose death-distilling boughs dropt poisonous dew,
Is rooted from its base. This worse than Cromwell,
The austere, the self-denying Robespierre,
Even in this hall, where once with terror mute
We listen'd to the hypocrite's harangues,
Has heard his doom.

Billaud Varennes.
Yet must we not suppose
The tyrant will fall tamely. His sworn hireling
Henriot, the daring desperate Henriot,
Commands the force of Paris. I denounce him.

Freron.
I denounce Fleuriot too, the mayor of Paris.

Enter Dubois Crancé.
Dubois Crancé.
Robespierre is rescued. Henriot at the head
Of the arm'd force has rescued the fierce tyrant.

Collot d'Herbois.
Ring the tocsin—call all the citizens
To save their country—never yet has Paris
Forsook the representatives of France.

Tallien.
It is the hour of danger. I propose
This sitting be made permanent.

[Loud applauses.
Collot d'Herbois.
The National Convention shall remain
Firm at its post.

Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
Robespierre has reach'd the Commune. They espouse
The tyrant's cause. St. Just is up in arms!
St. Just—the young ambitious bold St. Just
Harangues the mob. The sanguinary Couthon
Thirsts for your blood.

[Tocsin rings.
Tallien.
These tyrants are in arms against the law:
Outlaw the rebels.

Enter Merlin of Douay.
Merlin.
Health to the representatives of France!
I past this moment through the arméd force—
They ask'd my name—and when they heard a delegate,
Swore I was not the friend of France.

Collot d'Herbois.
The tyrants threaten us as when they turn'd
The cannon's mouth on Brissot.

Enter another Messenger.
Second Messenger.
Vivier harangues the Jacobins—the Club
Espouse the cause of Robespierre.

Enter another Messenger.
Third Messenger.
All's lost—the tyrant triumphs. Henriot leads
The soldiers to his aid.—Already I hear
The rattling cannon destined to surround
This sacred hall.

Tallien.
Why, we will die like men then,
The representatives of France dare death,
When duty steels their bosoms.

[Loud applauses.
Tallien
(addressing the galleries).
Citizens!
France is insulted in her delegates—
The majesty of the Republic is insulted—
Tyrants are up in arms. An arméd force
Threats the Convention. The Convention swears
To die, or save the country!

[Violent applauses from the galleries.
Citizen
(from above).
We too swear
To die, or save the country. Follow me.

[All the men quit the galleries.
Enter another Messenger.
Fourth Messenger.
[Loud applauses.
[Applauses.

Billaud Varennes.
Let the names of these brave men
Live to the future day.

Enter Bourdon l'Oise, sword in hand.
Bourdon l'Oise.
I have clear'd the Commune.
[Applauses.
Through the throng I rush'd,
Brandishing my good sword to drench its blade
Deep in the tyrant's heart. The timid rebels
Gave way. I met the soldiery—I spake
Of the dictator's crimes—of patriots chain'd
In dark deep dungeons by his lawless rage—
Of knaves secure beneath his fostering power.
I spake of Liberty. Their honest hearts
Caught the warm flame. The general shout burst forth,
‘Live the Convention—Down with Robespierre!’

[Applauses.
(Shouts from without—Down with the Tyrant!)
Tallien.
I hear, I hear the soul-inspiring sounds,
France shall be saved! her generous sons attached
To principles, not persons, spurn the idol
They worshipp'd once. Yes, Robespierre shall fall
As Capet fell! Oh! never let us deem
That France shall crouch beneath a tyrant's throne,
That the almighty people who have broke
On their oppressors' heads the oppressive chain,
Will court again their fetters! easier were it
To hurl the cloud-capt mountain from its base,
Than force the bonds of slavery upon men
Determined to be free!

[Applauses.
Enter Legendre—a pistol in one hand, keys in the other.
Legendre
(flinging down the keys).
[Loud applauses.
[Applauses.

Freron.
They took from me my ticket of admission—
Expell'd me from their sittings.—Now, forsooth,
Humbled and trembling re-insert my name.
But Freron enters not the Club again
'Till it be purged of guilt:—'till, purified
Of tyrants and of traitors, honest men
May breathe the air in safety.

[Shouts from without.
Barrere.
What means this uproar! if the tyrant band
Should gain the people once again to rise—
We are as dead!

Tallien.
And wherefore fear we death?
Did Brutus fear it? or the Grecian friends
Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword,
And died triumphant? Caesar should fear death,
Brutus must scorn the bugbear.

(Shouts from without—Live the Convention!—Down with the Tyrants!)
Tallien.
Hark! again
The sounds of honest Freedom!

Enter Deputies from the Sections.
Citizen.
Citizens! representatives of France!
Hold on your steady course. The men of Paris
Espouse your cause. The men of Paris swear
They will defend the delegates of Freedom.

Tallien.
Hear ye this, Colleagues? hear ye this, my brethren?
And does no thrill of joy pervade your breasts?
My bosom bounds to rapture. I have seen
The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke;
I have, as much as lies in mine own arm,
Hurl'd down the usurper—Come death when it will,
I have lived long enough.

[Shouts without.
Barrere.
Hark! how the noise increases! through the gloom
Of the still evening—harbinger of death,
Rings the tocsin! the dreadful generale
Thunders through Paris—

[Cry without—Down with the Tyrant!
Enter Lecointre.
Lecointre.
So may eternal justice blast the foes
Of France! so perish all the tyrant brood,
As Robespierre has perish'd! Citizens,
Caesar is taken.
[Loud and repeated applauses.
I marvel not that with such fearless front
He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye
Scowled round the hall defiance. He relied
On Henriot's aid—the Commune's villain friendship,
And Henriot's boughten succours. Ye have heard
How Henriot rescued him—how with open arms
The Commune welcom'd in the rebel tyrant—
How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier
Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost—
The representatives of France had perish'd—
Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm
Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit
Inspir'd the men of Paris. Henriot call'd
‘To arms’ in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice
Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins
Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled—
They reach'd the Hôtel. We gather'd round—we call'd
For vengeance! Long time, obstinate in despair,
With knives they hack'd around them. 'Till foreboding
The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry
Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction,
Each sought by suicide to escape the dread
Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window
Leapt the younger Robespierre, but his fractur'd limb
Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator
Plunged often the keen knife in his dark breast,
Yet impotent to die. He lives all mangled
By his own tremulous hand! All gash'd and gored
He lives to taste the bitterness of death.
Even now they meet their doom. The bloody Couthon,
The fierce St. Just, even now attend their tyrant
To fall beneath the axe. I saw the torches
Flash on their visages a dreadful light—
I saw them whilst the black blood roll'd adown
Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye
Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived,
Fearless of fate!

[Loud and repeated applauses.
Barrere mounts the Tribune.
For ever hallowed be this glorious day,
When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain,
Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant
Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne, by the arm
Of the almighty people, meets the death
He plann'd for thousands. Oh! my sickening heart
Has sunk within me, when the various woes
Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain
In ghastly numbers—when assembled hordes,
Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power,
Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets,
And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with blood
The reeking fields of Flanders.—When within,
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
Of treason; and oppression, giant form,
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
The doom of injured France, has faction reared
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
Of mercy—the uxorious dotard Roland,
The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire
To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue,
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honeyed tongue
Of some soft Syren wooed us to destruction.
We triumphed over these. On the same scaffold
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,
And Hébert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,
With all the infidel's intolerance.
The last worst traitor triumphed—triumph'd long,
Secur'd by matchless villainy—by turns
Defending and deserting each accomplice
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade.
He wove the web of treachery. He caught
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,
His cool ferocity that persuaded murder,
Even whilst it spake of mercy!—never, never
Shall this regenerated country wear
The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
And with worse fury urge this new crusade
Than savages have known; though the leagued despots
Depopulate all Europe, so to pour
The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
And like the rock amid surrounding waves
Repel the rushing ocean.—She shall wield
The thunder-bolt of vengeance—she shall blast
The despot's pride, and liberate the world!

OSORIO

A TRAGEDY

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Velez Father to the two brothers, and Doña Teresa's Guardian.
• Albert the eldest son.
• Osorio the youngest son.
• Francesco a Dominican and Inquisitor.
• Maurice the faithful attendant on Alvar.
• Ferdinand a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian.
• Naomi
• Maria an Orphan Heiress.
• Alhadra, wife of Ferdinand,
• Familiars of the Inquisition.
• Moors, Servants, &c.

Time. The reign of Philip II., just at the close of the civil wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged against them, shortly after the edict which forbad the wearing of Moresco apparel under pain of death.

In the reign of Philip II shortly after the civil war against the Moors, and during the heat of the Persecution which raged against them. Maria an orphan of fortune had been espoused to Albert the eldest son of Lord Velez, but he having been supposed dead, is now addressed by Osorio the brother of Albert.

In the character of Osorio I wished to represent a man, who, from his childhood had mistaken constitutional abstinence from vices, for strength of character—thro' his pride duped into guilt, and then endeavouring to shield himself from the reproaches of his own mind by misanthropy.

Don Garcia (supposed dead) and Valdez father of Don Ordoño, and Guardian of Teresa di Monviedro. Don Garcia eldest son of the Marquis di Valdez, supposed dead, having been six years absent, and for the last three without any tidings of him.

Teresa Senñora [sic] di Monviedro, an orphan lady, bequeathed by both Parents on their death-bed to the wardship of the Marquis, and betrothed to Don Garcia—Gulinaez a Moorish Chieftain and ostensibly a new Christian—Alhadra his wife.

ACT THE FIRST

Scene

—The sea shore on the coast of Granada.
Velez, Maria.

Maria.
I hold Osorio dear: he is your son,
And Albert's brother.

Velez.
Love him for himself,
Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

Maria.
I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Velez!
But Heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain
Faithful to Albert, be he dead or living.

Velez.
Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves;
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
Thy dying father comes upon my soul
With that same look, with which he gave thee to me:
I held thee in mine arms, a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fix'd her faint eyes on mine: ah, not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
The victim of a useless constancy.
I must not see thee wretched.

Maria.
[Clasping her forehead.

Velez.
'Twere horrible, if but one doubt remain'd
The very week he promised his return.

Maria.
Ah, what a busy joy was ours—to see him
After his three years' travels! tho' that absence
His still-expected, never-failing letters
Almost endear'd to me! Even then what tumult!

Velez.
O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts
Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!
Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant dreams—
Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest.

Maria
(with great tenderness).
My father!

Velez.
Aye, 'twas the morning thou didst try to cheer me
With a fond gaiety. My heart was bursting,
And yet I could not tell me, how my sleep
Was throng'd with swarthy faces, and I saw
The merchant-ship in which my son was captured—
Well, well, enough—captured in sight of land—
We might almost have seen it from our house-top!

Maria
(abruptly).
He did not perish there!

Velez
(impatiently).
[Pauses, then tenderly.

Maria.
For mercy's sake
Press me no more. I have no power to love him!
His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow
Chill me, like dew-damps of the unwholesome night.
My love, a timorous and tender flower,
Closes beneath his touch.

Velez.
You wrong him, maiden.
You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well
To character by such unkindly phrases
The stir and workings of that love for you
Which he has toil'd to smother. 'Twas not well—
Nor is it grateful in you to forget
His wounds and perilous voyages, and how
With an heroic fearlessness of danger
He roamed the coast of Afric for your Albert.
It was not well—you have moved me even to tears.

Maria.
O pardon me, my father! pardon me.
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,
A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried
Beyond myself, if I but dream of one
Who aims to rival Albert. Were we not
Born on one day, like twins of the same parent?
Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
A six years' absence is an heavy thing;
Yet still the hope survives—

Velez
(looking forwards).
Hush—hush! Maria.

Maria.
It is Francesco, our Inquisitor;
That busy man, gross, ignorant, and cruel!

Enter Francesco and Alhadra.
Francesco
(to Velez).
Where is your son, my lord? Oh! here he comes. Enter Osorio.

My Lord Osorio! this Moresco woman
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

Osorio.
Hail, reverend father! What may be the business?

Francesco.
O the old business—a Mohammedan!
The officers are in her husband's house,
And would have taken him, but that he mention'd
Your name, asserting that you were his friend,
Aye, and would warrant him a Catholic.
But I know well these children of perdition,
And all their idle fals[e]hoods to gain time;
So should have made the officers proceed,
But that this woman with most passionate outcries,
(Kneeling and holding forth her infants to me)
So work'd upon me, who (you know, my lord!)
Have human frailties, and am tender-hearted,
That I came with her.

Osorio.
You are merciful.
[Looking at Alhadra.
I would that I could serve you; but in truth
Your face is new to me.

[Alhadra is about to speak, but is interrupted by
Francesco.
Aye, aye—I thought so;
And so I said to one of the familiars.
A likely story, said I, that Osorio,
The gallant nobleman, who fought so bravely
Some four years past against these rebel Moors;
Working so hard from out the garden of faith
To eradicate these weeds detestable;
That he should countenance this vile Moresco,
Nay, be his friend—and warrant him, forsooth!
Well, well, my lord! it is a warning to me;
Now I return.

Alhadra.
My lord, my husband's name
Is Ferdinand: you may remember it.
Three years ago—three years this very week—
You left him at Almeria.

Francesco
(triumphantly).
Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my lord!
(You needs must recollect it by your wound)
You were at sea, and fought the Moorish fiends
Who took and murder'd your poor brother Albert.

[Maria looks at Francesco with disgust and horror. Osorio's appearance to be collected from the speech that follows.
Francesco
(to Velez and pointing to Osorio).
What? is he ill, my lord? How strange he looks!

Velez
(angrily).
You started on him too abruptly, father!
The fate of one, on whom you know he doted.

Osorio
(starting as in a sudden agitation).
[Then, as if recovering himself.

[Osorio walks to the end of the stage. Velez follows soothing him.
Maria
(her eye following them).
I do not, cannot love him. Is my heart hard?
Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me—yet I feel it!

Francesco.
The drops did start and stand upon his forehead!
I will return—in very truth I grieve
To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman!

Alhadra
(to Maria).
O gentle lady, make the father stay
Till that my lord recover. I am sure
That he will say he is my husband's friend.

Maria.
Stay, father, stay—my lord will soon recover.

[Osorio and Velez returning.
Osorio
(to Velez as they return).
Strange! that this Francesco
Should have the power so to distemper me.

Velez.
Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!

Francesco
(to Osorio).
My lord, I truly grieve—

Osorio.
Tut! name it not.
A sudden seizure, father! think not of it.
As to this woman's husband, I do know him:
I know him well, and that he is a Christian.

Francesco.
I hope, my lord, your sensibility
Doth not prevail.

Osorio.
[Touching his forehead as if in the act of recollection.

Francesco.
Even so.

Osorio.
I must return my answer.

Francesco.
When, my lord?

Osorio.
To-morrow morning, and shall not forget
How bright and strong your zeal for the Catholic faith.

Francesco.
You are too kind, my lord! You overwhelm me.

Osorio.
Nay, say not so. As for this Ferdinand,
'Tis certain that he was a Catholic.
What changes may have happen'd in three years,
I cannot say, but grant me this, good father!
I'll go and sift him: if I find him sound,
You'll grant me your authority and name
To liberate his house.

Francesco.
My lord you have it.

Osorio
(to Alhadra).
I will attend you home within an hour.
Meantime return with us, and take refreshment.

Alhadra.
Not till my husband's free, I may not do it.
I will stay here.

Maria
(aside).
Who is this Ferdinand?

Velez.
Daughter!

Maria.
With your permission, my dear lord,
I'll loiter a few minutes, and then join you.

[Exeunt Velez, Francesco, and Osorio.
Alhadra.
[Alhadra had been betrayed by the warmth of her feelings into an imprudence. She checks herself, yet recollecting Maria's manner towards Francesco, says in a shy and distrustful manner

Maria.
Nay, fear me not! my heart is sad for you.

Alhadra.
These fell Inquisitors, these sons of blood!
As I came on, his face so madden'd me
That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger
And half unsheathed it.

Maria.
Be more calm, I pray you.

Alhadra.
And as he stalk'd along the narrow path
Close on the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager.
'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
That his foul officers held my babes and husband.
To have leapt upon him with a Tyger's plunge
And hurl'd him down the ragged precipice,
O—it had been most sweet!

Maria.
Hush, hush! for shame.
Where is your woman's heart?

Alhadra.
O gentle lady!
You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,
Many and strange. Besides I am a Christian,
And they do never pardon, 'tis their faith!

Maria.
Shame fall on those who so have shown it to thee!

Alhadra.
I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me!
Five years ago, and he was the prime agent.
Five years ago the Holy Brethren seized me.

Maria.
What might your crime be?

Alhadra.
Solely my complexion.
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison house.
There was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
It was a toil to breathe it! I have seen
The gaoler's lamp, the moment that he enter'd,
How the flame sunk at once down to the socket.
O miserable, by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
Brought daily: for the little wretch was sickly—
My rage had dry'd away its natural food!
In darkness I remain'd, counting the clocks
Which haply told me that the blessed sun
Was rising on my garden. When I dozed,
My infant's moanings mingled with my dreams
And wak'd me. If you were a mother, Lady,
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger!

Maria.
O God! it is too horrible to hear!

Alhadra.
What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
That such as you should hear it. Know you not
What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal?
Great evils ask great passions to redress them,
And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

Maria.
You were at length deliver'd?

Alhadra.
Yes, at length
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven.
'Twas the first time my infant smiled! No more.
For if I dwell upon that moment, lady,
A fit comes on, which makes me o'er again
All I then was, my knees hang loose and drag,
And my lip falls with such an ideot laugh
That you would start and shudder!

Maria.
But your husband?

Alhadra.
A month's imprisonment would kill him, lady!

Maria.
Alas, poor man!

Alhadra.
He hath a lion's courage,
But is not stern enough for fortitude.
Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart
He worships Nature in the hill and valley,
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all!

[Enter Albert disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments.
Albert
(not observing Maria and Alhadra).
Three weeks have I been loitering here, nor ever
Have summon'd up my heart to ask one question,
Or stop one peasant passing on this way.

Maria.
Know you that man?

Alhadra.
His person, not his name.
I doubt not, he is some Moresco chieftain
Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras.
A week has scarcely pass'd since first I saw him;
He has new-roof'd the desolate old cottage
Where Zagri lived—who dared avow the prophet
And died like one of the faithful! There he lives,
And a friend with him.

Maria.
Does he know his danger
So near this seat?

Alhadra.
He wears the Moorish robes too,
As in defiance of the royal edict.

[Alhadra advances to Albert, who has walked to the back of the stage near the rocks. Maria drops her veil.
Alhadra.
Gallant Moresco! you are near the castle
Of the Lord Velez, and hard by does dwell
A priest, the creature of the Inquisition.

Albert
(retiring).
You have mistaken me—I am a Christian.

Alhadra
(to Maria).
He deems that we are plotting to ensnare him.
Speak to him, lady! none can hear you speak
And not believe you innocent of guile.

[Albert, on hearing this, pauses and turns round.
Maria.
If aught enforce you to concealment, sir!

Alhadra.
He trembles strangely.

[Albert sinks down and hides his face in his garment.
Maria.
See—we have disturb'd him.
[Approaches nearer to him.
I pray you, think us friends—uncowl your face,
For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing.
I pray you, think us friends!

Albert
(raising his head).
[He starts up, and abruptly addresses her.

Maria
(haughtily to Alhadra).
Let us retire.

[They advance to the front of the stage.
Alhadra.
He is indeed a Christian.
Some stray Sir Knight, that falls in love of a sudden.

Maria.
What can this mean? How should he know my name?
It seems all shadowy.

Alhadra.
Here he comes again.

Albert
(aside).
She deems me dead, and yet no mourning garment!
Why should my brother's wife wear mourning garments?
God of all mercy, make me, make me quiet!
[To Maria.
Your pardon, gentle maid! that I disturb'd you.
I had just started from a frightful dream.

Alhadra.
These renegado Moors—how soon they learn
The crimes and follies of their Christian tyrants!

Albert.
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I lean'd
With blindest trust, and a betrothéd maid
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me,
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her!
This maid so idoliz'd, that trusted friend,
Polluted in my absence soul and body!
And she with him and he with her conspired
To have me murder'd in a wood of the mountains:
But by my looks and most impassion'd words
I roused the virtues, that are dead in no man,
Even in the assassins' hearts. They made their terms,
And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder.

Alhadra
(to Maria).
You are lost in thought. Hear him no more, sweet lady!

Maria.
From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
And slight things bring on me the idle mood.
Well, sir, what happen'd then?

Albert.
On a rude rock,
A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs
Whose threaddy leaves to the low breathing gale
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
I stay'd as tho' the hour of death were past,
And I were sitting in the world of spirits,
For all things seem'd unreal! There I sate.
The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,
Black, sultry, close! and ere the midnight hour
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear
That woods and sky and mountains seem'd one havock!
The second flash of lightning show'd a tree
Hard by me, newly-scathed. I rose tumultuous:
My soul work'd high: I bared my head to the storm,
And with loud voice and clamorous agony
Kneeling I pray'd to the great Spirit that made me,
Pray'd that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
And cling, with poisonous tooth, inextricable
As the gored lion's bite!

Maria.
A fearful curse!

Alhadra.
But dreamt you not that you return'd and kill'd him?
Dreamt you of no revenge?

Albert
(his voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress).
She would have died,
Died in her sins—perchance, by her own hands!
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy
And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
I pray'd for the punishment that cleanses hearts,
For still I loved her!

Alhadra.
And you dreamt all this?

Maria.
My soul is full of visions, all is wild!

Alhadra.
There is no room in this heart for puling lovetales.
Lady! your servants there seem seeking us.

Maria
(lifts up her veil and advances to Albert).
Stranger, farewell! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so address'd your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplex'd me
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escap'd my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pamper'd with long-wishing.
If (as it sometimes happens) our rude startling,
While your full heart was shaping out its dream,
Drove you to this, your not ungentle wildness,
You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
But if some undiscover'd wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Velez, and my Lord Osorio
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.

[Exeunt Maria and Alhadra.
Albert
(alone).
'Tis strange! it cannot be! my Lord Osorio!
Her Lord Osorio! Nay, I will not do it.
I curs'd him once, and one curse is enough.
How sad she look'd and pale! but not like guilt,
And her calm tones—sweet as a song of mercy!
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
Hell scarce were hell. And why not innocent?
Who meant to murder me might well cheat her.
But ere she married him, he had stain'd her honour.
Ah! there I am hamper'd. What if this were a lie
Fram'd by the assassin? who should tell it him
If it were truth? Osorio would not tell him.
Yet why one lie? All else, I know, was truth.
No start! no jealousy of stirring conscience!
And she referr'd to me—fondly, methought!
Could she walk here, if that she were a traitress?
Here where we play'd together in our childhood?
Here where we plighted vows? Where her cold cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppress'd feelings
She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
'Tis not in nature! I will die, believing
That I shall meet her where no evil is,
No treachery, no cup dash'd from the lips!
I'll haunt this scene no more—live she in peace!
Her husband—ay, her husband! May this Angel
New-mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, Heaven!
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!

ACT THE SECOND

Scene the First.

—A wild and mountainous country. Osorio and Ferdinand are discovered at a little distance from a house, which stands under the brow of a slate rock, the rock covered with vines.
Ferdinand and Osorio.
Ferdinand.
Thrice you have sav'd my life. Once in the battle
You gave it me, next rescued me from suicide,
When for my follies I was made to wander
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them.
Now, but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones
Had pillow'd my snapt joints.

Osorio.
Good Ferdinand!
Why this to me? It is enough you know it.

Ferdinand.
A common trick of gratitude, my lord!
Seeking to ease her own full heart.

Osorio.
Enough.
A debt repay'd ceases to be a debt.
You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

Ferdinand.
As how, my lord? I pray you name the thing!
I would climb up an ice-glaz'd precipice
To pluck a weed you fancied.

Osorio
(with embarrassment and hesitation).
Why—that—lady—

Ferdinand.
'Tis now three years, my lord! since last I saw you.
Have you a son, my lord?

Osorio.
O miserable!
[Aside.
Ferdinand! you are a man, and know this world.
I told you what I wish'd—now for the truth!
She lov'd the man you kill'd!

Ferdinand
(looking as suddenly alarmed).
You jest, my lord?

Osorio.
And till his death is proved, she will not wed me.

Ferdinand.
You sport with me, my lord?

Osorio.
Come, come, this foolery
Lives only in thy looks—thy heart disowns it.

Ferdinand.
I can bear this, and anything more grievous
From you, my lord!—but how can I serve you here?

Osorio.
Why, you can mouth set speeches solemnly,
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics.

Ferdinand.
I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

Osorio.
In blunt terms you can play the sorcerer.
She has no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true.
Her lover school'd her in some newer nonsense:
Yet still a tale of spirits works on her.
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
Shivers, and cannot keep the tears in her eye.
Such ones do love the marvellous too well
Not to believe it. We will wind her up
With a strange music, that she knows not of,
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery—
Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

Ferdinand
(with hesitation).
Just now I should have cursed the man who told me
You could ask aught, my lord! and I refuse.
But this I cannot do.

Osorio.
Where lies your scruple?

Ferdinand.
That shark Francesco.

Osorio.
O! an o'ersiz'd gudgeon!
I baited, sir, my hook with a painted mitre,
And now I play with him at the end of the line.
Well—and what next?

Ferdinand
(stammering).
Next, next—my lord!
You know you told me that the lady loved you,
Had loved you with incautious tenderness.
That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,
Return'd, yourself, and she, and an unborn babe,
Must perish. Now, my lord! to be a man!

Osorio
(aloud, though to express his contempt he speaks in the third person).
This fellow is a man! he kill'd for hire
One whom he knew not—yet has tender scruples.
[Then turning to Ferdinand.
Thy hums and ha's, thy whine and stammering.
Pish—fool! thou blunder'st through the devil's book,
Spelling thy villany!

Ferdinand.
My lord—my lord!
I can bear much, yes, very much from you.
But there's a point where sufferance is meanness!
I am no villain, never kill'd for hire.
My gratitude—

Osorio.
O! aye, your gratitude!
'Twas a well-sounding word—what have you done with it?

Ferdinand.
Who proffers his past favours for my virtue
Tries to o'erreach me, is a very sharper,
And should not speak of gratitude, my lord!
I knew not 'twas your brother!

Osorio
(evidently alarmed).
And who told you?

Ferdinand.
He himself told me.

Osorio.
Ha! you talk'd with him?
And those, the two Morescoes, that went with you?

Ferdinand.
Both fell in a night-brawl at Malaga.

Osorio
(in a low voice).
My brother!

Ferdinand.
Yes, my lord! I could not tell you:
I thrust away the thought, it drove me wild.
But listen to me now. I pray you, listen!

Osorio.
Villain! no more! I'll hear no more of it.

Ferdinand.
My lord! it much imports your future safety
That you should hear it.

Osorio
(turning off from Ferdinand).
Am I not a man?
'Tis as it should be! Tut—the deed itself
Was idle—and these after-pangs still idler!

Ferdinand.
We met him in the very place you mention'd,
Hard by a grove of firs.

Osorio.
Enough! enough!

Ferdinand.
He fought us valiantly, and wounded all;
In fine, compell'd a parley!

Osorio
(sighing as if lost in thought).
Albert! Brother!

Ferdinand.
He offer'd me his purse.

Osorio.
Yes?

Ferdinand.
Yes! I spurn'd it.
He promis'd us I know not what—in vain!
Then with a look and voice which overaw'd me,
He said—What mean you, friends? My life is dear.
I have a brother and a promised wife
Who make life dear to me, and if I fall
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
There was a likeness in his face to yours.
I ask'd his brother's name; he said, Osorio,
Son of Lord Velez! I had well-nigh fainted!
At length I said (if that indeed I said it,
And that no spirit made my tongue his organ),
That woman is now pregnant by that brother,
And he the man who sent us to destroy you,
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him,
He wore her portrait round his neck—he look'd
As he had been made of the rock that propp'd him back;
Ay, just as you look now—only less ghastly!
At last recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life—
It was not worth his keeping.

Osorio.
And you kill'd him?
O blood-hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
He was the image of the Deity.
[A pause.
It seizes me—by Hell! I will go on!
What? would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't save thee!
[Then suddenly pressing his forehead.
Oh! cold, cold, cold—shot thro' with icy cold!

Ferdinand
(aside).
Were he alive, he had return'd ere now.
The consequence the same, dead thro' his plotting!

Osorio.
[A pause.
What if I went
And liv'd in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds?
Ay! that's the road to heaven! O fool! fool! fool!
[A pause.
What have I done but that which nature destin'd
Or the blind elements stirr'd up within me?
If good were meant, why were we made these beings?
And if not meant—

Ferdinand.
How feel you now, my lord?

[Osorio starts, looks at him wildly, then, after a pause, during which his features are forced into a smile.
Osorio.
A gust of the soul! i'faith, it overset me.
O 'twas all folly—all! idle as laughter!
Now, Ferdinand, I swear that thou shalt aid me.

Ferdinand
(in a low voice).
I'll perish first! Shame on my coward heart,
That I must slink away from wickedness
Like a cow'd dog!

Osorio.
What dost thou mutter of?

Ferdinand.
Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

Osorio.
There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.

Ferdinand.
They'll know my gait. But stay! of late I have watch'd
A stranger that lives nigh, still picking weeds,
Now in the swamp, now on the walls of the ruin,
Now clamb'ring, like a runaway lunatic,
Up to the summit of our highest mount.
I have watch'd him at it morning-tide and noon,
Once in the moonlight. Then I stood so near,
I heard him mutt'ring o'er the plant. A wizard!
Some gaunt slave, prowling out for dark employments.

Osorio.
What may his name be?

Ferdinand.
That I cannot tell you.
Only Francesco bade an officer
Speak in your name, as lord of this domain.
So he was question'd, who and what he was.
This was his answer: Say to the Lord Osorio,
‘He that can bring the dead to life again.’

Osorio.
A strange reply!

Ferdinand.
Aye—all of him is strange.
He call'd himself a Christian—yet he wears
The Moorish robe, as if he courted death.

Osorio.
Where does this wizard live?

Ferdinand
(pointing to a distance).
You see that brooklet?
Trace its course backward thro' a narrow opening
It leads you to the place.

Osorio.
How shall I know it?

Ferdinand.
You can't mistake. It is a small green dale
Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
And round its banks tall wood, that branches over
And makes a kind of faery forest grow
Down in the water. At the further end
A puny cataract falls on the lake;
And there (a curious sight) you see its shadow
For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke,
Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
His cot stands opposite—you cannot miss it.
Some three yards up the hill a mountain ash
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
O'er the new thatch.

Osorio.
I shall not fail to find it.

[Exit Osorio. Ferdinand goes into his house.

Scene changes.

The inside of a cottage, around which flowers and plants of various kinds are seen.
Albert and Maurice.
Albert.
He doth believe himself an iron soul,
And therefore puts he on an iron outward
And those same mock habiliments of strength
Hide his own weakness from himself.

Maurice.
His weakness!
Come, come, speak out! Your brother is a villain!
Yet all the wealth, power, influence, which is yours
You suffer him to hold!

Albert.
Maurice! dear Maurice!
That my return involved Osorio's death
I trust would give me an unmingl'd pang—
Yet bearable. But when I see my father
Strewing his scant grey hairs even on the ground
Which soon must be his grave; and my Maria,
Her husband proved a monster, and her infants
His infants—poor Maria!—all would perish,
All perish—all!—and I (nay bear with me!)
Could not survive the complicated ruin!

Maurice
(much affected).
Nay, now, if I have distress'd you—you well know,
I ne'er will quit your fortunes! true, 'tis tiresome.
You are a painter—one of many fancies—
You can call up past deeds, and make them live
On the blank canvas, and each little herb,
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,
You've learnt to name—but I—

Albert.
Well, to the Netherlands
We will return, the heroic Prince of Orange
Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
Of our past service.

Maurice.
Heard you not some steps?

Albert.
What if it were my brother coming onward!
Not very wisely (but his creature teiz'd me)
I sent a most mysterious message to him.

Maurice.
Would he not know you?

Albert.
I unfearingly
Trust this disguise. Besides, he thinks me dead;
And what the mind believes impossible,
The bodily sense is slow to recognize.
Add too my youth, when last we saw each other;
Manhood has swell'd my chest, and taught my voice
A hoarser note.

Maurice.
Most true! And Alva's Duke
Did not improve it by the unwholesome viands
He gave so scantily in that foul dungeon,
During our long imprisonment.

Enter Osorio.
Albert.
It is he!

Maurice.
Make yourself talk; you'll feel the less. Come, speak.
How do you find yourself? Speak to me, Albert.

Albert
(placing his hand on his heart).
A little fluttering here; but more of sorrow!

Osorio.
You know my name, perhaps, better than me.
I am Osorio, son of the Lord Velez.

Albert
(groaning aloud).
The son of Velez!

[Osorio walks leisurely round the room, and looks attentively at the plants.
Maurice.
Why, what ails you now?

[Albert grasps Maurice's hand in agitation.
Maurice.
How your hand trembles, Albert! Speak! what wish you?

Albert.
To fall upon his neck and weep in anguish!

Osorio
(returning).
All very curious! from a ruin'd abbey
Pluck'd in the moonlight. There's a strange power in weeds
When a few odd prayers have been mutter'd o'er them.
Then they work miracles! I warrant you,
There's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks
Some serviceable imp. There's one of you,
Who sent me a strange message.

Albert.
I am he!

Osorio.
I will speak with you, and by yourself.

[Exit Maurice.
Osorio.
‘He that can bring the dead to life again.’
Such was your message, Sir! You are no dullard,
But one that strips the outward rind of things!

Albert.
'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds
That are all dust and rottenness within.
Would'st thou I should strip such?

Osorio.
Thou quibbling fool,
What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journey'd hither
To sport with thee?

Albert.
No, no! my lord! to sport
Best fits the gaiety of innocence!

Osorio
(draws back as if stung and embarrassed, then folding his arms).
[Looks round the cottage.

Albert.
What follows thence?

Osorio.
That you would fain be richer.
Besides, you do not love the rack, perhaps,
Nor a black dungeon, nor a fire of faggots.
The Inquisition—hey? You understand me,
And you are poor. Now I have wealth and power,
Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty.
And for this service, all I ask you is
That you should serve me—once—for a few hours.

Albert
(solemnly).
Thou art the son of Velez! Would to Heaven
That I could truly and for ever serve thee!

Osorio.
[Aside.
You are my friend!
‘He that can bring the dead to life again.’
Nay, no defence to me. The holy brethren
Believe these calumnies. I know thee better.
[Then with great bitterness.
Thou art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee!

Albert.
Alas, this hollow mirth! Declare your business!

Osorio.
I love a lady, and she would love me
But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
Have you no servants round the house? no listeners?

[Osorio steps to the door.
Albert.
What! faithless too? false to his angel wife?
To such a wife? Well might'st thou look so wan,
Ill-starr'd Maria! Wretch! my softer soul
Is pass'd away! and I will probe his conscience.

Osorio
(returned).
In truth this lady loved another man,
But he has perish'd.

Albert.
What? you kill'd him? hey?

Osorio.
I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it,
Thou slave! thou galley-slave! thou mountebank!
I leave thee to the hangman!

Albert.
Fare you well!
I pity you, Osorio! even to anguish!

[Albert retires off the stage.
Osorio
(recovering himself).
'Twas ideotcy! I'll tie myself to an aspen,
And wear a Fool's Cap. Ho!

[Calling after Albert.
Albert
(returning).
Be brief, what wish you?

Osorio.
You are deep at bartering—you charge yourself
At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

Albert.
I listen to you.

Osorio.
In a sudden tempest
Did Albert perish—he, I mean, the lover—
The fellow—

Albert.
Nay, speak out, 'twill ease your heart
To call him villain! Why stand'st thou aghast?
Men think it natural to hate their rivals!

Osorio
(hesitating and half doubting whether he should proceed).
Now till she knows him dead she will not wed me!

Albert
(with eager vehemence).
Are you not wedded, then? Merciful God!
Not wedded to Maria?

Osorio.
Why, what ails thee?
Art mad or drunk? Why look'st thou upward so?
Dost pray to Lucifer, prince of the air?

Albert.
Proceed. I shall be silent.

[Albert sits, and leaning on the table hides his face.
Osorio.
To Maria!
Politic wizard! ere you sent that message,
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
In all my fortunes! Hah! you prophesied
A golden crop!—well, you have not mistaken—
Be faithful to me, and I'll pay thee nobly.

Albert
(lifting up his head).
Well—and this lady!

Osorio.
If we could make her certain of his death,
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,
She tied a little portrait round his neck
Entreating him to wear it.

Albert
(sighing).
Yes! he did so!

Osorio.
Why, no! he was afraid of accidents,
Of robberies and shipwrecks, and the like.
In secrecy he gave it me to keep
Till his return.

Albert.
What, he was your friend then?

Osorio
(wounded and embarrassed).
[A pause.

Albert
(after a long pause).
Osorio, I will do it.

Osorio.
Delays are dangerous. It shall be to-morrow
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Velez.
I will prepare him. Music, too, and incense,
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture—
And here what you will value more, a purse.
Before the dusk—

Albert.
I will not fail to meet you.

Osorio.
Till next we meet, farewell!

Albert
(alone, gazes passionately at the portrait).
And I did curse thee?
At midnight? on my knees? And I believed
Thee perjured, thee polluted, thee a murderess?
O blind and credulous fool! O guilt of folly!
Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses,
Thy infant loves—should not thy maiden vows,
Have come upon my heart? And this sweet image
Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment
And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble.
Ah, coward dupe! to yield it to the miscreant
Who spake pollutions of thee!
I am unworthy of thy love, Maria!
Of that unearthly smile upon those lips,
Which ever smil'd on me! Yet do not scorn me.
I lisp'd thy name ere I had learnt my mother's!

Enter Maurice.
Albert.
Maurice! that picture, which I painted for thee,
Of my assassination.

Maurice.
I'll go fetch it.

Albert.
Haste! for I yearn to tell thee what has pass'd.

[Maurice goes out.
Albert
(gazing at the portrait).
Dear image! rescued from a traitor's keeping,
I will not now prophane thee, holy image!
To a dark trick! That worst bad man shall find
A picture which shall wake the hell within him,
And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience!

ACT THE THIRD

Scene the First.

—A hall of armory, with an altar in the part farthest from the stage.
Velez, Osorio, Maria.
Maria.
Lord Velez! you have ask'd my presence here,
And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me!)
My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery!

[Here Albert enters in a sorcerer's robe.
Maria
(to Albert).
Stranger! I mourn and blush to see you here
On such employments! With far other thoughts
I left you.

Osorio
(aside).
Ha! he has been tampering with her!

Albert.

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the scenes, from an instrument of glass or steel— the harmonica or Celestina stop, or Clagget's metallic organ.
Albert.
(Sung behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instrument as before.)
[A long pause.

Osorio.
This was too melancholy, father!

Velez.
Nay!
My Albert lov'd sad music from a child.
Once he was lost; and after weary search
We found him in an open place of the wood,
To which spot he had follow'd a blind boy
Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore
Some strangely-moving notes, and these, he said,
Were taught him in a dream; him we first saw
Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank;
And, lower down, poor Albert fast asleep,
His head upon the blind boy's dog—it pleased me
To mark, how he had fasten'd round the pipe
A silver toy, his grandmother had given him.
Methinks I see him now, as he then look'd.
His infant dress was grown too short for him,
Yet still he wore it.

Albert
(aside).
My tears must not flow—
I must not clasp his knees, and cry, my father!

Osorio.
The innocent obey nor charm nor spell.
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant!
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,
O 'twere a joy to me.

Albert
(abruptly).
A joy to thee!
What if thou heard'st him now? What if his spirit
Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee,
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard?
What if, his steadfast eye still beaming pity
And brother's love, he turn'd his head aside,
Lest he should look at thee, and with one look
Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?

Velez.
These are unholy fancies!

Osorio
(struggling with his feelings).
Yes, my father!
He is in heaven!

Albert
(still to Osorio).
But what if this same brother
Had lived even so, that at his dying hour
The name of heaven would have convuls'd his face
More than the death-pang?

Maria.
Idly-prating man!
He was most virtuous.

Albert
(still to Osorio).
What if his very virtues
Had pamper'd his swoln heart, and made him proud?
And what if pride had duped him into guilt,
Yet still he stalk'd, a self-created God,
Not very bold, but excellently cunning;
And one that at his mother's looking-glass,
Would force his features to a frowning sternness?
Young lord! I tell thee, that there are such beings,—
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd,
To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind,
At every stir and buz of coward conscience,
Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites!
Away! away! Now let me hear more music.

[Music as before.
Albert.
[The whole orchestra crashes into one chorus.

[A thunder-clap. The incense on the altar takes fire suddenly.
Maria.
This is some trick—I know, it is a trick.
Yet my weak fancy, and these bodily creepings,
Would fain give substance to the shadow.

Velez
(advancing to the altar).
Hah!
A picture!

Maria.
O God! my picture?

Albert
(gazing at Maria with wild impatient distressfulness).
Pale—pale—deadly pale!

Maria.
He grasp'd it when he died.

[She swoons. Albert rushes to her and supports her.
Albert.
My love! my wife!
Pale—pale, and cold! My love! my wife! Maria!

[Velez is at the altar. Osorio remains near him in a state of stupor.
Osorio
(rousing himself).
Where am I? 'Twas a lazy chilliness.

Velez
(takes and conceals the picture in his robe).
This way, my son! She must not see this picture.
Go, call the attendants! Life will soon ebb back!

[Velez and Osorio leave the stage.
Albert.
Her pulse doth flutter. Maria! my Maria!

Maria
(recovering—looks round).
I heard a voice—but often in my dreams,
I hear that voice, and wake; and try, and try,
To hear it waking—but I never could!
And 'tis so now—even so! Well, he is dead,
Murder'd perhaps! and I am faint, and feel
As if it were no painful thing to die!

Albert
(eagerly).
Believe it not, sweet maid! believe it not,
Beloved woman! 'Twas a low imposture
Framed by a guilty wretch.

Maria.
Ha! who art thou?

Albert
(exceedingly agitated).
My heart bursts over thee!

Maria.
Didst thou murder him?
And dost thou now repent? Poor troubled man!
I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee!

Albert
(aside).
Let me be gone.

Maria.
If thou didst murder him,
His spirit ever, at the throne of God,
Asks mercy for thee, prays for mercy for thee,
With tears in heaven!

Albert.
Albert was not murder'd.
Your foster-mother—

Maria.
And doth she know aught?

Albert.
She knows not aught—but haste thou to her cottage
To-morrow early—bring Lord Velez with thee.
There ye must meet me—but your servants come.

Maria
(wildly).
[A pause—then presses her forehead.
[A pause—she gazes at Albert.

[Exeunt Albert and Maria. Re-enter Velez and Osorio.
Velez
(sportively).
You shall not see the picture, till you own it.

Osorio.
This mirth and raillery, sir! beseem your age.
I am content to be more serious.

Velez.
Do you think I did not scent it from the first?
An excellent scheme, and excellently managed.
'Twill blow away her doubts, and now she'll wed you,
I'faith, the likeness is most admirable.
I saw the trick—yet these old eyes grew dimmer
With very foolish tears, it look'd so like him!

Osorio.
Where should I get her portrait?

Velez.
Get her portrait?
Portrait? You mean the picture! At the painter's—
No difficulty then—but that you lit upon
A fellow that could play the sorcerer,
With such a grace and terrible majesty,
It was most rare good fortune. And how deeply
He seem'd to suffer when Maria swoon'd,
And half made love to her! I suppose you'll ask me
Why did he so?

Osorio
(with deep tones of suppressed agitation).
Ay, wherefore did he so?

Velez.
Because you bade him—and an excellent thought!
A mighty man, and gentle as he is mighty.
He'll wind into her confidence, and rout
A host of scruples—come, confess, Osorio!

Osorio.
You pierce through mysteries with a lynx's eye,
In this, your merry mood! you see it all!

Velez.
Why, no!—not all. I have not yet discover'd,
At least, not wholly, what his speeches meant.
Pride and hypocrisy, and guilt and cunning—
Then when he fix'd his obstinate eye on you,
And you pretended to look strange and tremble.
Why—why—what ails you now?

Osorio
(with a stupid stare).
Me? why? what ails me?
A pricking of the blood—it might have happen'd
At any other time. Why scan you me?

Velez
(clapping him on the shoulder).
'Twon't do—'twon't do—I have lived too long in the world.
His speech about the corse and stabs and murderers,
Had reference to the assassins in the picture:
That I made out.

Osorio
(with a frantic eagerness).
Assassins! what assassins!

Velez.
Well-acted, on my life! Your curiosity
Runs open-mouth'd, ravenous as winter wolf.
I dare not stand in its way.

[He shows Osorio the picture.
Osorio.
Dup'd—dup'd—dup'd!
That villain Ferdinand!

(aside).
Velez.
Dup'd—dup'd—not I.
As he swept by me—

Osorio.
Ha! what did he say?

Velez.
He caught his garment up and hid his face.
It seem'd as he were struggling to suppress—

Osorio.
A laugh! a laugh! O hell! he laughs at me!

Velez.
It heaved his chest more like a violent sob.

Osorio.
[A pause—then very wildly.

Velez.
Glad!—aye—to be sure.

Osorio.
I was benumb'd, and stagger'd up and down
Thro' darkness without light—dark—dark—dark—
And every inch of this my flesh did feel
As if a cold toad touch'd it! Now 'tis sunshine,
And the blood dances freely thro' its channels!
[He turns off—then (to himself) mimicking Ferdinand's manner.
‘A common trick of gratitude, my lord!
Old Gratitude! a dagger would dissect
His own full heart,’ 'twere good to see its colour!

Velez
(looking intently at the picture).
[Then to Osorio.

Osorio
(in a slow voice with a reasoning laugh).
Love—love—and then we hate—and what? and wherefore?
Hatred and love. Strange things! both strange alike!
What if one reptile sting another reptile,
Where is the crime? The goodly face of Nature
Hath one trail less of slimy filth upon it.
Are we not all predestined rottenness
And cold dishonor? Grant it that this hand
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms
Somewhat too early. Where's the guilt of this?
That this must needs bring on the idiotcy
Of moist-eyed penitence—'tis like a dream!

Velez.
Wild talk, my child! but thy excess of feeling
[Turns off from Osorio.
Sometimes, I fear, it will unhinge his brain!

Osorio.
I kill a man and lay him in the sun,
And in a month there swarm from his dead body
A thousand—nay, ten thousand sentient beings
In place of that one man whom I had kill'd.
Now who shall tell me, that each one and all,
Of these ten thousand lives, is not as happy
As that one life, which being shov'd aside
Made room for these ten thousand?

Velez.
Wild as madness!

Osorio.
Come, father! you have taught me to be merry,
And merrily we'll pore upon this picture.

Velez
(holding the picture before Osorio).
That Moor, who points his sword at Albert's breast—

Osorio
(abruptly).
A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain,
Whom I will strangle!

Velez.
And these other two—

Osorio.
Dead—dead already!—what care I for the dead?

Velez.
The heat of brain and your too strong affection
For Albert, fighting with your other passion,
Unsettle you, and give reality
To these your own contrivings.

Osorio.
Is it so?
You see through all things with your penetration.
Now I am calm. How fares it with Maria?
My heart doth ache to see her.

Velez.
Nay—defer it!
Defer it, dear Osorio! I will go.

[Exit Velez.
Osorio.
A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea—
And now 'tis gone! all may be done this night!

Enter a Servant.
Osorio.
There is a man, once a Moresco chieftain,
One Ferdinand.

Servant.
He lives in the Alpuxarras,
Beneath a slate rock.

Osorio.
Slate rock?

Servant.
Yes, my lord!
If you had seen it, you must have remember'd
The flight of steps his children had worn up it
With often clambering.

Osorio.
Well, it may be so.

Servant.
Why, now I think on't, at this time of the year
'Tis hid by vines.

Osorio
(in a muttering voice).
[To the Servant.
[Exit the Servant.

Osorio
(alone).
The tongue can't stir when the mouth is fill'd with mould.
A little earth stops up most eloquent mouths,
And a square stone with a few pious texts
Cut neatly on it, keeps the earth down tight.

Scene changes to the space before the castle.
Francesco and a Spy.
Francesco.
Yes! yes! I have the key of all their lives.
If a man fears me, he is forced to love me.
And if I can, and do not ruin him,
He is fast bound to serve and honour me!

[Albert enters from the castle, and is crossing the stage.
Spy.
There—there—your Reverence! That is the sorcerer.

[Francesco runs up and rudely catches hold of Albert. Albert dashes him to the earth. Francesco and the Spy make an uproar ,and the servants rush from out the castle.
Francesco.
Seize, seize and gag him! or the Church curses you!

[The servants seize and gag Albert.
Enter Velez and Osorio.
Osorio
(aside).
This is most lucky!

Francesco
(inarticulate with rage).
See you this, Lord Velez?
Good evidence have I of most foul sorcery,
And in the name of Holy Church command you
To give me up the keys—the keys, my lord!
Of that same dungeon-hole beneath your castle.
This imp of hell—but we delay enquiry
Till to Granada we have convoy'd him.

Osorio
(to the Servants).
Why haste you not? Go, fly and dungeon him!
Then bring the keys and give them to his Reverence.

[The Servants hurry off Albert. Osorio goes up to Francesco, and pointing at Albert.
Osorio
(with a laugh).
‘He that can bring the dead to life again.’

Francesco.
What? did you hear it?

Osorio.
Yes, and plann'd this scheme
To bring conviction on him. Ho! a wizard,
Thought I—but where's the proof! I plann'd this scheme.
The scheme has answer'd—we have proof enough.

Francesco.
My lord, your pious policy astounds me.
I trust my honest zeal—

Osorio.
Nay, reverend father!
It has but raised my veneration for you.
But 'twould be well to stop all intertalk
Between my servants and this child of darkness.

Francesco.
My lord! with speed I'll go, make swift return,
And humbly redeliver you the keys.

[Exit Francesco.
Osorio
(alone).
‘The stranger, that lives nigh, still picking weeds.’
And this was his friend, his crony, his twin-brother!
O! I am green, a very simple stripling—
The wise men of this world make nothing of me.
By Heaven, 'twas well contrived! And I, forsooth,
I was to cut my throat in honour of conscience.
And this tall wizard—ho!—he was to pass
For Albert's friend! He hath a trick of his manner.
He was to tune his voice to honey'd sadness,
And win her to a transfer of her love
By lamentable tales of her dear Albert,
And his dear Albert! Yea, she would have lov'd him.
He, that can sigh out in a woman's ear
Sad recollections of her perish'd lover,
And sob and smile with veering sympathy,
And, now and then, as if by accident,
Pass his mouth close enough to touch her cheek
With timid lip, he takes the lover's place,
He takes his place, for certain! Dusky rogue,
Were it not sport to whimper with thy mistress,
Then steal away and roll upon my grave,
Till thy sides shook with laughter? Blood! blood! blood!
They want thy blood! thy blood, Osorio!

ACT THE FOURTH

Scene the First.

—A cavern, dark except where a gleam of moonlight is seen on one side of the further end of it, supposed to be cast on it from a cranny in a part of the cavern out of sight.
[Ferdinand alone, an extinguished torch in his hand.
Ferdinand.
[He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of moonlight, returns after a minute's elapse in an ecstasy of fear.

[Ferdinand stands staring at another recess in the cavern. In the mean time Osorio enters with a torch and hollas to him
Ferdinand.
I swear, I saw a something moving there!
The moonshine came and went, like a flash of lightning.
I swear, I saw it move!

[Osorio goes into the recess, then returns, and with great scorn.
Osorio.
A jutting clay-stone
Drips on the long lank weed that grows beneath;
And the weed nods and drips.

Ferdinand
(forcing a faint laugh).
A joke to laugh at!
It was not that which frighten'd me, my lord!

Osorio.
What frighten'd you?

Ferdinand.
[Lights his torch at Osorio's, and while lighting it.

Osorio.
Well, what of that?

Ferdinand.
I walk'd up to it, meaning to sit there.
When I had reach'd it within twenty paces—
[Ferdinand starts as if he felt the terror over again.
Merciful Heaven! Do go, my lord! and look.

[Osorio goes and returns.
Osorio.
It must have shot some pleasant feelings thro' you?

Ferdinand.
If every atom of a dead man's flesh
Should move, each one with a particular life,
Yet all as cold as ever—'twas just so!
Or if it drizzled needle-points of frost
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald—

Osorio
(interrupting him).
Why, Ferdinand! I blush for thy cowardice.
It would have startled any man, I grant thee.
But such a panic.

Ferdinand.
When a boy, my lord!
I could have sat whole hours beside that chasm,
Push'd in huge stones and heard them thump and rattle
Against its horrid sides; and hung my head
Low down, and listen'd till the heavy fragments
Sunk, with faint crash, in that still groaning well,
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never
A living thing came near; unless, perchance,
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould,
Close at its edge.

Osorio.
Art thou more coward now?

Ferdinand.
Call him that fears his fellow-men a coward.
I fear not man. But this inhuman cavern
It were too bad a prison-house for goblins.
Besides (you'll laugh, my lord!) but true it is,
My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted
By what had pass'd between us in the morning.
I saw you in a thousand hideous ways,
And doz'd and started, doz'd again and started.
I do entreat your lordship to believe me,
In my last dream—

Osorio.
Well?

Ferdinand.
I was in the act
Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
Waked me. She heard my heart beat!

Osorio.
Strange enough!
Had you been here before?

Ferdinand.
Never, my lord!
But my eyes do not see it now more clearly
Than in my dream I saw that very chasm.

[Osorio stands in a deep study—then, after a pause.
Osorio.
There is no reason why it should be so.
And yet it is.

Ferdinand.
What is, my lord?

Osorio.
Unpleasant
To kill a man!

Ferdinand.
Except in self-defence.

Osorio.
Why that's my case: and yet 'tis still unpleasant.
At least I find it so! But you, perhaps,
Have stronger nerves?

Ferdinand.
Something doth trouble you.
How can I serve you? By the life you gave me,
By all that makes that life of value to me,
My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you,
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
If it be innocent! But this, my lord!
Is not a place where you could perpetrate,
No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness
(When ten yards off, we know, 'tis chearful moonlight)
Collects the guilt and crowds it round the heart.
It must be innocent.

Osorio.
Thyself be judge.
[Osorio walks round the cavern—then looking round it.
One of our family knew this place well.

Ferdinand.
Who? when? my lord.

Osorio.
What boots it who or when?
Hang up the torch. I'll tell his tale to thee.

[They hang their torches in some shelf of the cavern.
Osorio.
He was a man different from other men,
And he despised them, yet revered himself.

Ferdinand.
What? he was mad?

Osorio.
All men seem'd mad to him,
Their actions noisome folly, and their talk—
A goose's gabble was more musical.
Nature had made him for some other planet,
And press'd his soul into a human shape
By accident or malice. In this world
He found no fit companion!

Ferdinand.
Ah, poor wretch!
Madmen are mostly proud.

Osorio.

Ferdinand.
I have a prattler three years old, my lord!
In truth he is my darling. As I went
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep—
But I am talking idly—pray go on!
And what did this man?

Osorio.
[Then very wildly.

Ferdinand.
I would, my lord, you were by my fireside!
I'd listen to you with an eager eye,
Tho' you began this cloudy tale at midnight.
But I do listen—pray proceed, my lord!

Osorio.
Where was I?

Ferdinand.
He of whom you tell the tale—

Osorio.
Surveying all things with a quiet scorn
Tamed himself down to living purposes,
The occupations and the semblances
Of ordinary men—and such he seem'd.
But that some over-ready agent—he—

Ferdinand.
Ah! what of him, my lord?

Osorio.
He proved a villain;
Betray'd the mystery to a brother villain;
And they between them hatch'd a damnéd plot
To hunt him down to infamy and death
To share the wealth of a most noble family,
And stain the honour of an orphan lady
With barbarous mixture and unnatural union.
What did the Velez? I am proud of the name,
Since he dared do it.

[Osorio grasps his sword and turns off from Ferdinand, then, after a pause, returns.
Osorio.
Our links burn dimly.

Ferdinand.
A dark tale darkly finish'd! Nay, my lord!
Tell what he did.

Osorio
(fiercely).
That which his wisdom prompted.
He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,
And here he kill'd the traitor.

Ferdinand.
No!—the fool.
He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen
That he, who gull'd thee with a whimper'd lie
To murder his own brother, would not scruple
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous
And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

Osorio.
Thou would'st not then have come, if—

Ferdinand.
O yes, my lord!
I would have met him arm'd, and scared the coward!

[Ferdinand throws off his robe, shews himself armed, and draws his sword.
Osorio.
Now this is excellent, and warms the blood!
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
With womanish pulls of pity. Dusky slave,
Now I will kill thee pleasantly, and count it
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

Ferdinand.
And all my little ones fatherless! Die thou first.

[They fight. Osorio disarms Ferdinand, and in disarming him, throws his sword up that recess, opposite to which they were standing.
Ferdinand
(springing wildly towards Osorio).
Still I can strangle thee!

Osorio.
Nay, fool! stand off.
I'll kill thee—but not so! Go fetch thy sword.

[Ferdinand hurries into the recess with his torch. Osorio follows him, and in a moment returns alone.
Osorio.
Now—this was luck! No bloodstains, no dead body!
His dream, too, is made out. Now for his friend.

[Exit.

Scene changes to the court before the Castle of Velez.

Maria and her Foster-Mother.
Maria.
And when I heard that you desired to see me,
I thought your business was to tell me of him.

Foster-Mother.
I never saw the Moor, whom you describe.

Maria.
'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly
As mine and Albert's common foster-mother.

Foster-Mother.
Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet lady,
As often as I think of those dear times
When you two little ones would stand at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you,
'Tis more like heaven to come, that what has been!

Maria.
O my dear mother! this strange man has left me
Wilder'd with wilder fancies than yon moon
Breeds in the love-sick maid—who gazes at it
Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye
She gazes idly! But that entrance, mother!

Foster-Mother.
Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Maria.
No one.

Foster-Mother.
My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Leoni. Angels rest his soul!
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy.
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A friar who gather'd simples in the wood,
A grey-hair'd man—he loved this little boy,
The boy loved him—and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a very learned youth.
But O! poor wretch—he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things.
And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him,
And once as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,
The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fall'n
Right on their heads. My lord was sorely frighten'd;
A fever seiz'd him; and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobb'd like a child—it almost broke his heart.
And once as he was working in the cellar,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described:
And the young man escaped.

Maria.
'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a list'ning child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?

Foster-Mother.
He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers, who made discovery
Of golden lands; Leoni's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Leoni that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat,
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight,
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more; but 'tis supposed
He liv'd and died among the savage men.

Enter Velez.
Velez.
Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you.

Maria.
O Christ! the tortures that hang o'er his head,
If ye betray him to these holy brethren!

Velez
(with a kind of sneer).
A portly man, and eloquent, and tender!
In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn
That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim.

Maria.
The horror of their ghastly punishments
Doth so o'ertop the height of sympathy,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy—
Ah! far too little—if 'twere possible,
I could feel more, even tho' my child or husband
Were doom'd to suffer them! That such things are—

Velez.
Hush! thoughtless woman!

Maria.
Nay—it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.

Velez
(angrily).
No more of this—
I can endure no more.

Foster-Mother.
My honour'd master!
Lord Albert used to talk so.

Maria.
Yes! my mother!
These are my Albert's lessons, and I con them
With more delight than, in my fondest hour,
I bend me o'er his portrait.

Velez
(to the Foster-Mother).
My good woman,
You may retire.

[Exit the Foster-Mother.
Velez.
We have mourn'd for Albert.
Have I no living son?

Maria.
Speak not of him!
That low imposture—my heart sickens at it,
If it be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it!

Velez.
Is this well?

Maria.
Yes! it is truth. Saw you his countenance?
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,
Displac'd each other with swift interchanges?
If this were all assumed, as you believe,
He must needs be a most consummate actor;
And hath so vast a power to deceive me,
I never could be safe. And why assume
The semblance of such execrable feelings?

Velez.
Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion! Was it not enough
That thou hast made my son a restless man,
Banish'd his health and half-unhinged his reason,
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion,
And toil to blast his honour? I am old—
A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay
Beneath my roof!

[Francesco enters and stands listening.
Velez.
Repent and marry him—
Or to the convent.

Francesco
(muttering).
Good! good! very good!

Maria.
Nay, grant me some small pittance of my fortune,
And I will live a solitary woman,
Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons
May be my household.

Francesco
(advancing).
I abhor a listener;
But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you.
I pray, my lord! will you embolden me
To ask you why this lady doth prefer
To live in lonely sort, without a friend
Or fit companion?

Velez.
Bid her answer you.

Maria.
Nature will be my friend and fit companion.
[Turns off from them.
O Albert! Albert! that they could return,
Those blessed days, that imitated heaven!
When we two wont to walk at evening-tide;
When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard
The voice of that Almighty One, who lov'd us,
In every gale that breath'd, and wave that murmur'd!
O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief,
And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight
Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.

Francesco.
But in the convent, lady, you would have
Such aids as might preserve you from perdition.
There you might dwell.

Maria.
With tame and credulous faith,
Mad melancholy, antic merriment,
Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs!
O God! it is a horrid thing to know
That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
Such as the angels wear!

Francesco
(stifling his rage).
Where is your son, my lord?

Velez.
I have not seen him, father, since he left you.

Francesco.
His lordship's generous nature hath deceiv'd him!
That Ferdinand (or if not he his wife)
I have fresh evidence—are infidels.
We are not safe until they are rooted out.

Maria.
Thou man, who call'st thyself the minister
Of Him whose law was love unutterable!
Why is thy soul so parch'd with cruelty,
That still thou thirstest for thy brother's blood?

Velez
(rapidly).
Father! I have long suspected it—her brain—
Heed it not, father!

Francesco.
Nay—but I must heed it.

Maria.
Thou miserable man! I fear thee not,
Nor prize a life which soon may weary me.
Bear witness, Heav'n! I neither scorn nor hate him—
But O! 'tis wearisome to mourn for evils,
Still mourn, and have no power to remedy!

[Exit Maria.
Francesco.
My lord! I shall presume to wait on you
To-morrow early.

Velez.
Be it so, good father!

[Exit Francesco.
Velez
(alone).
I do want solace, but not such as thine!
The moon is high in heaven, and my eyes ache,
But not with sleep. Well—it is ever so.
A child, a child is born! and the fond heart
Dances! and yet the childless are most happy.

[Scene changes to the mountains by moonlight.

Alhadra alone in a Moorish dress, her eyes fixed on the earth. Then drop in one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in their Moorish garments. They form a circle at a distance round Alhadra. After a pause one of the Morescoes to the man who stands next to him.
First Moresco.
The law which forced these Christian dresses on us,
'Twere pleasant to cleave down the wretch who framed it.

Second.
Yet 'tis not well to trample on it idly.

First.
Our country robes are dear.

Second.
And like dear friends,
May chance to prove most perilous informers.

[A third Moresco, Naomi, advances from out the circle.
Naomi.
Woman! may Alla and the prophet bless thee!
We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin the Moorish garments?

Alhadra
(lifting up her eyes, and looking round on the circle).
Warriors of Mahomet, faithful in the battle,
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted; and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften!

Naomi.
Where is Ferdinand?

Alhadra
(in a deep low voice).
This night I went from forth my house, and left
His children all asleep; and he was living!
And I return'd, and found them still asleep—
But he had perish'd.

All.
Perished?

Alhadra.
He had perish'd!
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless, a desolate orphan!
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
Revenge his murder?

One to Another.
Did she say his murder?

Naomi.
Murder'd? Not murder'd?

Alhadra.
Murder'd by a Christian!

[They all, at once, draw their sabres.
Alhadra
(to Naomi, who on being addressed again advances from the circle).
[He steps forward to take it.

Enter Maurice.
All.
A spy! a spy!

[They seize him.
Maurice.
Off! off! unhand me, slaves!

[After much struggling he disengages himself and draws his sword.
Naomi
(to Alhadra).
Speak! shall we kill him?

Maurice.
Yes! ye can kill a man,
Some twenty of you! But ye are Spanish slaves!
And slaves are always cruel, always cowards.

Alhadra.
That man has spoken truth. Whence and who art thou?

Maurice.
I seek a dear friend, whom for aught I know
The son of Velez hath hired one of you
To murder! Say, do ye know aught of Albert?

Alhadra
(starting).
Albert?—three years ago I heard that name
Murmur'd in sleep! High-minded foreigner!
Mix thy revenge with mine, and stand among us.

[Maurice stands among the Morescoes.
Alhadra.
Was not Osorio my husband's friend?

Old Man.
He kill'd my son in battle; yet our chieftain
Forced me to sheathe my dagger. See—the point
Is bright, unrusted with the villain's blood!

Alhadra.
He is your chieftain's murderer!

Naomi.
He dies by Alla!

All
(dropping on one knee).
By Alla!

Alhadra.
This night a reeking slave came with loud pant,
Gave Ferdinand a letter, and departed,
Swift as he came. Pale, with unquiet looks,
He read the scroll.

Maurice.
Its purport?

Alhadra.
Yes, I ask'd it.
He answer'd me, ‘Alhadra! thou art worthy
A nobler secret; but I have been faithful
To this bad man, and faithful I will be.’
He said, and arm'd himself, and lit a torch;
Then kiss'd his children, each one on its pillow,
And hurried from me. But I follow'd him
At distance, till I saw him enter there.

Naomi.
The cavern?

Alhadra.
Yes—the mouth of yonder cavern.
After a pause I saw the son of Velez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise enter'd—
There was another and a longer pause—
And once, methought, I heard the clash of swords,
And soon the son of Velez reappear'd.
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seem'd as he were mirthful! I stood listening
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!

Maurice.
Thou called'st him?

Alhadra.
[Then wildly.

Maurice.
Comfort her, comfort her, Almighty Father!

Alhadra.
I stood in unimaginable trance
And agony, that cannot be remember'd,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
But I had heard his last—my husband's death-groan!

Naomi.
Haste! let us go!

Alhadra.
I look'd far down the pit.
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment,
And it was stain'd with blood! Then first I shriek'd!
My eyeballs burnt! my brain grew hot as fire!
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turn'd into blood. I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm
When on the further brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance! Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Ferdinand!
Spirit of Ferdinand! thy murderer lives!
Away! away!

[She rushes off, all following.

ACT THE FIFTH

Scene the First.

—The Sea Shore.
Naomi and a Moresco.
Moresco.
This was no time for freaks of useless vengeance.

Naomi.
True! but Francesco, the Inquisitor,
Thou know'st the bloodhound—'twas a strong temptation.
And when they pass'd within a mile of his house,
We could not curb them in. They swore by Mahomet,
It were a deed of treachery to their brethren
To sail from Spain and leave that man alive.

Moresco.
Where is Alhadra?

Naomi.
She moved steadily on
Unswerving from the path of her resolve.
Yet each strange object fix'd her eye: for grief
Doth love to dally with fantastic shapes,
And smiling, like a sickly moralist,
Gives some resemblance of her own concerns
To the straws of chance, and things inanimate.
I seek her here; stand thou upon the watch.

[Exit Moresco.
Naomi
(looking wistfully to the distance).
Stretch'd on the rock! It must be she—Alhadra!

[Alhadra rises from the rock, and advances slowly, as if musing.
Naomi.
Once more, well met! what ponder'st thou so deeply?

Alhadra.
I scarce can tell thee! For my many thoughts
Troubled me, till with blank and naked mind
I only listen'd to the dashing billows.
It seems to me, I could have closed my eyes
And wak'd without a dream of what has pass'd;
So well it counterfeited quietness,
This wearied heart of mine!

Naomi.
'Tis thus by nature
Wisely ordain'd, that so excess of sorrow
Might bring its own cure with it.

Alhadra.
Would to Heaven
That it had brought its last and certain cure!
That ruin in the wood.

Naomi.
It is a place
Of ominous fame; but 'twas the shortest road,
Nor could we else have kept clear of the village.
Yet some among us, as they scal'd the wall,
Mutter'd old rhyming prayers.

Alhadra.
On that broad wall
I saw a skull; a poppy grew beside it,
There was a ghastly solace in the sight!

Naomi.
I mark'd it not, and in good truth the night-bird
Curdled my blood, even till it prick'd the heart.
Its note comes dreariest in the fall of the year:
[Looking round impatiently.
Why don't they come? I will go forth and meet them.

[Exit Naomi.
Alhadra
(alone).
The hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem'd
As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold,
The hanging woods, most lovely in decay,
The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands,
Lay in the silent moonshine; and the owl,
(Strange! very strange!) the scritch owl only wak'd,
Sole voice, sole eye of all that world of beauty!
Why such a thing am I! Where are these men?
I need the sympathy of human faces
To beat away this deep contempt for all things
Which quenches my revenge. Oh!—would to Alla
The raven and the sea-mew were appointed
To bring me food, or rather that my soul
Could drink in life from the universal air!
It were a lot divine in some small skiff,
Along some ocean's boundless solitude,
To float for ever with a careless course,
And think myself the only being alive!

[Naomi re-enters.
Naomi.
Thy children—

Alhadra.
[A pause—then fiercely.

[A noise—enter a part of the Morescoes; and from the opposite side of the stage a Moorish Seaman.
Moorish Seaman.
The boat is on the shore, the vessel waits.
Your wives and children are already stow'd;
I left them prattling of the Barbary coast,
Of Mosks, and minarets, and golden crescents.
Each had her separate dream; but all were gay,
Dancing, in thought, to finger-beaten timbrels!

[Enter Maurice and the rest of the Morescoes dragging in Francesco.
Francesco.
O spare me, spare me! only spare my life!

An Old Man.
[Then turning to the band.

[He advances with his sword as about to kill him. Maurice leaps in and stands with his drawn sword between Francesco and the Morescoes.
Maurice.
Nay, but ye shall not!

Old Man.
Shall not? Hah? Shall not?

Maurice.
What, an unarm'd man?
A man that never wore a sword? A priest?
It is unsoldierly! I say, ye shall not!

Old Man
(turning to the bands).
He bears himself most like an insolent Spaniard!

Maurice.
And ye like slaves, that have destroy'd their master,
But know not yet what freedom means; how holy
And just a thing it is! He's a fall'n foe!
Come, come, forgive him!

All.
No, by Mahomet!

Francesco.
O mercy, mercy! talk to them of mercy!

Old Man.
Mercy to thee! No, no, by Mahomet!

Maurice.
Nay, Mahomet taught mercy and forgiveness.
I am sure he did!

Old Man.
Ha! Ha! Forgiveness! Mercy!

Maurice.
If he did not, he needs it for himself!

Alhadra.
Blaspheming fool! the law of Mahomet
Was given by him, who framed the soul of man.
This the best proof—it fits the soul of man!
Ambition, glory, thirst of enterprize,
The deep and stubborn purpose of revenge,
With all the boiling revelries of pleasure—
These grow in the heart, yea, intertwine their roots
With its minutest fibres! And that Being
Who made us, laughs to scorn the lying faith,
Whose puny precepts, like a wall of sand,
Would stem the full tide of predestined Nature!

Naomi
(who turns toward Francesco with his sword).
Speak!

All
(to Alhadra).
Speak!

Alhadra.

[A part of the Morescoes hurry him off.
Alhadra.
The Tyger, that with unquench'd cruelty,
Still thirsts for blood, leaps on the hunter's spear
With prodigal courage. 'Tis not so with man.

Maurice.
It is not so, remember that, my friends!
Cowards are cruel, and the cruel cowards.

Alhadra.
Scatter yourselves, take each a separate way,
And move in silence to the house of Velez.

[Exeunt.

Scene.

—A Dungeon.
Albert (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds.
Albert.
And this place my forefathers made for men!
This is the process of our love and wisdom
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt till changed to poison,
They break out on him like a loathsome plague-spot!
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces at the clanking hour
Seen thro' the steaming vapours of his dungeon
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But bursting into tears wins back his way,
His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

[A noise at the dungeon-door. It opens, and Osorio enters with a goblet in his hand.
Osorio.
Hail, potent wizard! In my gayer mood
I pour'd forth a libation to old Pluto;
And as I brimm'd the bowl, I thought of thee!

Albert
(in a low voice).
I have not summon'd up my heart to give
That pang, which I must give thee, son of Velez!

Osorio
(with affected levity).
Thou hast conspired against my life and honour,
Hast trick'd me foully; yet I hate thee not!
Why should I hate thee? This same world of ours—
It is a puddle in a storm of rain,
And we the air-bladders, that course up and down,
And joust and tilt in merry tournament,
And when one bubble runs foul of another,
[Waving his hand at Albert.
The lesser must needs break!

Albert.
I see thy heart!
There is a frightful glitter in thine eye,
Which doth betray thee. Crazy-conscienc'd man,
This is the gaiety of drunken anguish,
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,
And quell each human feeling!

Osorio.
Feeling! feeling!
The death of a man—the breaking of a bubble.
'Tis true, I cannot sob for such misfortunes!
But faintness, cold, and hunger—curses on me
If willingly I e'er inflicted them!
Come, share the beverage—this chill place demands it.
Friendship and wine!

[Osorio proffers him the goblet.
Albert.
Yon insect on the wall,
Which moves this way and that its hundred legs,
Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,
It were an infinitely curious thing!
But it has life, Osorio! life and thought;
And by the power of its miraculous will
Wields all the complex movements of its frame
Unerringly, to pleasurable ends!
Saw I that insect on this goblet's brink,
I would remove it with an eager terror.

Osorio.
What meanest thou?

Albert.
There's poison in the wine.

Osorio.
Thou hast guess'd well. There's poison in the wine.
Shall we throw dice, which of us two shall drink it?
For one of us must die!

Albert.
Whom dost thou think me?

Osorio.
The accomplice and sworn friend of Ferdinand.

Albert.
Ferdinand! Ferdinand! 'tis a name I know not.

Osorio.
Good! good! that lie! by Heaven! it has restor'd me.
Now I am thy master! Villain, thou shalt drink it,
Or die a bitterer death.

Albert.
[Albert takes the goblet, and with a sigh throws it on the ground.

Osorio.
Thou mountebank!

Albert.
Mountebank and villain!
What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm?
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!
I speak—and fear and wonder crush thy rage,
And turn it to a motionless distraction!
Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
Thy faith in universal villainy,
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
For all thy human brethren—out upon them!
What have they done for thee? Have they given thee peace?
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made
The darkness pleasant, when thou wakest at midnight?
Art happy when alone? can'st walk by thyself
With even step, and quiet cheerfulness?
Yet, yet thou mayst be saved.

Osorio
(stupidly reiterating the word).
Saved? saved?

Albert.
One pang—
Could I call up one pang of true remorse!

Osorio.
He told me of the babe, that prattled to him,
His fatherless little ones! Remorse! remorse!
Where gott'st thou that fool's word? Curse on remorse!
Can it give up the dead, or recompact
A mangled body—mangled, dash'd to atoms!
Not all the blessings of an host of angels
Can blow away a desolate widow's curse;
And tho' thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,
It will not weigh against an orphan's tear.

Albert
(almost overcome by his feelings).
But Albert—

Osorio.
Ha! it chokes thee in the throat,
Even thee! and yet, I pray thee, speak it out.
Still Albert! Albert! Howl it in mine ear!
Heap it, like coals of fire, upon my heart!
And shoot it hissing through my brain!

Albert.
Alas—
That day, when thou didst leap from off the rock
Into the waves, and grasp'd thy sinking brother,
And bore him to the strand, then, son of Velez!
How sweet and musical the name of Albert!
Then, then, Osorio! he was dear to thee,
And thou wert dear to him. Heaven only knows
How very dear thou wert! Why didst thou hate him?
O Heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck,
And weep forgiveness!

Osorio.
Spirit of the dead!
Methinks I know thee! Ha!—my brain turns wild
At its own dreams—off—off, fantastic shadow!

Albert
(seizing his hand).
I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare not!

Osorio
(retiring from him).
[He starts, and stands in the attitude of listening.

Albert.
It is the step of one that treads in fear
Seeking to cheat the echo.

Osorio.
It approaches—
This nook shall hide me.

[Maria enters from a plank which slips to and fro.
Maria.
I have put aside
The customs and the terrors of a woman,
To work out thy escape. Stranger! begone,
And only tell me what thou know'st of Albert.

[Albert takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her with unutterable tenderness.
Albert.
Maria! my Maria!

Maria.
Do not mock me.
This is my face—and thou—ha! who art thou?
Nay, I will call thee Albert!

[She falls upon his neck. Osorio leaps out from the nook with frantic wildness, and rushes towards Albert with his sword. Maria gazes at him, as one helpless with terror, then leaves Albert, and flings herself upon Osorio, arresting his arm.
Maria.
Madman, stop!

Albert
(with majesty and tenderness).
Does then this thin disguise impenetrably
Hide Albert from thee? Toil and painful wounds,
And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons,
Have marr'd perhaps all trace and lineament
Of what I was! But chiefly, chiefly, brother!
My anguish for thy guilt. Spotless Maria,
I thought thee guilty too! Osorio, brother!
Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me!

Osorio
(drawing back and gazing at Albert with a countenance expressive at once of awe and terror).
Touch me not!
Touch not pollution, Albert!—I will die!

[He attempts to fall on his sword. Albert and Maria struggle with him.
Albert.
We will invent some tale to save your honour.
Live, live, Osorio!

Maria.
You may yet be happy.

Osorio
(looking at Maria).
O horror! Not a thousand years in heaven
Could recompose this miserable heart,
Or make it capable of one brief joy.
Live! live!—why yes! 'Twere well to live with you—
For is it fit a villain should be proud?
My brother! I will kneel to you, my brother!
[Throws himself at Albert's feet.
Forgive me, Albert!—Curse me with forgiveness!

Albert.
Call back thy soul, my brother! and look round thee.
Now is the time for greatness. Think that Heaven—

Maria.
O mark his eye! he hears not what you say.

Osorio
(pointing at vacancy).
Yes, mark his eye! there's fascination in it.
Thou said'st thou didst not know him. That is he!
He comes upon me!

Albert
(lifting his eye to heaven).
Heal, O heal him, Heaven!

Osorio.
Nearer and nearer! And I cannot stir!
Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?
He would have died to save me, and I kill'd him—
A husband and a father!

Maria.
Some secret poison
Drinks up his spirit!

Osorio
(fiercely recollecting himself).
Let the eternal Justice
Prepare my punishment in the obscure world.
I will not bear to live—to live! O agony!
And be myself alone, my own sore torment!

[The doors of the dungeon are burst open with a crash. Alhadra, Maurice, and the band of Morescoes enter.
Alhadra
(pointing at Osorio).
Seize first that man!

[The Moors press round.
Albert
(rushing in among them).
Draw thy sword, Maurice, and defend my brother.

[A scuffle, during which they disarm Maurice.
Osorio.
Off, ruffians! I have flung away my sword.
Woman, my life is thine! to thee I give it.
Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh,
I'll rend his limbs asunder! I have strength
With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes!

Alhadra.
My husband—

Osorio.
Yes! I murder'd him most foully.

Albert
(throws himself on the earth).
O horrible!

Alhadra.
[Struggling to suppress her anguish.
[Looks at Osorio.

Maria.
See—see! he doth repent. I kneel to thee.
Be merciful!

[Maria kneels to her. Alhadra regards her face wistfully.
Alhadra.
Thou art young and innocent;
'Twere merciful to kill thee! Yet I will not.
And for thy sake none of this house shall perish,
Save only he.

Maria.
That aged man, his father!

Alhadra
(sternly).
Why had he such a son?

[The Moors press on.
Maria
(still kneeling, and wild with affright).
Yet spare his life!
They must not murder him!

Alhadra.
And is it then
An enviable lot to waste away
With inward wounds, and like the spirit of chaos
To wander on disquietly thro' the earth,
Cursing all lovely things? to let him live—
It were a deep revenge!

All the band cry out
—No mercy! no mercy!

[Naomi advances with the sword towards Osorio.
Alhadra.
Nay, bear him forth! Why should this innocent maid
Behold the ugliness of death?

Osorio
(with great majesty).
O woman!
I have stood silent like a slave before thee,
That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,
And satiate this self-accusing spirit
With bitterer agonies than death can give.

[The Moors gather round him in a crowd, and pass off the stage.
Alhadra.
I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordain'd it wisely,
That still extremes bring their own cure. That point
In misery which makes the oppressed man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the oppressor's! Knew I an hundred men
Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
This arm should shake the kingdoms of this world;
The deep foundations of iniquity
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them;
The strong holds of the cruel men should fall,
Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall;
Till desolation seem'd a beautiful thing,
And all that were and had the spirit of life
Sang a new song to him who had gone forth
Conquering and still to conquer!

THE PICCOLOMINI

OR, THE FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN

A DRAMA

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

It was my intention to have prefixed a Life of Wallenstein to this translation; but I found that it must either have occupied a space wholly disproportionate to the nature of the publication, or have been merely a meagre catalogue of events narrated not more fully than they already are in the Play itself. The recent translation, likewise, of Schiller's History of the Thirty Years'

War diminished the motives thereto. In the translation I endeavoured to render my Author literally wherever I was not prevented by absolute differences of idiom; but I am conscious that in two or three short passages I have been guilty of dilating the original; and, from anxiety to give the full meaning, have weakened the force. In the metre I have availed myself of no other liberties than those which Schiller had permitted to himself, except the occasional breaking-up of the line by the substitution of a trochee for an iambus; of which liberty, so frequent in our tragedies, I find no instance in these dramas.

S. T. Coleridge.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Wallenstein, Duke of Friedland, Generalissimo of the Imperial Forces in The Thirty-years' War.
• Octavio Piccolomini, Lieutenant-General.
• Max Piccolomini, his son, Colonel of a Regiment of Cuirassiers.
• Count Tertsky, the Commander of several Regiments, and Brother-in-law of Wallenstein.
• Illo, Field Marshal, Wallenstein's Confidant.
• Isolani, General of the Croats.
• Butler, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of Dragoons.
• Tiefenbach, Generals under Wallenstein.
• Don Maradas, Generals under Wallenstein.
• Goetz, Generals under Wallenstein.
• Kolatto, Generals under Wallenstein.
• Neumann, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to Tertsky.
• The War Commissioner, Von Questenberg, Imperial Envoy.
• General Wrangel, Swedish Envoy.
• Baptista Seni, Astrologer.
• Duchess of Friedland, Wife of Wallenstein.
• Thekla, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland.
• The Countess Tertsky, Sister of the Duchess.
• A Cornet.
• Several Colonels and Generals.
• Pages and Attendants belonging to Wallenstein.
• Attendants and Hoböists belonging to Tertsky.
• The Master of the Cellar to Count Tertsky.
• Valet de Chambre of Count Piccolomini.

ACT I

Scene I

An old Gothic Chamber in the Council House at Pilsen, decorated with Colours and other War Insignia.
Illo with Butler and Isolani.
Illo.
Ye have come late—but ye are come! The distance,
Count Isolan, excuses your delay.

Isolani.
Add this too, that we come not empty-handed.
At Donauwert it was reported to us,
A Swedish caravan was on its way
Transporting a rich cargo of provision,
Almost six hundred waggons. This my Croats
Plunged down upon and seized, this weighty prize!—
We bring it hither—

Illo.
Just in time to banquet
The illustrious company assembled here.

Butler.
'Tis all alive! a stirring scene here!

Isolani.
Ay!
The very churches are all full of soldiers.
And in the Council-house, too, I observe,
You're settled, quite at home! Well, well! we soldiers
Must shift and suit us in what way we can.

Illo.
We have the Colonels here of thirty regiments.
You'll find Count Tertsky here, and Tiefenbach,
Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam,
The Piccolomini, both son and father—
You'll meet with many an unexpected greeting
From many an old friend and acquaintance. Only
Galas is wanting still, and Altringer.

Butler.
Expect not Galas.

Illo.
How so? Do you know—

Isolani.
Max Piccolomini here?—O bring me to him.
I see him yet, ('tis now ten years ago,
We were engaged with Mansfeld hard by Dessau)
I see the youth, in my mind's eye I see him,
Leap his black war-horse from the bridge adown,
And t'ward his father, then in extreme peril,
Beat up against the strong tide of the Elbe.
The down was scarce upon his chin! I hear
He has made good the promise of his youth,
And the full hero now is finished in him.

Illo.
You'll see him yet ere evening. He conducts
The Duchess Friedland hither, and the Princess
From Carnthen. We expect them here at noon.

Butler.
Both wife and daughter does the Duke call hither?
He crowds in visitants from all sides.

Isolani.
Hm!
So much the better! I had framed my mind
To hear of nought but warlike circumstance,
Of marches, and attacks, and batteries:
And lo! the Duke provides, that something too
Of gentler sort, and lovely, should be present
To feast our eyes.

Illo
(aside to Butler).
And how came you to know
That the Count Galas joins us not?

Butler.
Because
He importuned me to remain behind.

Illo.

Butler.
After the obligation which the Duke
Had laid so newly on me—

Illo.
I had forgotten
A pleasant duty—Major-General,
I wish you joy!

Isolani.
What, you mean, of his regiment?
I hear, too, that to make the gift still sweeter,
The Duke has given him the very same
In which he first saw service, and since then,
Worked himself, step by step, through each preferment,
From the ranks upwards. And verily, it gives
A precedent of hope, a spur of action
To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance
An old deserving soldier makes his way.

Butler.
I am perplexed and doubtful, whether or no
I dare accept this your congratulation.
The Emperor has not yet confirmed the appointment.

Isolani.
Seize it, friend! Seize it! The hand which in that post
Placed you, is strong enough to keep you there,
Spite of the Emperor and his Ministers!

Illo.
Ay, if we would but so consider it!—
If we would all of us consider it so!
The Emperor gives us nothing; from the Duke
Comes all—whate'er we hope, whate'er we have.

Isolani
(to Illo).
My noble brother! did I tell you how
The Duke will satisfy my creditors?
Will be himself my banker for the future,
Make me once more a creditable man!—
And this is now the third time, think of that!
This kingly-minded man has rescued me
From absolute ruin, and restored my honour.

Illo.
O that his power but kept pace with his wishes!
Why, friend! he'd give the whole world to his soldiers.
But at Vienna, brother! here's the grievance!—
What politic schemes do they not lay to shorten
His arm, and, where they can, to clip his pinions.
Then these new dainty requisitions! these,
Which this same Questenberg brings hither!—

Butler.
Ay,
These requisitions of the Emperor,—
I too have heard about them; but I hope
The Duke will not draw back a single inch!

Illo.
Not from his right most surely, unless first
—From office!

Butler.
Know you aught then? You alarm me.

Isolani
(at the same time with Butler, and in a hurrying voice).
We should be ruined, every one of us!

Illo.
No more!
Yonder I see our worthy friend approaching
With the Lieutenant-General, Piccolomini.

Butler.
I fear we shall not go hence as we came.

Scene II

Enter Octavio Piccolomini and Questenberg.
Octavio.
Ay, ay! more still! Still more new visitors!
Acknowledge, friend! that never was a camp,
Which held at once so many heads of heroes.
Welcome, Count Isolani!

Isolani.
My noble brother,
Even now am I arrived; it had been else my duty—

Octavio.
And Colonel Butler—trust me, I rejoice
Thus to renew acquaintance with a man
Whose worth and services I know and honour.
See, see, my friend!
There might we place at once before our eyes
The sum of war's whole trade and mystery—
[To Questenberg, presenting Butler and Isolani at the same time to him.
These two the total sum—Strength and Dispatch.

Questenberg
(to Octavio).
And lo! betwixt them both experienced Prudence!

Octavio
(presenting Questenberg to Butler and Isolani).
The Chamberlain and War-commissioner Questenberg,
The bearer of the Emperor's behests,
The long-tried friend and patron of all soldiers,
We honour in this noble visitor.

Illo.
'Tis not the first time, noble Minister,
You have shewn our camp this honour.

Questenberg.
Once before
I stood before these colours.

Illo.
Perchance too you remember where that was.
It was at Znäim in Moravia, where
You did present yourself upon the part
Of the Emperor, to supplicate our Duke
That he would straight assume the chief command.

Questenberg.
To supplicate? Nay, noble General!
So far extended neither my commission
(At least to my own knowledge) nor my zeal.

Illo.
Well, well, then—to compel him, if you choose.
I can remember me right well, Count Tilly
Had suffered total rout upon the Lech.
Bavaria lay all open to the enemy,
Whom there was nothing to delay from pressing
Onwards into the very heart of Austria.
At that time you and Werdenberg appeared
Before our General, storming him with prayers,
And menacing the Emperor's displeasure,
Unless he took compassion on this wretchedness.

Isolani.
Yes, yes, 'tis comprehensible enough,
Wherefore with your commission of to-day
You were not all too willing to remember
Your former one.

Questenberg.
Why not, Count Isolan?
No contradiction sure exists between them.
It was the urgent business of that time
To snatch Bavaria from her enemy's hand;
And my commission of to-day instructs me
To free her from her good friends and protectors.

Illo.
A worthy office! After with our blood
We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon,
To be swept out of it is all our thanks,
The sole reward of all our hard-won victories.

Questenberg.
Unless that wretched land be doomed to suffer
Only a change of evils, it must be
Freed from the scourge alike of friend and foe.

Illo.
What? 'Twas a favourable year; the Boors
Can answer fresh demands already.

Questenberg.
Nay,
If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds—

Isolani.
The war maintains the war. Are the Boors ruined,
The Emperor gains so many more new soldiers.

Questenberg.
And is the poorer by even so many subjects.

Isolani.
Poh! We are all his subjects.

Questenberg.
Yet with a difference, General! The one fill
With profitable industry the purse,
The others are well skilled to empty it.
The sword has made the Emperor poor; the plough
Must reinvigorate his resources.

Isolani.
Sure!
Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see
[Examining with his eye the dress and ornaments of Questenberg.
Good store of gold that still remains uncoined.

Questenberg.
Thank Heaven! that means have been found out to hide
Some little from the fingers of the Croats.

Illo.
There! The Stawata and the Martinitz,
On whom the Emperor heaps his gifts and graces,
To the heart-burning of all good Bohemians—
Those minions of court favour, those court harpies,
Who fatten on the wrecks of citizens
Driven from their house and home—who reap no harvests
Save in the general calamity—
Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock
The desolation of their country—these,
Let these, and such as these, support the war,
The fatal war, which they alone enkindled!

Butler.
And those state-parasites, who have their feet
So constantly beneath the Emperor's table,
Who cannot let a benefice fall, but they
Snap at it with dog's hunger—they, forsooth,
Would pare the soldier's bread, and cross his reckoning!

Isolani.
My life long will it anger me to think,
How when I went to court seven years ago,
To see about new horses for our regiment,
How from one antechamber to another
They dragged me on, and left me by the hour
To kick my heels among a crowd of simpering
Feast-fattened slaves, as if I had come thither
A mendicant suitor for the crumbs of favour
That fall beneath their tables. And, at last,
Whom should they send me but a Capuchin!
Straight I began to muster up my sins
For absolution—but no such luck for me!
This was the man, this Capuchin, with whom
I was to treat concerning the army horses:
And I was forced at last to quit the field,
The business unaccomplished. Afterwards
The Duke procured me in three days, what I
Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna.

Questenberg.
Yes, yes! your travelling bills soon found their way to us:
Too well I know we have still accounts to settle.

Illo.
War is a violent trade; one cannot always
Finish one's work by soft means; every trifle
Must not be blackened into sacrilege.
If we should wait till you, in solemn council,
With due deliberation had selected
The smallest out of four-and-twenty evils,
I'faith, we should wait long.—
‘Dash! and through with it!’—That's the better watchword.
Then after come what may come. 'Tis man's nature
To make the best of a bad thing once past.
A bitter and perplexed ‘what shall I do?’
Is worse to man than worst necessity.

Questenberg.
Ay, doubtless, it is true: the Duke does spare us
The troublesome task of choosing.

Butler.
Yes, the Duke
Cares with a father's feelings for his troops;
But how the Emperor feels for us, we see.

Questenberg.
His cares and feelings all ranks share alike,
Nor will he offer one up to another.

Isolani.
And therefore thrusts he us into the deserts
As beasts of prey, that so he may preserve
His dear sheep fattening in his fields at home.

Questenberg.
Count, this comparison you make, not I.

Butler.
Why, were we all the Court supposes us,
'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty.

Questenberg.
You have taken liberty—it was not given you.
And therefore it becomes an urgent duty
To rein it in with curbs.

Octavio.
My noble friend,
This is no more than a remembrancing
That you are now in camp, and among warriors.
The soldier's boldness constitues his freedom.
Could he act daringly, unless he dared
Talk even so? One runs into the other.
The boldness of this worthy officer,
[pointing to Butler.
Which now has but mistaken in its mark,
Preserved, when nought but boldness could preserve it,
To the Emperor his capital city, Prague,
In a most formidable mutiny
Of the whole garrison.
[Military music at a distance.
Hah! here they come!

Illo.
The sentries are saluting them: this signal
Announces the arrival of the Duchess.

Octavio.
Then my son Max too has returned. 'Twas he
Fetched and attended them from Carnthen hither.

Isolani
(to Illo).
Shall we not go in company to greet them?

Illo.
Well, let us go.—Ho! Colonel Butler, come.
[To Octavio.
You'll not forget, that yet ere noon we meet
The noble Envoy at the General's palace.

[Exeunt all but Questenberg and Octavio.

Scene III

Questenberg and Octavio.
Questenberg.
What have I not been forced to hear, Octavio!
What sentiments! what fierce, uncurbed defiance!
And were this spirit universal—

Octavio.
Hm!
You are now acquainted with three-fourths of the army.

Questenberg.
Where must we seek then for a second host
To have the custody of this? That Illo
Thinks worse, I fear me, than he speaks. And then
This Butler too—he cannot even conceal
The passionate workings of his ill intentions.

Octavio.
Quickness of temper—irritated pride;
'Twas nothing more. I cannot give up Butler.
I know a spell that will soon dispossess
The evil spirit in him.

Questenberg.
Friend, friend!
O! this is worse, far worse, than we had suffered
Ourselves to dream of at Vienna. There
We saw it only with a courtier's eyes,
Eyes dazzled by the splendour of the throne.
We had not seen the War-Chief, the Commander,
The man all-powerful in his camp. Here, here,
'Tis quite another thing.
Here is no Emperor more—the Duke is Emperor.
Alas, my friend! alas, my noble friend!
This walk which you have ta'en me through the camp
Strikes my hopes prostrate.

Octavio.
Now you see yourself
Of what a perilous kind the office is,
Which you deliver to me from the Court.
The least suspicion of the General
Costs me my freedom and my life, and would
But hasten his most desperate enterprise.

Questenberg.
Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted
This madman with the sword, and placed such power
In such a hand? I tell you, he'll refuse,
Flatly refuse, to obey the Imperial orders.
Friend, he can do't, and what he can, he will.
And then the impunity of his defiance—
O! what a proclamation of our weakness!

Octavio.
D'ye think too, he has brought his wife and daughter
Without a purpose hither? Here in camp!
And at the very point of time, in which
We're arming for the war? That he has taken
These, the last pledges of his loyalty,
Away from out the Emperor's domains—
This is no doubtful token of the nearness
Of some eruption!

Questenberg.
How shall we hold footing
Beneath this tempest, which collects itself
And threats us from all quarters? The enemy
Of the empire on our borders, now already
The master of the Danube, and still farther,
And farther still, extending every hour!
In our interior the alarum-bells
Of insurrection—peasantry in arms—
All orders discontented—and the army,
Just in the moment of our expectation
Of aidance from it—lo! this very army
Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline,
Loosened, and rent asunder from the state
And from their sovereign, the blind instrument
Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon
Of fearful power, which at his will he wields!

Octavio.
Nay, nay, friend! let us not despair too soon,
Men's words are ever bolder than their deeds:
And many a resolute, who now appears
Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden
Find in his breast a heart he knew not of,
Let but a single honest man speak out
The true name of his crime! Remember, too,
We stand not yet so wholly unprotected.
Counts Altringer and Galas have maintained
Their little army faithful to its duty,
And daily it becomes more numerous.
Nor can he take us by surprise: you know,
I hold him all-encompassed by my listeners.
Whate'er he does, is mine, even while 'tis doing—
No step so small, but instantly I hear it;
Yea, his own mouth discloses it.

Questenberg.
'Tis quite
Incomprehensible, that he detects not
The foe so near!

Octavio.
Beware, you do not think,
That I by lying arts, and complaisant
Hypocrisy, have skulked into his graces:
Or with the sustenance of smooth professions
Nourish his all-confiding friendship! No—
Compelled alike by prudence, and that duty
Which we all owe our country, and our sovereign,
To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet
Ne'er have I duped him with base counterfeits!

Questenberg.
It is the visible ordinance of heaven.

Octavio.
I know not what it is that so attracts
And links him both to me and to my son.
Comrades and friends we always were—long habit,
Adventurous deeds performed in company,
And all those many and various incidents
Which store a soldier's memory with affections,
Had bound us long and early to each other—
Yet I can name the day, when all at once
His heart rose on me, and his confidence
Shot out in sudden growth. It was the morning
Before the memorable fight at Lützner.
Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out,
To press him to accept another charger.
At distance from the tents, beneath a tree,
I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him,
And had related all my bodings to him,
Long time he stared upon me, like a man
Astounded; thereon fell upon my neck,
And manifested to me an emotion
That far outstripped the worth of that small service.
Since then his confidence has followed me
With the same pace that mine has fled from him.

Questenberg.
You lead your son into the secret?

Octavio.
No!

Questenberg.
What? and not warn him either what bad hands
His lot has placed him in?

Octavio.
I must perforce
Leave him in wardship to his innocence.
His young and open soul—dissimulation
Is foreign to its habits! Ignorance
Alone can keep alive the cheerful air,
The unembarrassed sense and light free spirit,
That make the Duke secure.

Questenberg.
My honoured friend! most highly do I deem
Of Colonel Piccolomini—yet—if—
Reflect a little—

Octavio.
I must venture it.
Hush!—There he comes!

Scene IV

Max Piccolomini, Octavio Piccolomini, Questenberg.
Max.
Ha! there he is himself. Welcome, my father!
You are engaged, I see. I'll not disturb you.

Octavio.
How, Max? Look closer at this visitor;
Attention, Max, an old friend merits—Reverence
Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign.

Max.
Von Questenberg!—Welcome—if you bring with you
Aught good to our head quarters.

Questenberg
(seizing his hand).
Nay, draw not
Your hand away, Count Piccolomini!
Not on mine own account alone I seized it,
And nothing common will I say therewith.
[Taking the hands of both.
Octavio—Max Piccolomini!
O saviour names, and full of happy omen!
Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria,
While two such stars, with blessed influences
Beaming protection, shine above her hosts.

Max.
Heh!—Noble minister! You miss your part.
You came not here to act a panegyric.
You're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us—
I must not be beforehand with my comrades.

Octavio.
He comes from court, where people are not quite
So well contented with the duke, as here.

Max.
What now have they contrived to find out in him?
That he alone determines for himself
What he himself alone doth understand?
Well, therein he does right, and will persist in't.
Heaven never meant him for that passive thing
That can be struck and hammered out to suit
Another's taste and fancy. He'll not dance
To every tune of every minister.
It goes against his nature—he can't do it.
He is possessed by a commanding spirit,
And his too is the station of command.
And well for us it is so! There exist
Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use
Their intellects intelligently.—Then
Well for the whole, if there be found a man,
Who makes himself what nature destined him,
The pause, the central point to thousand thousands—
Stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column,
Where all may press with joy and confidence.
Now such a man is Wallenstein; and if
Another better suits the court—no other
But such a one as he can serve the army.

Questenberg.
The army? Doubtless!

Octavio
(aside).
Hush! suppress it, friend!
Unless some end were answered by the utterance.—
Of him there you'll make nothing.

Max.
In their distress
They call a spirit up, and when he comes,
Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him
More than the ills for which they called him up.
The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be
Like things of every day.—But in the field,
Aye, there the Present Being makes itself felt.
The personal must command, the actual eye
Examine. If to be the chieftain asks
All that is great in nature, let it be
Likewise his privilege to move and act
In all the correspondencies of greatness.
The oracle within him, that which lives,
He must invoke and question—not dead books,
Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.

Octavio.
My son! of those old narrow ordinances
Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights
Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind
Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.
For always formidable was the league
And partnership of free power with free will.
The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,
Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes
The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path
Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid,
Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches.
My son! the road the human being travels,
That on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow
The river's course, the valley's playful windings,
Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines,
Honouring the holy bounds of property!
And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

Questenberg.
O hear your father, noble youth! hear him,
Who is at once the hero and the man.

Octavio.
My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!
A war of fifteen years
Hath been thy education and thy school.
Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists
A higher than the warrior's excellence.
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose.
The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
These are not they, my son, that generate
The calm, the blissful, and the enduring mighty!
Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect!
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
The whole scene moves and bustles momently,
With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel
The motley market fills; the roads, the streams
Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries!
But on some morrow morn, all suddenly,
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march.
Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,
And the year's harvest is gone utterly.

Max.
O let the Emperor make peace, my father!
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel
For the first violet of the leafless spring,
Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed!

Octavio.
What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once?

Max.
Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
From thence am I come hither: O! that sight,
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
Left in the distance,—some delicious landscape!
My road conducted me through countries where
The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father—
My venerable father, life has charms
Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been
But voyaging along its barren coasts,
Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,
That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
House on the wild sea with wild usages,
Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays
Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.
Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals
Of fair and exquisite, O! nothing, nothing,
Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.

Octavio.
And so your journey has revealed this to you?

Max.
'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me,
What is the meed and purpose of the toil,
The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth,
Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary,
A spirit uninformed, unornamented.
For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum,
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,
The unvaried, still-returning hour of duty,
Word of command, and exercise of arms—
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not—
This cannot be the sole felicity,
These cannot be man's best and only pleasures.

Octavio.
Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.

Max.
O! day thrice lovely! when at length the soldier
Returns home into life; when he becomes
A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
The colours are unfurled, the cavalcade
Marshals, and now the buzz is hushed, and hark!
Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home!
The caps and helmets are all garlanded
With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields.
The city gates fly open of themselves,
They need no longer the petard to tear them.
The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
With peaceful men and women, that send onwards
Kisses and welcomings upon the air,
Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
O happy man, O fortunate! for whom
The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.

Questenberg.
O! that you should speak
Of such a distant, distant time, and not
Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day.

Max.
Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna?
I will deal openly with you, Questenberg.
Just now, as first I saw you standing here,
(I'll own it to you freely) indignation
Crowded and pressed my inmost soul together.
'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye!—and the warrior,
It is the warrior that must force it from you.
Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him,
Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows
What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,
And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy;
Which yet's the only way to peace: for if
War intermit not during war, how then
And whence can peace come?—Your own plagues fall on you!
Even as I love what's virtuous, hate I you.
And here make I this vow, here pledge myself;
My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein,
And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye
Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin.

[Exit.

Scene V

Questenberg, Octavio Piccolomini.
Questenberg.
Alas, alas! and stands it so?
What, friend! and do we let him go away
In this delusion—let him go away?
Not call him back immediately, not open
His eyes upon the spot?

Octavio.
He has now opened mine,
And I see more than pleases me.

Questenberg.
What is it?

Octavio.
Curse on this journey!

Questenberg.
But why so? What is it?

Octavio.
Come, come along, friend! I must follow up
The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes
Are opened now, and I must use them. Come!

[Draws Questenberg on with him.
Questenberg.
What now? Where go you then?

Octavio.
To her herself.

Questenberg.
To—

Octavio.
To the Duke. Come, let us go—'Tis done, 'tis done,
I see the net that is thrown over him.
O! he returns not to me as he went.

Questenberg.
Nay, but explain yourself.

Octavio.
And that I should not
Foresee it, not prevent this journey! Wherefore
Did I keep it from him?—You were in the right.
I should have warned him! Now it is too late.

Questenberg.
But what's too late? Bethink yourself, my friend,
That you are talking absolute riddles to me.

Octavio.
Come!—to the Duke's. 'Tis close upon the hour
Which he appointed you for audience. Come!
A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey!

[He leads Questenberg off.

Scene VI

Changes to a spacious chamber in the house of the Duke of Friedland.—Servants employed in putting the tables and chairs in order. During this enters Seni, like an old Italian doctor, in black, and clothed somewhat fantastically. He carries a white staff, with which he marks out the quarters of the heaven.
First Servant.

Come—to it, lads, to it! Make an end of it. I hear the sentry call out, ‘Stand to your arms!’ They will be there in a minute.

Second Servant.

Why were we not told before that the audience would be held here? Nothing prepared—no orders —no instructions—

Third Servant.

Ay, and why was the balcony-chamber countermanded, that with the great worked carpet?—there one can look about one.

First Servant.

Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there. He says it is an unlucky chamber.

Second Servant.

Poh! stuff and nonsense! That's what I call a hum. A chamber is a chamber; what much can the place signify in the affair?

Seni.
My son, there's nothing insignificant,
Nothing! But yet in every earthly thing
First and most principal is place and time.

First Servant
(to the Second).

Say nothing to him, Nat. The Duke himself must let him have his own will.

Seni
(counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low voice, till he comes to eleven, which he repeats).
Eleven! an evil number! Set twelve chairs.
Twelve! twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven,
The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve.

Second Servant.

And what may you have to object against eleven? I should like to know that now.

Seni.
Eleven is—transgression; eleven oversteps
The ten commandments.

Second Servant.

That's good! and why do you call five an holy number?

Seni.
Five is the soul of man: for even as man
Is mingled up of good and evil, so
The five is the first number that's made up
Of even and odd.

Second Servant.

The foolish old coxcomb!

First Servant.

Ey! let him alone though. I like to hear him; there is more in his words than can be seen at first sight.

Third Servant.

Off! They come.

Second Servant.

There! Out at the side-door.

[They hurry off. Seni follows slowly. A page brings the staff of command on a red cushion, and places it on the table near the Duke's chair. They are announced from without, and the wings of the door fly open.

Scene VII

Wallenstein, Duchess.
Wallenstein.
You went then through Vienna, were presented
To the Queen of Hungary?

Duchess.
Yes, and to the Empress too,
And by both Majesties were we admitted
To kiss the hand.

Wallenstein.
And how was it received,
That I had sent for wife and daughter hither
To the camp, in winter time?

Duchess.
I did even that
Which you commissioned me to do. I told them,
You had determined on our daughter's marriage,
And wished, ere yet you went into the field,
To shew the elected husband his betrothed.

Wallenstein.
And did they guess the choice which I had made?

Duchess.
They only hoped and wished it may have fallen
Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble.

Wallenstein.
And you—what do you wish, Elizabeth?

Duchess.
Your will, you know, was always mine.

Wallenstein.
Well, then?
And in all else, of what kind and complexion
Was your reception at the court?
Hide nothing from me. How were you received?

Duchess.
O! my dear lord, all is not what it was.
A cankerworm, my lord, a cankerworm
Has stolen into the bud.

Wallenstein.
Ay! is it so!
What, they were lax? they failed of the old respect?

Duchess.
Not of respect. No honours were omitted,
No outward courtesy; but in the place
Of condescending, confidential kindness,
Familiar and endearing, there were given me
Only these honours and that solemn courtesy.
Ah! and the tenderness which was put on,
It was the guise of pity, not of favour.
No! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife,
Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not so—
Not wholly so should she have been received.

Wallenstein.
Yes, yes; they have ta'en offence. My latest conduct,
They railed at it, no doubt.

Duchess.
O that they had!
I have been long accustomed to defend you,
To heal and pacify distempered spirits.
No; no one railed at you. They wrapped them up,
O Heaven! in such oppressive, solemn silence!—
Here is no every-day misunderstanding,
No transient pique, no cloud that passes over;
Something most luckless, most unhealable,
Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary
Used formerly to call me her dear aunt,
And ever at departure to embrace me—

Wallenstein.
Now she omitted it?

Duchess.
She did embrace me,
But then first when I had already taken
My formal leave, and when the door already
Had closed upon me, then did she come out
In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself,
And pressed me to her bosom, more with anguish
Than tenderness.

Wallenstein
(seizes her hand soothingly).
Nay, now collect yourself,
And what of Eggenberg and Lichtenstein,
And of our other friends there?

Duchess.
I saw none.

Wallenstein.
The Ambassador from Spain, who once was wont
To plead so warmly for me?—

Duchess.
Silent, Silent!

Wallenstein.
These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward
Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light.

Duchess.
And were it—were it, my dear lord, in that
Which moved about the court in buzz and whisper,
But in the country let itself be heard
Aloud—in that which Father Lamormain
In sundry hints and—

Wallenstein.
Lamormain! what said he?

Duchess.
That you're accused of having daringly
O'erstepped the powers entrusted to you, charged
With traitorous contempt of the Emperor
And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian,
He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers—
That there's a storm collecting over you
Of far more fearful menace than that former one
Which whirled you headlong down at Regensburg.
And people talk, said he, of—Ah!—

Wallenstein.
Proceed!

Duchess.
I cannot utter it!

Wallenstein.
Proceed!

Duchess.
They talk—

Wallenstein.
Well!

Duchess.
Of a second—

Wallenstein.
Second—

Duchess.
More disgraceful
—Dismission.

Wallenstein.

Duchess.
O! if there yet be time, my husband! if
By giving way and by submission, this
Can be averted—my dear lord, give way!
Win down your proud heart to it! Tell that heart
It is your sovereign lord, your Emperor
Before whom you retreat. O let no longer
Low tricking malice blacken your good meaning
With abhorred venomous glosses. Stand you up
Shielded and helm'd and weapon'd with the truth,
And drive before you into uttermost shame
These slanderous liars! Few firm friends have we—
You know it!—The swift growth of our good fortune
It hath but set us up, a mark for hatred.
What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favour
Stand not before us?

Scene VIII

Enter the Countess Tertsky, leading in her hand the Princess Thekla, richly adorned with brilliants.
Countess, Thekla, Wallenstein, Duchess.
Countess.
How, sister? What already upon business,
And business of no pleasing kind I see,
Ere he has gladdened at his child. The first
Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland! father!
This is thy daughter.

(Thekla approaches with a shy and timid air, and bends herself as about to kiss his hand. He receives her in his arms, and remains standing for some time lost in the feeling of her presence.)
Wallenstein.
Yes! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me:
I take her as the pledge of greater fortune.

Duchess.
'Twas but a little child when you departed
To raise up that great army for the Emperor:
And after, at the close of the campaign,
When you returned home out of Pomerania,
Your daughter was already in the convent,
Wherein she has remain'd till now.

Wallenstein.
The while
We in the field here gave our cares and toils
To make her great, and fight her a free way
To the loftiest earthly good, lo! mother Nature
Within the peaceful silent convent walls
Has done her part, and out of her free grace
Hath she bestowed on the beloved child
The godlike; and now leads her thus adorned
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.

Duchess
(to Thekla).
Thou wouldst not have recognized thy father,
Wouldst thou, my child? She counted scarce eight years,
When last she saw your face.

Thekla.
O yes, yes, mother!
At the first glance!—My father is not altered.
The form, that stands before me, falsifies
No feature of the image that hath lived
So long within me!

Wallenstein.
The voice of my child!
[Then after a pause.
I was indignant at my destiny
That it denied me a man-child to be
Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune,
And re-illume my soon extinguished being
In a proud line of princes.
I wronged my destiny. Here upon this head
So lovely in its maiden bloom will I
Let fall the garland of a life of war,
Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it
Transmitted to a regal ornament,
Around these beauteous brows.

[He clasps her in his arms as Piccolomini enters.

Scene IX

Enter Max Piccolomini, and some time after Count Tertsky, the others remaining as before.
Countess.
There comes the Paladin who protected us.

Wallenstein.
Max! Welcome, ever welcome! Always wert thou
The morning star of my best joys!

Max.
My General—

Wallenstein.
'Till now it was the Emperor who rewarded thee,
I but the instrument. This day thou hast bound
The father to thee, Max! the fortunate father,
And this debt Friedland's self must pay.

Max.
My prince!
You made no common hurry to transfer it.
I come with shame: yea, not without a pang!
For scarce have I arrived here, scarce delivered
The mother and the daughter to your arms,
But there is brought to me from your equerry
A splendid richly-plated hunting dress
So to remunerate me for my troubles—
Yes, yes, remunerate me! Since a trouble
It must be, a mere office, not a favour
Which I leapt forward to receive, and which
I came already with full heart to thank you for.
No! 'twas not so intended, that my business
Should be my highest best good fortune!

[Tertsky enters, and delivers letters to the Duke, which he breaks open hurryingly.
Countess
(to Max).
Remunerate your trouble! For his joy
He makes you recompense. 'Tis not unfitting
For you, Count Piccolomini, to feel
So tenderly—my brother it beseems
To shew himself for ever great and princely.

Thekla.
Then I too must have scruples of his love:
For his munificent hands did ornament me
Ere yet the father's heart had spoken to me.

Max.

Countess.
My brother wishes us to leave him. Come.

Wallenstein
(turns himself round quick, collects himself, and speaks with cheerfulness to the Duchess).
Once more I bid thee welcome to the camp,
Thou art the hostess of this court. You, Max,
Will now again administer your old office,
While we perform the sovereign's business here.

[Max Piccolomini offers the Duchess his arm, the Countess accompanies the Princess.
Tertsky
(calling after him).
Max, we depend on seeing you at the meeting.

Scene X

Wallenstein, Count Tertsky.
Wallenstein
(to himself).
She hath seen all things as they are—It is so
And squares completely with my other notices.
They have determined finally in Vienna,
Have given me my successor already;
It is the king of Hungary, Ferdinand,
The Emperor's delicate son! he's now their saviour,
He's the new star that's rising now! Of us
They think themselves already fairly rid,
And as we were deceased, the heir already
Is entering on possession—Therefore—dispatch!
[As he turns round he observes Tertsky, and gives him a letter.
Count Altringer will have himself excused,
And Galas too—I like not this!

Tertsky.
And if
Thou loiterest longer, all will fall away,
One following the other.

Wallenstein.
Altringer
Is master of the Tyrole passes. I must forthwith
Send some one to him, that he let not in
The Spaniards on me from the Milanese.
—Well, and the old Sesin, that ancient trader
In contraband negotiations, he
Has shewn himself again of late. What brings he
From the Count Thur?

Tertsky.
The Count communicates,
He has found out the Swedish chancellor
At Halberstadt, where the convention's held,
Who says, you've tired him out, and that he'll have
No further dealings with you.

Wallenstein.
And why so?

Tertsky.
He says, you are never in earnest in your speeches,
That you decoy the Swedes—to make fools of them,
Will league yourself with Saxony against them,
And at last make yourself a riddance of them
With a paltry sum of money.

Wallenstein.
So then, doubtless,
Yes, doubtless, this same modest Swede expects
That I shall yield him some fair German tract
For his prey and booty, that ourselves at last
On our own soil and native territory,
May be no longer our own lords and masters!
An excellent scheme! No, no! They must be off,
Off, off! away! we want no such neighbours.

Tertsky.
Nay, yield them up that dot, that speck of land—
It goes not from your portion. If you win
The game what matters it to you who pays it?

Wallenstein.
Off with them, off! Thou understand'st not this.
Never shall it be said of me, I parcelled
My native land away, dismembered Germany,
Betrayed it to a foreigner, in order
To come with stealthy tread, and filch away
My own share of the plunder—Never! never!—
No foreign power shall strike root in the empire,
And least of all, these Goths! these hunger-wolves!
Who send such envious, hot and greedy glances
T'wards the rich blessings of our German lands!
I'll have their aid to cast and draw my nets,
But not a single fish of all the draught
Shall they come in for.

Tertsky.
You will deal, however,
More fairly with the Saxons? They lose patience
While you shift ground and make so many curves.
Say, to what purpose all these masks? Your friends
Are plunged in doubts, baffled, and led astray in you.
There's Oxenstirn, there's Arnheim—neither knows
What he should think of your procrastinations.
And in the end I prove the liar: all
Passes through me. I have not even your hand-writing.

Wallenstein.
I never give my handwriting; thou knowest it.

Tertsky.
But how can it be known that you're in earnest,
If the act follows not upon the word?
You must yourself acknowledge, that in all
Your intercourses hitherto with the enemy
You might have done with safety all you have done,
Had you meant nothing further than to gull him
For the Emperor's service.

Wallenstein
(after a pause, during which he looks narrowly on Tertsky).
And from whence dost thou know
That I'm not gulling him for the Emperor's service?
Whence knowest thou that I'm not gulling all of you?
Dost thou know me so well? When made I thee
The intendant of my secret purposes?
I am not conscious that I ever open'd
My inmost thoughts to thee. The Emperor, it is true,
Hath dealt with me amiss; and if I would,
I could repay him with usurious interest
For the evil he hath done me. It delights me
To know my power; but whether I shall use it,
Of that, I should have thought that thou could'st speak
No wiselier than thy fellows.

Tertsky.
So hast thou always played thy game with us.

[Enter Illo.

Scene XI

Illo, Wallenstein, Tertsky.
Wallenstein.
How stand affairs without? Are they prepared?

Illo.
You'll find them in the very mood you wish.
They know about the Emperor's requisitions,
And are tumultuous.

Wallenstein.
How hath Isolan
Declared himself?

Illo.
He's yours, both soul and body,
Since you built up again his Faro-bank.

Wallenstein.
And which way doth Kolatto bend? Hast thou
Made sure of Tiefenbach and Deodate?

Illo.
What Piccolomini does, that they do too.

Wallenstein.
You mean then I may venture somewhat with them?

Illo.
—If you are assured of the Piccolomini.

Wallenstein.
Not more assured of mine own self.

Tertsky.
And yet
I would you trusted not so much to Octavio,
The fox!

Wallenstein.
Thou teachest me to know my man?
Sixteen campaigns I have made with that old warrior.
Besides, I have his horoscope,
We both are born beneath like stars—in short
To this belongs its own particular aspect,
If therefore thou canst warrant me the rest—

Illo.
There is among them all but this one voice,
You must not lay down the command. I hear
They mean to send a deputation to you.

Wallenstein.
If I'm in aught to bind myself to them,
They too must bind themselves to me.

Illo.
Of course.

Wallenstein.
Their words of honour they must give, their oaths,
Give them in writing to me, promising
Devotion to my service unconditional.

Illo.
Why not?

Tertsky.
Devotion unconditional?
The exception of their duties towards Austria
They'll always place among the premises.
With this reserve—

Wallenstein.
All unconditional!
No premises, no reserves.

Illo.
A thought has struck me.
Does not Count Tertsky give us a set banquet
This evening?

Tertsky.
Yes; and all the Generals
Have been invited.

Illo
(to Wallenstein).
Say, will you here fully
Commission me to use my own discretion?
I'll gain for you the Generals' words of honour,
Even as you wish.

Wallenstein.
Gain me their signatures!
How you come by them, that is your concern.

Illo.
And if I bring it to you, black on white,
That all the leaders who are present here
Give themselves up to you, without condition;
Say, will you then—then will you shew yourself
In earnest, and with some decisive action
Make trial of your luck?

Wallenstein.
The signatures!
Gain me the signatures.

Illo.
Seize, seize the hour
Ere it slips from you. Seldom comes the moment
In life, which is indeed sublime and weighty.
To make a great decision possible,
O! many things, all transient and all rapid,
Must meet at once: and, haply, they thus met
May by that confluence be enforced to pause
Time long enough for wisdom, though too short,
Far, far too short a time for doubt and scruple!
This is that moment. See, our army chieftains,
Our best, our noblest, are assembled around you,
Their kinglike leader! On your nod they wait.
The single threads, which here your prosperous fortune
Hath woven together in one potent web
Instinct with destiny, O let them not
Unravel of themselves. If you permit
These chiefs to separate, so unanimous
Bring you them not a second time together.
'Tis the high tide that heaves the stranded ship,
And every individual's spirit waxes
In the great stream of multitudes. Behold
They are still here, here still! But soon the war
Bursts them once more asunder, and in small
Particular anxieties and interests
Scatters their spirit, and the sympathy
Of each man with the whole. He, who to-day
Forgets himself, forced onward with the stream,
Will become sober, seeing but himself,
Feel only his own weakness, and with speed
Will face about, and march on in the old
High road of duty, the old broad-trodden road,
And seek but to make shelter in good plight.

Wallenstein.
The time is not yet come.

Tertsky.
So you say always.
But when will it be time?

Wallenstein.
When I shall say it.

Illo.
You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours,
Till the earthly hour escapes you. O, believe me,
In your own bosom are your destiny's stars.
Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution,
This is your Venus! and the sole malignant,
The only one that harmeth you is Doubt.

Wallenstein.
Thou speakest as thou understand'st. How oft
And many a time I've told thee, Jupiter,
That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth.
Thy visual power subdues no mysteries;
Mole-eyed, thou mayest but burrow in the earth,
Blind as that subterrestrial, who with wan,
Lead-coloured shine lighted thee into life.
The common, the terrestrial, thou mayest see,
With serviceable cunning knit together
The nearest with the nearest; and therein
I trust thee and believe thee! but whate'er
Full of mysterious import Nature weaves,
And fashions in the depths—the spirit's ladder,
That from this gross and visible world of dust
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds,
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries—
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit—
These see the glance alone, the unsealed eye,
Of Jupiter's glad children born in lustre.
[He walks across the chamber, then returns, and standing still, proceeds.
The heavenly constellations make not merely
The day and nights, summer and spring, not merely
Signify to the husbandman the seasons
Of sowing and of harvest. Human action,
That is the seed too of contingencies,
Strewed on the dark land of futurity
In hopes to reconcile the powers of fate.
Whence it behoves us to seek out the seed-time,
To watch the stars, select their proper hours,
And trace with searching eye the heavenly houses,
Whether the enemy of growth and thriving
Hide himself not, malignant, in his corner.
Therefore permit me my own time. Meanwhile
Do you your part. As yet I cannot say
What I shall do—only, give way I will not.
Depose me too they shall not. On these points
You may rely.

Page
(entering).
My Lords, the Generals.

Wallenstein.
Let them come in.

Scene XII

Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo.—To them enter Questenberg, Octavio, and Max Piccolomini, Butler, Isolani, Maradas, and three other Generals. Wallenstein motions Questenberg, who in consequence takes the Chair directly opposite to him; the others follow, arranging themselves according to their rank.
Wallenstein.
I have understood, 'tis true, the sum and import
Of your instructions, Questenberg, have weighed them,
And formed my final, absolute resolve;
Yet it seems fitting, that the Generals
Should hear the will of the Emperor from your mouth.
May't please you then to open your commission
Before these noble Chieftains.

Questenberg.
I am ready
To obey you; but will first entreat your Highness,
And all these noble Chieftains, to consider,
The Imperial dignity and sovereign right
Speaks from my mouth, and not my own presumption.

Wallenstein.
We excuse all preface.

Questenberg.
When his Majesty
The Emperor to his courageous armies
Presented in the person of Duke Friedland
A most experienced and renowned commander,
He did it in glad hope and confidence
To give thereby to the fortune of the war
A rapid and auspicious change. The onset
Was favourable to his royal wishes.
Bohemia was delivered from the Saxons,
The Swede's career of conquest checked! These lands
Began to draw breath freely, as Duke Friedland
From all the streams of Germany forced hither
The scattered armies of the enemy,
Hither invoked as round one magic circle
The Rhinegrave, Bernhard, Banner, Oxenstirn,
Yea, and that never-conquered King himself;
Here finally, before the eye of Nürnberg,
The fearful game of battle to decide.

Wallenstein.
May't please you to the point.

Questenberg.
In Nürnberg's camp the Swedish monarch left
His fame—in Lützen's plains his life. But who
Stood not astounded, when victorious Friedland
After this day of triumph, this proud day,
Marched toward Bohemia with the speed of flight,
And vanished from the theatre of war;
While the young Weimar hero forced his way
Into Franconia, to the Danube, like
Some delving winter-stream, which, where it rushes,
Makes its own channel; with such sudden speed
He marched, and now at once 'fore Regenspurg
Stood to the affright of all good Catholic Christians.
Then did Bavaria's well-deserving Prince
Entreat swift aidance in his extreme need;
The Emperor sends seven horsemen to Duke Friedland,
Seven horsemen couriers sends he with the entreaty:
He superadds his own, and supplicates
Where as the sovereign lord he can command.
In vain his supplication! At this moment
The Duke hears only his old hate and grudge,
Barters the general good to gratify
Private revenge—and so falls Regenspurg.

Wallenstein.
Max, to what period of the war alludes he?
My recollection fails me here.

Max.
He means
When we were in Silesia.

Wallenstein.
Ay! Is it so!
But what had we to do there?

Max.
To beat out
The Swedes and Saxons from the province.

Wallenstein.
True.
In that description which the Minister gave
I seemed to have forgotten the whole war.
[To Questenberg.
Well, but proceed a little.

Questenberg.
Yes! at length
Beside the river Oder did the Duke
Assert his ancient fame. Upon the fields
Of Steinau did the Swedes lay down their arms,
Subdued without a blow. And here, with others,
The righteousness of Heaven to his avenger
Delivered that long-practised stirrer-up
Of insurrection, that curse-laden torch
And kindler of this war, Matthias Thur.
But he had fallen into magnanimous hands;
Instead of punishment he found reward,
And with rich presents did the Duke dismiss
The arch-foe of his Emperor.

Wallenstein
(laughs).
I know,
I know you had already in Vienna
Your windows and balconies all forestalled
To see him on the executioner's cart.
I might have lost the battle, lost it too
With infamy, and still retained your graces—
But, to have cheated them of a spectacle,
Oh! that the good folks of Vienna never,
No, never can forgive me.

Questenberg.
So Silesia
Was freed, and all things loudly called the Duke
Into Bavaria, now pressed hard on all sides.
And he did put his troops in motion: slowly,
Quite at his ease, and by the longest road
He traverses Bohemia; but ere ever
He hath once seen the enemy, faces round,
Breaks up the march, and takes to winter quarters.

Wallenstein.
The troops were pitiably destitute
Of every necessary, every comfort.
The winter came. What thinks his Majesty
His troops are made of? Arn't we men? subjected
Like other men to wet, and cold, and all
The circumstances of necessity?
O miserable lot of the poor soldier!
Wherever he comes in, all flee before him,
And when he goes away, the general curse
Follows him on his route. All must be seized,
Nothing is given him. And compelled to seize
From every man, he's every man's abhorrence.
Behold, here stand my Generals. Karaffa!
Count Deodate! Butler! Tell this man
How long the soldiers' pay is in arrears.

Butler.
Already a full year.

Wallenstein.
And 'tis the hire
That constitutes the hireling's name and duties,
The soldier's pay is the soldier's covenant.

Questenberg.
Ah! this is a far other tone from that
In which the Duke spoke eight, nine years ago.

Wallenstein.
Yes! 'tis my fault, I know it: I myself
Have spoilt the Emperor by indulging him.
Nine years ago, during the Danish war,
I raised him up a force, a mighty force,
Forty or fifty thousand men, that cost him
Of his own purse no doit. Through Saxony
The fury goddess of the war marched on,
E'en to the surf-rocks of the Baltic, bearing
The terrors of his name. That was a time!
In the whole Imperial realm no name like mine
Honoured with festival and celebration—
And Albrecht Wallenstein, it was the title
Of the third jewel in his crown!
But at the Diet, when the Princes met
At Regenspurg, there, there the whole broke out,
There 'twas laid open, there it was made known,
Out of what money-bag I had paid the host.
And what was now my thank, what had I now,
That I, a faithful servant of the Sovereign,
Had loaded on myself the people's curses,
And let the Princes of the empire pay
The expenses of this war, that aggrandizes
The Emperor alone—What thanks had I!
What? I was offered up to their complaints,
Dismissed, degraded!

Questenberg.
But your Highness knows
What little freedom he possessed of action
In that disastrous diet.

Wallenstein.
Death and hell!
I had that which could have procured him freedom.
No! Since 'twas proved so inauspicious to me
To serve the Emperor at the empire's cost,
I have been taught far other trains of thinking
Of the empire, and the diet of the empire.
From the Emperor, doubtless, I received this staff,
But now I hold it as the empire's general—
For the common weal, the universal interest,
And no more for that one man's aggrandizement!
But to the point. What is it that's desired of me?

Questenberg.
First, his imperial Majesty hath willed
That without pretexts of delay the army
Evacuate Bohemia.

Wallenstein.
In this season?
And to what quarter wills the Emperor
That we direct our course?

Questenberg.
To the enemy.
His Majesty resolves, that Regenspurg
Be purified from the enemy, ere Easter,
That Lutheranism may be no longer preached
In that cathedral, nor heretical
Defilement desecrate the celebration
Of that pure festival.

Wallenstein.
My generals,
Can this be realized?

Illo.
'Tis not possible.

Butler.
It can't be realized.

Questenberg.
The Emperor
Already hath commanded Colonel Suys
To advance toward Bavaria!

Wallenstein.
What did Suys?

Questenberg.
That which his duty prompted. He advanced!

Wallenstein.
What? he advanced? And I, his general,
Had given him orders, peremptory orders,
Not to desert his station! Stands it thus
With my authority? Is this the obedience
Due to my office, which being thrown aside
No war can be conducted? Chieftains, speak!
You be the judges, generals! What deserves
That officer, who of his oath neglectful
Is guilty of contempt of orders?

Illo.
Death.

Wallenstein.
Count Piccolomini! what has he deserved?

Max Piccolomini.
According to the letter of the law,
Death.

Isolani.
Death.

Butler.
Death, by the laws of war.

[Questenberg rises from his seat, Wallenstein follows; all the rest rise.
Wallenstein.
To this the law condemns him, and not I.
And if I shew him favour, 'twill arise
From the reverence that I owe my Emperor.

Questenberg.
If so, I can say nothing further—here!

Wallenstein.
I accepted the command but on conditions!
And this the first, that to the diminution
Of my authority no human being,
Not even the Emperor's self, should be entitled
To do aught, or to say aught, with the army.
If I stand warranter of the event,
Placing my honour and my head in pledge,
Needs must I have full mastery in all
The means thereto. What rendered this Gustavus
Resistless, and unconquered upon earth?
This—that he was the monarch in his army!
A monarch, one who is indeed a monarch,
Was never yet subdued but by his equal.
But to the point! The best is yet to come.
Attend now, generals!

Questenberg.
The prince Cardinal
Begins his route at the approach of spring
From the Milanese; and leads a Spanish army
Through Germany into the Netherlands.
That he may march secure and unimpeded,
'Tis the Emperor's will you grant him a detachment
Of eight horse-regiments from the army here.

Wallenstein.
Yes, yes! I understand!—Eight regiments! Well,
Right well concerted, father Lamormain!
Eight thousand horse! Yes, yes! 'Tis as it should be!
I see it coming!

Questenberg.
There is nothing coming.
All stands in front: the counsel of state-prudence,
The dictate of necessity!—

Wallenstein.
What then?
What, my Lord Envoy? May I not be suffered
To understand, that folks are tired of seeing
The sword's hilt in my grasp: and that your court
Snatch eagerly at this pretence, and use
The Spanish title, to drain off my forces,
To lead into the empire a new army
Unsubjected to my control. To throw me
Plumply aside,—I am still too powerful for you
To venture that. My stipulation runs,
That all the Imperial forces shall obey me
Where'er the German is the native language.
Of Spanish troops and of Prince Cardinals
That take their route, as visitors, through the empire,
There stands no syllable in my stipulation.
No syllable! And so the politic court
Steals in a-tiptoe, and creeps round behind it;
First makes me weaker, then to be dispensed with,
Till it dares strike at length a bolder blow
And make short work with me.
What need of all these crooked ways, Lord Envoy?
Straight-forward man! His compact with me pinches
The Emperor. He would that I moved off!—
Well!—I will gratify him!
[Here there commences an agitation among the Generals which increases continually.
It grieves me for my noble officers' sakes!
I see not yet, by what means they will come at
The moneys they have advanced, or how obtain
The recompense their services demand.
Still a new leader brings new claimants forward,
And prior merit superannuates quickly.
There serve here many foreigners in the army,
And were the man in all else brave and gallant,
I was not wont to make nice scrutiny
After his pedigree or catechism.
This will be otherwise, i'the time to come.
Well—me no longer it concerns.

[He seats himself.
Max Piccolomini.
Forbid it, Heaven, that it should come to this!
Our troops will swell in dreadful fermentation—
The Emperor is abused—it cannot be.

Isolani.
It cannot be; all goes to instant wreck.

Wallenstein.
Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani!
What we with toil and foresight have built up,
Will go to wreck—all go to instant wreck.
What then? another chieftain is soon found,
Another army likewise (who dares doubt it?)
Will flock from all sides to the Emperor
At the first beat of his recruiting drum.

[During this speech, Isolani, Tertsky, Illo and Maradas talk confusedly with great agitation.
Max Piccolomini
(busily and passionately going from one to another, and soothing them).
Hear, my commander! Hear me, generals!
Let me conjure you, Duke! Determine nothing,
Till we have met and represented to you
Our joint remonstrances.—Nay, calmer! Friends!
I hope all may be yet set right again.

Tertsky.
Away! let us away! in the antechamber
Find we the others.

[They go.
Butler
(to Questenberg).
If good counsel gain
Due audience from your wisdom, my Lord Envoy!
You will be cautious how you shew yourself
In public for some hours to come—or hardly
Will that gold key protect you from maltreatment.

[Commotions heard from without.
Wallenstein.
A salutary counsel—Thou, Octavio!
Wilt answer for the safety of our guest.
Farewell, Von Questenberg!

[Questenberg is about to speak.
[As Questenberg is going off with Octavio, Goetz, Tiefenbach, Kolatto, press in; several other Generals following them.
Goetz.
Where's he who means to rob us of our general?

Tiefenbach
(at the same time).
What are we forced to hear? That thou wilt leave us?

Kolatto
(at the same time).
We will live with thee, we will die with thee.

Wallenstein
(pointing to Illo).
There! the Field-Marshal knows our will.

[Exit.

ACT II

Scene I

Scene—A small Chamber.
Illo and Tertsky.
Tertsky.
Now for this evening's business! How intend you
To manage with the generals at the banquet?

Illo.
Attend! We frame a formal declaration,
Wherein we to the Duke consign ourselves
Collectively, to be and to remain
His both with life and limb, and not to spare
The last drop of our blood for him, provided
So doing we infringe no oath nor duty,
We may be under to the Emperor.—Mark!
This reservation we expressly make
In a particular clause, and save the conscience.
Now hear! This formula so framed and worded
Will be presented to them for perusal
Before the banquet. No one will find in it
Cause of offence or scruple. Hear now further!
After the feast, when now the vap'ring wine
Opens the heart, and shuts the eyes, we let
A counterfeited paper, in the which
This one particular clause has been left out,
Go round for signatures.

Tertsky.
How? think you then
That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath,
Which we had tricked them into by a juggle?

Illo.
We shall have caught and caged them! Let them then
Beat their wings bare against the wires, and rave
Loud as they may against our treachery,
At court their signatures will be believed
Far more than their most holy affirmations.
Traitors they are, and must be; therefore wisely
Will make a virtue of necessity.

Tertsky.
Well, well, it shall content me; let but something
Be done, let only some decisive blow
Set us in motion.

Illo.
Besides, 'tis of subordinate importance
How, or how far, we may thereby propel
The generals. 'Tis enough that we persuade
The Duke, that they are his—Let him but act
In his determined mood, as if he had them,
And he will have them. Where he plunges in,
He makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it.

Tertsky.
His policy is such a labyrinth,
That many a time when I have thought myself
Close at his side, he's gone at once, and left me
Ignorant of the ground where I was standing.
He lends the enemy his ear, permits me
To write to them, to Arnheim; to Sesina
Himself comes forward blank and undisguised;
Talks with us by the hour about his plans,
And when I think I have him—off at once—
He has slipped from me, and appears as if
He had no scheme, but to retain his place.

Illo.
He give up his old plans! I'll tell you, friend!
His soul is occupied with nothing else,
Even in his sleep—They are his thoughts, his dreams,
That day by day he questions for this purpose
The motions of the planets—

Tertsky.
Ay! you know
This night, that is now coming, he with Seni
Shuts himself up in the astrological tower
To make joint observations—for I hear,
It is to be a night of weight and crisis;
And something great, and of long expectation,
Is to make its procession in the heaven.

Illo.
Come! be we bold and make dispatch. The work
In this next day or two must thrive and grow
More than it has for years. And let but only
Things first turn up auspicious here below—
Mark what I say—the right stars too will shew themselves.
Come, to the generals. All is in the glow,
And must be beaten while 'tis malleable.

Tertsky.
Do you go thither, Illo. I must stay
And wait here for the Countess Tertsky. Know
That we too are not idle. Break one string,
A second is in readiness.

Illo.
Yes! Yes!
I saw your Lady smile with such sly meaning.
What's in the wind?

Tertsky.
A secret. Hush! she comes.

[Exit Illo.

Scene II

The Countess steps out from a Closet. Count and Countess Tertsky.
Tertsky.
Well—is she coming?—I can keep him back
No longer.

Countess.
She will be there instantly.
You only send him.

Tertsky.
I am not quite certain,
I must confess it, Countess, whether or not
We are earning the Duke's thanks hereby. You know,
No ray has broken from him on this point.
You have o'er-ruled me, and yourself know best
How far you dare proceed.

Countess.
I take it on me.
[Talking to herself, while she is advancing.
Here's no need of full powers and commissions—
My cloudy Duke! we understand each other—
And without words. What, could I not unriddle,
Wherefore the daughter should be sent for hither,
Why first he, and no other, should be chosen
To fetch her hither! This sham of betrothing her
To a bridegroom, whom no one knows—No! no!—
This may blind others! I see through thee, Brother!
But it beseems thee not, to draw a card
At such a game. Not yet!—It all remains
Mutely delivered up to my finessing—
Well—thou shalt not have been deceived, Duke Friedland!
In her who is thy sister.—

Servant
(enters).
The commanders!

Tertsky
(to the Countess).
Take care you heat his fancy and affections—
Possess him with a reverie, and send him,
Absent and dreaming, to the banquet; that
He may not boggle at the signature.

Countess.
Take you care of your guests!—Go, send him hither.

Tertsky.
All rests upon his undersigning.

Countess.
Go to your guests! Go—

Illo
(comes back).
Where art staying, Tertsky?
The house is full, and all expecting you.

Tertsky.
[To the Countess.

Countess.
A truce with your precautions!

[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo.

Scene III

Countess, Max Piccolomini.
Max.
[Advances to the middle of the stage, and looks around him with uneasiness.

Countess.
Look but somewhat narrowly
In yonder corner, lest perhaps she lie
Conceal'd behind that screen.

Max.
There lie her gloves!
[Snatches at them, but the Countess takes them herself.
You unkind Lady! You refuse me this—
You make it an amusement to torment me.

Countess.
And this the thanks you give me for my trouble?

Max.
O, if you felt the oppression at my heart!
Since we've been here, so to constrain myself—
With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances—
These, these are not my habits!

Countess.
You have still
Many new habits to acquire, young friend!
But on this proof of your obedient temper
I must continue to insist; and only
On this condition can I play the agent
For your concerns.

Max.
But wherefore comes she not?
Where is she?

Countess.
Into my hands you must place it
Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed,
More zealously affected to your interest?
No soul on earth must know it—not your father.
He must not above all.

Max.

Countess.
But, gentle friend!
I must entreat it of your condescension,
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favour
With one short glance or two this poor stale world,
Where even now much, and of much moment,
Is on the eve of its completion.

Max.
Something,
I can't but know, is going forward round me.
I see it gathering, crowding, driving on,
In wild uncustomary movements. Well,
In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me.
Where think you I have been, dear lady? Nay,
No raillery. The turmoil of the camp,
The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in,
The pointless jest, the empty conversation,
Oppress'd and stifled me. I gasped for air—
I could not breathe—I was constrain'd to fly,
To seek a silence out for my full heart;
And a pure spot wherein to feel my happiness.
No smiling, Countess! In the church was I.
There is a cloister here to the heaven's gate,
Thither I went, there found myself alone.
Over the altar hung a holy mother;
A wretched painting 'twas, yet 'twas the friend
That I was seeking in this moment. Ah,
How oft have I beheld that glorious form
In splendour, mid ecstatic worshippers;
Yet, still it moved me not! and now at once
Was my devotion cloudless as my love.

Countess.
Enjoy your fortune and felicity!
Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship
Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active.
Only be manageable when that friendship
Points you the road to full accomplishment.
How long may it be since you declared your passion?

Max.
This morning did I hazard the first word.

Countess.
This morning the first time in twenty days?

Max.
'Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here
And Nepomuck, where you had joined us, and—
That was the last relay of the whole journey!
In a balcony we were standing mute,
And gazing out upon the dreary field:
Before us the dragoons were riding onward,
The safe-guard which the Duke had sent us—heavy
The inquietude of parting lay upon me,
And trembling ventured I at length these words:
This all reminds me, noble maiden, that
To-day I must take leave of my good fortune.
A few hours more, and you will find a father,
Will see yourself surrounded by new friends,
And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger,
Lost in the many—‘Speak with my aunt Tertsky!’
With hurrying voice she interrupted me.
She faltered. I beheld a glowing red
Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground
Raised slowly up her eye met mine—no longer
[The Princess Thekla appears at the door, and remains standing, observed by the Countess, but not by Piccolomini.

Countess.
And is it your excess of modesty;
Or are you so incurious, that you do not
Ask me too of my secret?

Max.
Of your secret?

Countess.
Why, yes! When in the instant after you
I stepped into the room, and found my niece there,
What she in this first moment of the heart
Ta'en with surprise—

Max.
Well?

Scene IV

Thekla (hurries forward), Countess, Max Piccolomini.
Thekla
(to the Countess).
Spare yourself the trouble:
That hears he better from myself.

Max.
My Princess!
What have you let her hear me say, aunt Tertsky?

Thekla
(to the Countess).
Has he been here long?

Countess.
Yes; and soon must go.
Where have you stayed so long?

Thekla.
Alas! my mother
Wept so again! and I—I see her suffer,
Yet cannot keep myself from being happy.

Max.
Now once again I have courage to look on you.
To-day at noon I could not.
The dazzle of the jewels that play'd round you
Hid the beloved from me.

Thekla.
Then you saw me
With your eye only—and not with your heart?

Max.
This morning, when I found you in the circle
Of all your kindred, in your father's arms,
Beheld myself an alien in this circle,
O! what an impulse felt I in that moment
To fall upon his neck, to call him father!
But his stern eye o'erpowered the swelling passion—
It dared not but be silent. And those brilliants,
That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brows,
They scared me too! O wherefore, wherefore should he
At the first meeting spread as 'twere the ban
Of excommunication round you, wherefore
Dress up the angel as for sacrifice,
And cast upon the light and joyous heart
The mournful burthen of his station? Fitly
May love dare woo for love; but such a splendour
Might none but monarchs venture to approach.

Thekla.
Hush! not a word more of this mummery.
You see how soon the burthen is thrown off.
[To the Countess.
He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he not?
'Tis you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy!
He had quite another nature on the journey—
So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent.
[To Max.
It was my wish to see you always so,
And never otherwise!

Max.
You find yourself
In your great father's arms, belovéd lady!
All in a new world, which does homage to you,
And which, wer't only by its novelty,
Delights your eye.

Thekla.
Yes; I confess to you
That many things delight me here: this camp,
This motley stage of warriors, which renews
So manifold the image of my fancy,
And binds to life, binds to reality,
What hitherto had but been present to me
As a sweet dream!

Max.
Alas! not so to me.
It makes a dream of my reality.
Upon some island in the ethereal heights
I've lived for these last days. This mass of men
Forces me down to earth. It is a bridge
That, reconducting to my former life,
Divides me and my heaven.

Thekla.
The game of life
Looks cheerful, when one carries in one's heart
The inalienable treasure. 'Tis a game,
Which having once reviewed, I turn more joyous
Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss.
In this short time that I've been present here,
What new unheard-of things have I not seen!
And yet they all must give place to the wonder
Which this mysterious castle guards.

Countess.
And what
Can this be then? Methought I was acquainted
With all the dusky corners of this house.

Thekla.
Ay, but the road thereto is watched by spirits,
Two griffins still stand sentry at the door.

Countess
(laughs).
The astrological tower!—How happens it
That this same sanctuary, whose access
Is to all others so impracticable,
Opens before you even at your approach?

Thekla.
A dwarfish old man with a friendly face
And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services
Were mine at first sight, opened me the doors.

Max.
That is the Duke's astrologer, old Seni.

Thekla.
He questioned me on many points; for instance,
When I was born, what month, and on what day,
Whether by day or in the night.

Countess.
He wished
To erect a figure for your horoscope.

Thekla.
My hand too he examined, shook his head
With much sad meaning, and the lines methought,
Did not square over truly with his wishes.

Countess.
Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower?
My highest privilege has been to snatch
A side-glance, and away!

Thekla.
It was a strange
Sensation that came o'er me, when at first
From the broad sunshine I stepped in; and now
The narrowing line of day-light, that ran after
The closing door, was gone; and all about me
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me
In a half-circle. Each one in his hand
A sceptre bore, and on his head a star;
And in the tower no other light was there
But from these stars: all seemed to come from them.
‘These are the planets,’ said that low old man,
‘They govern worldly fates, and for that cause
Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you,
Spiteful, and cold, an old man melancholy,
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn.
He opposite, the king with the red light,
An arm'd man for the battle, that is Mars:
And both these bring but little luck to man.’
But at his side a lovely lady stood,
The star upon her head was soft and bright,
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy.
On the left hand, lo! Mercury, with wings.
Quite in the middle glittered silver-bright
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien;
And this was Jupiter, my father's star:
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon.

Max.
O never rudely will I blame his faith
In the might of stars and angels! 'Tis not merely
The human being's Pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years
Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn.
For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place;
Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans,
And spirits; and delightedly believes
Divinities, being himself divine.
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,
That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and wat'ry depths; all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason!
But still the heart doth need a language, still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend; and to the lover
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down: and even at this day
'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings every thing that's fair!

Thekla.
And if this be the science of the stars,
I too, with glad and zealous industry,
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith.
It is a gentle and affectionate thought,
That in immeasurable heights above us,
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven,
With sparkling stars for flowers.

Countess.
Not only roses,
But thorns too hath the heaven; and well for you
Leave they your wreath of love inviolate;
What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune,
The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces.

Max.
Soon will his gloomy empire reach its close.
Blest be the General's zeal: into the laurel
Will he inweave the olive-branch, presenting
Peace to the shouting nations. Then no wish
Will have remained for his great heart! Enough
Has he performed for glory, and can now
Live for himself and his. To his domains
Will he retire; he has a stately seat
Of fairest view at Gitschin; Reichenberg,
And Friedland Castle, both lie pleasantly—
Even to the foot of the huge mountains here
Stretches the chase and covers of his forests:
His ruling passion, to create the splendid,
He can indulge without restraint; can give
A princely patronage to every art,
And to all worth a Sovereign's protection.
Can build, can plant, can watch the starry courses—

Countess.
Yet I would have you look, and look again,
Before you lay aside your arms, young friend!
A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it,
That you should woo and win her with the sword.

Max.
O, that the sword could win her!

Countess.
What was that?
Did you hear nothing? Seem'd, as if I heard
Tumult and larum in the banquet-room.

[Exit Countess.

Scene V

Thekla and Max Piccolomini.
Thekla
(as soon as the Countess is out of sight, in a quick low voice to Piccolomini).
Don't trust them! They are false!

Max.
Impossible!

Thekla.
Trust no one here but me. I saw at once,
They had a purpose.

Max.
Purpose! but what purpose?
And how can we be instrumental to it?

Thekla.
I know no more than you; but yet believe me:
There's some design in this! to make us happy,
To realize our union—trust me, love!
They but pretend to wish it.

Max.
But these Tertskys—
Why use we them at all? Why not your mother?
Excellent creature! she deserves from us
A full and filial confidence.

Thekla.
She doth love you,
Doth rate you high before all others—but—
But such a secret—she would never have
The courage to conceal it from my father.
For her own peace of mind we must preserve it
A secret from her too.

Max.
Why any secret?
I love not secrets. Mark, what I will do.
I'll throw me at your father's feet—let him
Decide upon my fortunes!—He is true,
He wears no mask—he hates all crooked ways—
He is so good, so noble!

Thekla
(falls on his neck).
That are you!

Max.
You knew him only since this morn; but I
Have liv'd ten years already in his presence,
And who knows whether in this very moment
He is not merely waiting for us both
To own our loves, in order to unite us.
You are silent!—
You look at me with such a hopelessness!
What have you to object against your father?

Thekla.
[Taking his hand tenderly.

Max.
O! shall we e'er be happy?

Thekla.
Are we not happy now? Art thou not mine?
Am I not thine? There lives within my soul
A lofty courage—'tis love gives it me!
I ought to be less open—ought to hide
My heart more from thee—so decorum dictates:
But where in this place could'st thou seek for truth,
If in my mouth thou did'st not find it?

Scene VI

To them enters the Countess Tertsky.
Countess.

Thekla.
O, not yet!
It has been scarce a moment.

Countess.
Aye! Then time
Flies swiftly with your Highness, Princess niece!

Max.
There is no hurry, aunt.

Countess.
Away! Away!
The folks begin to miss you. Twice already
His father has asked for him.

Thekla.
Ha! his father?

Countess.
You understand that, niece!

Thekla.
Why needs he
To go at all to that society?
'Tis not his proper company. They may
Be worthy men, but he's too young for them.
In brief, he suits not such society.

Countess.
You mean, you'd rather keep him wholly here?

Thekla.
Yes! you have hit it, aunt! That is my meaning.
Leave him here wholly! Tell the company—

Countess.
What? have you lost your senses, niece?—
Count, you remember the conditions. Come!

Max
(to Thekla).
Lady, I must obey. Farewell, dear lady!
[Thekla turns away from him with a quick motion.
What say you then, dear lady?

Thekla
(without looking at him).
Nothing. Go!

Max.
Can I, when you are angry—

[He draws up to her, their eyes meet, she stands silent a moment, then throws herself into his arms; he presses her fast to his heart.
Countess.
Off! Heavens! if any one should come!
Hark! What's that noise? It comes this way.—Off!

[Max tears himself away out of her arms, and goes. The Countess accompanies him. Thekla follows him with her eyes at first, walks restlessly across the room, then stops, and remains standing, lost in thought. A guitar lies on the table, she seizes it as by a sudden emotion, and after she has played a while an irregular and melancholy symphony, she falls gradually into the music and sings.
Thekla
(plays and sings).

Scene VII

Countess (returns), Thekla.
Countess.
Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him,
Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,
And so must be flung after him! For you,
Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought
It had been more beseeming to have shewn yourself
More chary of your person.

Thekla.
And what mean you?

Countess.
I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten
Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
That never once occurred to you.

Thekla.
What then?

Countess.
That you're the daughter of the Prince-Duke Friedland.

Thekla.
Well—and what farther?

Countess.
What? a pretty question!

Thekla.
He was born that which we have but become.
He's of an ancient Lombard family,
Son of a reigning princess.

Countess.
Are you dreaming?
Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth!
We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him
To honour with his hand the richest heiress
In Europe.

Thekla.
That will not be necessary.

Countess.
Methinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard.

Thekla.
His father loves him, Count Octavio
Will interpose no difficulty—

Countess.
His!
His father! his! But yours, niece, what of yours?

Thekla.
Why I begin to think you fear his father,
So anxiously you hide it from the man!
His father, his, I mean.

Countess
(looks at her).
Niece, you are false.

Thekla.
Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me!

Countess.
You hold your game for won already. Do not
Triumph too soon!—

Thekla.
Nay now, be friends with me.

Countess.
It is not yet so far gone.

Thekla.
I believe you.

Countess.
Did you suppose your father had laid out
His most important life in toils of war,
Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,
Had banished slumber from his tent, devoted
His noble head to care, and for this only,
To make a happy pair of you? At length
To draw you from your convent, and conduct
In easy triumph to your arms the man
That chanc'd to please your eyes! All this, methinks,
He might have purchased at a cheaper rate.

Thekla.
That which he did not plant for me might yet
Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
And if my friendly and affectionate fate,
Out of his fearful and enormous being,
Will but prepare the joys of life for me—

Countess.
Thou seest it with a love-lorn maiden's eyes.
Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art.
Into no house of joyance hast thou stepped,
For no espousals dost thou find the walls
Deck'd out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing.
Here is no splendour but of arms. Or think'st thou
That all these thousands are here congregated
To lead up the long dances at thy wedding?
Thou see'st thy father's forehead full of thought,
Thy mother's eye in tears: upon the balance
Lies the great destiny of all our house.
Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling,
O thrust it far behind thee! Give thou proof,
Thou'rt the daughter of the Mighty—his
Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
Not to herself the woman must belong,
Annexed and bound to alien destinies.
But she performs the best part, she the wisest,
Who can transmute the alien into self,
Meet and disarm necessity by choice;
And what must be, take freely to her heart,
And bear and foster it with mother's love.

Thekla.
Such ever was my lesson in the convent.
I had no loves, no wishes, knew myself
Only as his—his daughter—his, the Mighty!
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me
From the far distance, wakened in my soul
No other thought than this—I am appointed
To offer up myself in passiveness to him.

Countess.
That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it.
I and thy mother gave thee the example.

Thekla.
My fate hath shewn me him, to whom behoves it
That I should offer up myself. In gladness
Him will I follow.

Countess.
Not thy fate hath shewn him!
Thy heart, say rather—'twas thy heart, my child!

Thekla.
Fate hath no voice but the heart's impulses.
I am all his! His Present—his alone,
Is this new life, which lives in me. He hath
A right to his own creature. What was I
Ere his fair love infused a soul into me?

Countess.
Thou would'st oppose thy father then, should he
Have otherwise determined with thy person?
[Thekla remains silent. The Countess continues.
Thou mean'st to force him to thy liking?—Child,
His name is Friedland.

Thekla.
My name too is Friedland.
He shall have found a genuine daughter in me.

Countess.
What? he has vanquished all impediment,
And in the wilful mood of his own daughter
Shall a new struggle rise for him? Child! child!
As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone;
The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child,
I will not frighten thee. To that extreme,
I trust, it ne'er shall come. His will is yet
Unknown to me: 'tis possible his aims
May have the same direction as thy wish.
But this can never, never be his will,
That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortunes,
Should'st e'er demean thee as a love-sick maiden;
And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself
Toward the man, who, if that high prize ever
Be destined to await him, yet, with sacrifices
The highest love can bring, must pay for it.

[Exit Countess.
Thekla.
I thank thee for the hint. It turns
My sad presentiment to certainty.
And it is so!—Not one friend have we here,
Not one true heart! we've nothing but ourselves!
O she said rightly—no auspicious signs
Beam on this covenant of our affections.
This is no theatre, where hope abides.
The dull thick noise of war alone stirs here.
And love himself, as he were armed in steel,
Steps forth, and girds him for the strife of death.
[Music from the banquet-room is heard.
There's a dark spirit walking in our house,
And swiftly will the Destiny close on us.
It drove me hither from my calm asylum,
It mocks my soul with charming witchery,
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape,
I see it near, I see it nearer floating,
It draws, it pulls me with a god-like power—
And lo! the abyss—and thither am I moving—
I have no power within me not to move!
[The music from the banquet-room becomes louder.
O when a house is doomed in fire to perish,
Many a dark heaven drives his clouds together,
Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights,
Flames burst from out the subterraneous chasms,
And fiends and angels mingling in their fury,
Sling fire-brands at the burning edifice.

[Exit Thekla.

Scene VIII

A large Saloon lighted up with festal Splendour; in the midst of it, and in the Centre of the Stage, a Table richly set out, at which eight Generals are sitting, among whom are Octavio Piccolomini, Tertsky, and Maradas. Right and left of this, but farther back, two other Tables, at each of which six Persons are placed. The Middle Door, which is standing open, gives to the Prospect a Fourth Table, with the same Number of Persons. More forward stands the sideboard. The whole front of the Stage is kept open for the Pages and Servants in waiting. All is in Motion. The Band of Music belonging to Tertsky's Regiment march across the Stage, and draw up round the Tables. Before they are quite off from the Front of the Stage, Max Piccolomini appears, Tertsky advances towards him with a Paper, Isolani comes up to meet him with a Beaker or Service-cup.
Tertsky, Isolani, Max Piccolomini.
Isolani.
Here brother, what we love! Why, where hast been?
Off to thy place—quick! Tertsky here has given
The mother's holiday wine up to free booty.
Here it goes on as at the Heidelberg castle.
Already hast thou lost the best. They're giving
At yonder table ducal crowns in shares;
There's Sternberg's lands and chattels are put up,
With Egenberg's, Stawata's, Lichtenstein's,
And all the great Bohemian feodalities.
Be nimble, lad! and something may turn up
For thee—who knows? off—to thy place! quick! march!

Tiefenbach and Goetz
(call out from the second and third tables).
Count Piccolomini!

Tertsky.
Stop, ye shall have him in an instant.—Read
This oath here, whether as 'tis here set forth,
The wording satisfies you. They've all read it,
Each in his turn, and each one will subscribe
His individual signature.

Max
(reads).
‘Ingratis servire nefas.’

Isolani.
That sounds to my ears very much like Latin,
And being interpreted, pray what may't mean?

Tertsky.
No honest man will serve a thankless master.

Max.
‘Inasmuch as our supreme Commander, the illustrious
Duke of Friedland, in consequence of the manifold affronts and
grievances which he has received, had expressed his determination
to quit the Emperor, but on our unanimous entreaty has
graciously consented to remain still with the army, and not to
part from us without our approbation thereof, so we, collectively
and each in particular, in the stead of an oath personally taken,
do hereby oblige ourselves—likewise by him honourably and
faithfully to hold, and in nowise whatsoever from him to
part, and to be ready to shed for his interests the last drop of
our blood, so far, namely, as our oath to the Emperor will permit
it. (These last words are repeated by Isolani.) In testimony of
which we subscribe our names.’

Tertsky.
Now!—are you willing to subscribe this paper?

Isolani.
Why should he not? All officers of honour
Can do it, aye, must do it.—Pen and ink here!

Tertsky.
Nay, let it rest till after meal.

Isolani
(drawing Max along).
Come, Max.

[Both seat themselves at their table.

Scene IX

Tertsky, Neumann.
Tertsky
(beckons to Neumann who is waiting at the side-table, and steps forward with him to the edge of the stage).
Have you the copy with you, Neumann? Give it.
It may be changed for the other?

Neumann.
I have copied it.
Letter by letter, line by line; no eye
Would e'er discover other difference,
Save only the omission of that clause,
According to your Excellency's order.

Tertsky.
Right! lay it yonder, and away with this—
It has performed its business—to the fire with it—

Neumann lays the copy on the table and steps back again to the side-table.

Scene X

Illo (comes out from the second chamber), Tertsky.
Illo.
How goes it with young Piccolomini?

Tertsky.
All right, I think. He has started no objection.

Illo.
He is the only one I fear about—
He and his father. Have an eye on both!

Tertsky.
How looks it at your table: you forget not
To keep them warm and stirring?

Illo.
O, quite cordial,
They are quite cordial in the scheme. We have them.
And 'tis as I predicted too. Already
It is the talk, not merely to maintain
The Duke in station. ‘Since we're once for all
Together and unanimous, why not,’
Says Montecuculi, ‘aye, why not onward,
And make conditions with the Emperor
There in his own Vienna?’ Trust me, Count,
Were it not for these said Piccolomini,
We might have spared ourselves the cheat.

Tertsky.
And Butler?
How goes it there? Hush!

Scene XI

To them enter Butler from the second table.
Butler.
Don't disturb yourselves.
Field Marshal, I have understood you perfectly.
Good luck be to the scheme; and as to me,
You may depend upon me.

Illo.
May we, Butler?

Butler.
With or without the clause, all one to me!
You understand me? My fidelity
The Duke may put to any proof—I'm with him!
Tell him so! I'm the Emperor's officer,
As long as 'tis his pleasure to remain
The Emperor's general! and Friedland's servant,
As soon as it shall please him to become
His own lord.

Tertsky.
You would make a good exchange.
No stern economist, no Ferdinand,
Is he to whom you plight your services.

Butler.
I do not put up my fidelity
To sale, Count Tertsky! Half a year ago
I would not have advised you to have made me
An overture to that, to which I now
Offer myself of my own free accord.—
But that is past! and to the Duke, Field Marshal,
I bring myself together with my regiment.
And mark you, 'tis my humour to believe,
The example which I give will not remain
Without an influence.

Illo.
Who is ignorant,
That the whole army look to Colonel Butler,
As to a light that moves before them?

Butler.
Ey?
Then I repent me not of that fidelity
Which for the length of forty years I held,
If in my sixtieth year my old good name
Can purchase for me a revenge so full.
Start not at what I say, sir Generals!
My real motives—they concern not you.
And you yourselves, I trust, could not expect
That this your game had crooked my judgment—or
That fickleness, quick blood, or such light cause,
Had driven the old man from the track of honour,
Which he so long had trodden.—Come, my friends!
I'm not thereto determined with less firmness,
Because I know and have looked steadily
At that on which I have determined.

Illo.
Say,
And speak roundly, what are we to deem you?

Butler.
A friend! I give you here my hand! I'm yours
With all I have. Not only men, but money
Will the Duke want.—Go, tell him, sirs!
I've earned and laid up somewhat in his service,
I lend it him; and is he my survivor,
It has been already long ago bequeathed him.
He is my heir. For me, I stand alone,
Here in the world; nought know I of the feeling
That binds the husband to a wife and children.
My name dies with me, my existence ends.

Illo.
'Tis not your money that he needs—a heart
Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down millions!

Butler.
I came a simple soldier's boy from Ireland
To Prague—and with a master, whom I buried.
From lowest stable-duty I climbed up,
Such was the fate of war, to this high rank,
The plaything of a whimsical good fortune.
And Wallenstein too is a child of luck,
I love a fortune that is like my own.

Illo.
All powerful souls have kindred with each other.

Butler.
This is an awful moment! to the brave,
To the determined, an auspicious moment.
The Prince of Weimar arms, upon the Maine
To found a mighty dukedom. He of Halberstadt,
That Mansfeld, wanted but a longer life
To have marked out with his good sword a lordship
That should reward his courage. Who of these
Equals our Friedland? there is nothing, nothing
So high, but he may set the ladder to it!

Tertsky.
That's spoken like a man!

Butler.
Do you secure the Spaniard and Italian—
I'll be your warrant for the Scotchman Lesly.
Come! to the company!

Tertsky.
Where is the master of the cellar? Ho!
Let the best wines come up. Ho! cheerly, boy!
Luck comes to-day, so give her hearty welcome.

[Exeunt, each to his table.

Scene XII

The Master of the Cellar advancing with Neumann, Servants passing backwards and forwards.
Master of the Cellar.

The best wine! O! if my old mistress, his lady mother, could but see these wild goings on, she would turn herself round in her grave. Yes, yes, sir officer! 'tis all down the hill with this noble house! no end, no

moderation! And this marriage with the Duke's sister, a splendid connection, a very splendid connection! but I tell you, sir officer, it bodes no good.

Neumann.

Heaven forbid! Why, at this very moment the whole prospect is in bud and blossom!

Master of the Cellar.

You think so?—Well, well! much may be said on that head.

First Servant
(comes).

Burgundy for the fourth table.

Master of the Cellar.

Now, sir lieutenant, if this isn't the seventieth flask—

First Servant.

Why, the reason is, that German lord, Tiefenbach, sits at that table.

Master of the Cellar
(continuing his discourse to Neumann).

They are soaring too high. They would rival kings and electors in their pomp and splendour; and wherever the Duke leaps, not a minute does my gracious master, the Count, loiter on the brink—(To the Servants)—What do you stand there listening for? I will let you know you have legs presently. Off! see to the tables, see to the flasks! Look there! Count Palfi has an empty glass before him!

Runner
(comes).

The great service-cup is wanted, sir; that rich gold cup with the Bohemian arms on it. The Count says you know which it is.

Master of the Cellar.

Ay! that was made for Frederick's coronation by the artist William—there was not such another prize in the whole booty at Prague.

Runner.

The same!—a health is to go round in him.

Master of the Cellar.

This will be something for the talebearers —this goes to Vienna.

Neumann.

Permit me to look at it.—Well, this is a cup indeed! How heavy! as well it may be, being all gold.— And what neat things are embossed on it! how natural and elegant they look! There, on that first quarter, let me see. That proud Amazon there on horseback, she that is taking a leap over the crosier and mitres, and carries on a wand a hat together with a banner, on which there's a goblet represented. Can you tell me what all this signifies?

Master of the Cellar.

The woman whom you see there on horseback, is the Free Election of the Bohemian Crown. That is signified by the round hat, and by that fiery steed on which she is riding. The hat is the pride of man; for

he who cannot keep his hat on before kings and emperors is no free man.

Neumann.

But what is the cup there on the banner?

Master of the Cellar.

The cup signifies the freedom of the Bohemian Church, as it was in our forefathers' times. Our forefathers in the wars of the Hussites forced from the Pope this noble privilege: for the Pope, you know, will not grant the cup to any layman. Your true Moravian values nothing beyond the cup; it is his costly jewel, and has cost the Bohemians their precious blood in many and many a battle.

Neumann.

And what says that chart that hangs in the air there, over it all?

Master of the Cellar.

That signifies the Bohemian letter royal, which we forced from the Emperor Rudolph— a precious, never to be enough valued parchment that secures to the new Church the old privileges of free ringing and open psalmody. But since he of Steiermärk has ruled over us, that is at an end; and after the battle of Prague, in which Count Palatine Frederick lost crown and empire, our faith hangs upon the pulpit and the altar—and our brethren look at their homes over their shoulders; but the letter royal the Emperor himself cut to pieces with his scissors.

Neumann.

Why, my good Master of the Cellar! you are deep read in the chronicles of your country!

Master of the Cellar.

So were my forefathers, and for that reason were they minstrels, and served under Procopius and Ziska. Peace be with their ashes! Well, well! they fought for a good cause though—There! carry it up!

Neumann.

Stay! let me but look at this second quarter. Look there! That is, when at Prague Castle the Imperial Counsellors, Martinitz and Stawata were hurled down head over heels. 'Tis even so! there stands Count Thur who commands it.

[Runner takes the service-cup and goes off with it.

Master of the Cellar.

O let me never more hear of that day. It was the three and twentieth of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand, six hundred, and eighteen. It seems to me as it were but yesterday—from that unlucky day it all began, all the heart-aches of the country. Since that day it is now sixteen years, and there has never once been peace on the earth.

[Health drunk aloud at the second table.

The Prince of Weimar! Hurra!

[At the third and fourth table.

Long live Prince William! Long live Duke Bernard! Hurra!

[Music strikes up.

First Servant.

Hear'em! Hear'em! What an uproar!

Second Servant
(comes in running).

Did you hear? They have drunk the Prince of Weimar's health.

Third Servant.

The Swedish Chief Commander!

First Servant
(speaking at the same time).

The Lutheran!

Second Servant.

Just before, when Count Deodate gave out the Emperor's health, they were all as mum as a nibbling mouse.

Master of the Cellar.

Po, po! When the wine goes in, strange things come out. A good servant hears, and hears not!—You should be nothing but eyes and feet, except when you are called.

Second Servant
(to the Runner, to whom he gives secretly a flask of wine, keeping his eye on the Master of the Cellar, standing between him and the Runner).

Quick, Thomas! before the Master of the Cellar runs this way—'tis a flask of Frontignac!—Snapped it up at the third table.—Canst go off with it?

Runner
(hides it in his pocket).

All right!

[Exit the Second Servant.
Third Servant
(aside to the First).

Be on the hark, Jack! that we may have right plenty to tell to father Quivoga—He will give us right plenty of absolution in return for it.

First Servant.

For that very purpose I am always having something to do behind Illo's chair.—He is the man for speeches to make you stare with!

Master of the Cellar
(to Neumann).

Who, pray, may that swarthy man be, he with the cross, that is chatting so confidentially with Esterhats?

Neumann.

Ay! he too is one of those to whom they confide too much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is he.

Master of the Cellar
(impatiently).

Spaniard! Spaniard!—I tell you, friend; nothing good comes of those Spaniards. All these out-landish fellows are little better than rogues.

Neumann.

Fy, fy! you should not say so, friend. There are among them our very best generals, and those on whom the Duke at this moment relies the most.

Master of the Cellar
(taking the flask out of the Runner's pocket).

My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket.

[Tertsky hurries in, fetches away the paper, and calls to a Servant for pen and ink, and goes to the back of the stage.
Master of the Cellar
(to the Servants).

The Lieutenant-General stands up.—Be on the watch.—Now! They break up.—Off, and move back the forms.

[They rise at all the tables, the Servants hurry off the front of the stage to the tables; part of the guests come forward.

Scene XIII

Octavio Piccolomini enters in conversation with Maradas, and both place themselves quite on the edge of the stage on one side of the proscenium. On the side directly opposite, Max Piccolomini, by himself, lost in thought, and taking no part in any thing that is going forward. The middle space between both, but rather more distant from the edge of the stage, is filled up by Butler, Isolani, Goetz, Tiefenbach, and Kolatto.
Isolani
(while the company is coming forward).

Good night, good night, Kolatto! Good night, Lieutenant-General!—I should rather say, good morning.

Goetz
(to Tiefenbach).

Noble brother!

Tiefenbach.

Ay! 'twas a royal feast indeed.

Goetz.

Yes, my Lady Countess understands these matters. Her mother-in-law, heaven rest her soul, taught her!—Ah! that was a housewife for you!

Tiefenbach.

There was not her like in all Bohemia for setting out a table.

Octavio
(aside to Maradas).

Do me the favour to talk to me— talk of what you will—or of nothing. Only preserve the appearance at least of talking. I would not wish to stand by myself, and yet I conjecture that there will be goings on here worthy of our attentive observation.

Isolani
(on the point of going).

Lights! lights!

Tertsky
(advances with the paper to Isolani).

Noble brother! two minutes longer!—Here is something to subscribe.

Isolani.

Subscribe as much as you like—but you must excuse me from reading it.

Tertsky.

There is no need. It is the oath which you have already read.—Only a few marks of your pen!

[Isolani hands over the paper to Octavio respectfully.
Tertsky.

Nay, nay, first come first served. There is no precedence here.

[Octavio runs over the paper with apparent indifference. Tertsky watches him at some distance.
Goetz
(to Tertsky).

Noble Count! with your permission— Good night.

Tertsky.

Where's the hurry? Come, one other composing draught. (To the Servants)
—Ho!

Goetz.

Excuse me—an't able.

Tertsky.

A thimble-full!

Goetz.

Excuse me.

Tiefenbach
(sits down).

Pardon me, nobles!—This standing does not agree with me.

Tertsky.

Consult only your own convenience, General!

Tiefenbach.

Clear at head, sound in stomach—only my legs won't carry me any longer.

Isolani.

Poor legs! how should they? Such an unmerciful load!

[Octavio subscribes his name, and reaches over the paper to Tertsky, who gives it to Isolani; and he goes to the table to sign his name.
Tiefenbach.

'Twas that war in Pomerania that first brought it on. Out in all weathers—ice and snow—no help for it.—I shall never get the better of it all the days of my life.

Goetz.

Why, in simple verity, your Swede makes no nice enquiries about the season.

Tertsky
(observing Isolani, whose hand trembles excessively, so that he can scarce direct his pen).

Have you had that ugly complaint long, noble brother?—Dispatch it.

Isolani.

The sins of youth! I have already tried the Chalybeate waters. Well—I must bear it.

[Tertsky gives the paper to Maradas; he steps to the table to subscribe.
Octavio
(advancing to Butler).

You are not over fond of the orgies of Bacchus, Colonel! I have observed it. You would, I think, find yourself more to your liking in the uproar of a battle, than of a feast.

Butler.

I must confess, 'tis not in my way.

Octavio.

Nor in mine either, I can assure you; and I am not a little glad, my much honoured Colonel Butler, that we agree so well in our opinions. A half dozen good friends at most, at a small round table, a glass of genuine Tokay, open hearts, and a rational conversation—that's my taste!

Butler.

And mine too, when it can be had.

[The paper comes to Tiefenbach, who glances over it at the same time with Goetz and Kolatto. Maradas in the mean time returns to Octavio, all this takes place, the conversation with Butler proceeding uninterrupted.
Octavio
(introducing Maradas to Butler).

Don Balthasar Maradas! likewise a man of our stamp, and long ago your admirer.

[Butler bows.
Octavio
(continuing).

You are a stranger here—'twas but yesterday you arrived—you are ignorant of the ways and means here. 'Tis a wretched place—I know, at our age, one loves to be snug and quiet—What if you moved your lodgings?—Come, be my visitor. (Butler makes a low bow.)
Nay, without compliment! —For a friend like you, I have still a corner remaining.

Butler.

Your obliged humble servant, my Lord Lieutenant- General!

[The paper comes to Butler, who goes to the table to subscribe it. The front of the stage is vacant, so that both the Piccolominis, each on the side where he had been from the commencement of the scene, remain alone.
Octavio
(after having some time watched his son in silence, advances somewhat nearer to him).

You were long absent from us, friend!

Max.

I—urgent business detained me.

Octavio.

And, I observe, you are still absent!

Max.

You know this crowd and bustle always makes me silent.

Octavio.

May I be permitted to ask what business 'twas that detained you? Tertsky knows it without asking!

Max.

What does Tertsky know?

Octavio.

He was the only one who did not miss you.

Isolani.

Well done, father! Rout out his baggage! Beat up his quarters! there is something there that should not be.

Tertsky
(with the paper).

Is there none wanting? Have the whole subscribed?

Octavio.

All.

Tertsky
(calling aloud).

Ho! Who subscribes?

Butler
(to Tertsky).

Count the names. There ought to be just thirty.

Tertsky.

Here is a cross.

Tiefenbach.

That's my mark.

Isolani.

He cannot write; but his cross is a good cross, and is honoured by Jews as well as Christians.

Octavio
(presses on to Max).

Come, general! let us go. It is late.

Tertsky.

One Piccolomini only has signed.

Isolani
(pointing to Max).

Look! that is your man, that statue there, who has had neither eye, ear, nor tongue for us the whole evening.

[Max receives the paper from Tertsky, which he looks upon vacantly.

Scene XIV

To these enter Illo from the inner room. He has in his hand the golden service-cup, and is extremely distempered with drinking: Goetz and Butler follow him, endeavouring to keep him back.
Illo.

What do you want? Let me go.

Goetz and Butler.

Drink no more, Illo! For heaven's sake, drink no more.

Illo
(goes up to Octavio, and shakes him cordially by the hand, and then drinks).

Octavio! I bring this to you! Let all grudge be drowned in this friendly bowl! I know well enough, ye never loved me—Devil take me!—and I never loved you!—I am always even with people in that way!—Let what's past be past —that is, you understand—forgotten! I esteem you infinitely. (Embracing him repeatedly.)
You have not a dearer friend on earth than I—but that you know. The fellow that cries rogue to you calls me villain—and I'll strangle him!—my dear friend!

Tertsky
(whispering to him).

Art in thy senses? For heaven's sake, Illo! think where you are!

Illo
(aloud).

What do you mean?—There are none but friends here, are there? Not a sneaker among us, thank heaven!

Tertsky
(to Butler).

Take him off with you, force him off, I entreat you, Butler!

Butler
(to Illo).

Field Marshal! a word with you.

[Leads him to the sideboard.
Illo.

A thousand for one! Fill—Fill it once more up to the brim.—To this gallant man's health!

Isolani
(to Max, who all the while has been staring on the paper with fixed but vacant eyes).

Slow and sure, my noble brother!— Hast parsed it all yet?—Some words yet to go through?—Ha?

Max.

What am I to do?

Tertsky
(and at the same time Isolani).

Sign your name.

Max
(returns the paper).

Let it stay till to-morrow. It is business—to-day I am not sufficiently collected. Send it to me to-morrow.

Tertsky.

Nay, collect yourself a little.

Isolani.

Awake, man! awake!—Come, thy signature, and have done with it! What? Thou art the youngest in the whole company, and wouldest be wiser than all of us together? Look there! thy father has signed—we have all signed.

Tertsky
(to Octavio).

Use your influence. Instruct him.

Octavio.

My son is at the age of discretion.

Illo
(leaves the service-cup on the sideboard).

What's the dispute?

Tertsky.

He declines subscribing the paper.

Max.

I say, it may as well stay till to-morrow.

Illo.

It cannot stay. We have all subscribed to it—and so must you.—You must subscribe.

Max.

Illo, good night!

Illo.

No! You come not off so! The Duke shall learn who are his friends.

[All collect round Illo and Max.

Max.

What my sentiments are towards the Duke, the Duke knows, every one knows—what need of this wild stuff?

Illo.

This is the thanks the Duke gets for his partiality to Italians and foreigners.—Us Bohemians he holds for little better than dullards—nothing pleases him but what's outlandish.

Tertsky
(to the commanders, who at Illo's words give a sudden start, as preparing to resent them).

It is the wine that speaks, and not his reason. Attend not to him, I entreat you.

Isolani.

Wine invents nothing: it only tattles.

Illo.

He who is not with me is against me. Your tender consciences! Unless they can slip out by a back-door, by a puny proviso—

Tertsky.

He is stark mad—don't listen to him!

Illo.

—Unless they can slip out by a proviso.—What of the proviso? The devil take this proviso!

Max.

What is there here then of such perilous import? You make me curious—I must look closer at it.

Tertsky
(in a low voice to Illo).

What are you doing, Illo? You are ruining us.

Tiefenbach
(to Kolatto).

Ay, ay! I observed, that before we sat down to supper, it was read differently.

Goetz.

Why, I seemed to think so too.

Isolani.

What do I care for that? Where there stand other names, mine can stand too.

Tiefenbach.

Before supper there was a certain proviso therein, or short clause concerning our duties to the Emperor.

Butler
(to one of the commanders).

For shame, for shame! Bethink you. What is the main business here? The question now is, whether we shall keep our General, or let him retire. One must not take these things too nicely and over-scrupulously.

Isolani
(to one of the Generals).

Did the Duke make any of these provisos when he gave you your regiment?

Tertsky
(to Goetz).

Or when he gave you the office of armypurveyancer, which brings you in yearly a thousand pistoles!

Illo.

He is a rascal who makes us out to be rogues. If there be any one that wants satisfaction, let him say so,—I am his man.

Tiefenbach.

Softly, softly! 'Twas but a word or two.

Max
(having read the paper gives it back).

Till to-morrow, therefore!

Illo
(stammering with rage and fury, loses all command over himself, and presents the paper to Max with one hand, and his sword in the other).

Subscribe—Judas!

Isolani.

Out upon you, Illo!

Octavio, Tertsky, Butler
(all together).

Down with the sword!

Max
(rushes on him suddenly and disarms him, then to Count Tertsky).

Take him off to bed.

[Max leaves the stage. Illo cursing and raving is held back by some of the Officers, and amidst a universal confusion the curtain drops.

ACT III

Scene I

Scene.—A Chamber in Piccolomini's Mansion.—Night.
Octavio Piccolomini. A Valet de Chambre, with Lights.
Octavio.
—And when my son comes in, conduct him hither.
What is the hour?

Valet.
'Tis on the point of morning.

Octavio.
Set down the light. We mean not to undress.
You may retire to sleep.

[Exit Valet. Octavio paces, musing, across the chamber; Max Piccolomini enters unobserved, and looks at his father for some moments in silence.
Max.
Art thou offended with me? Heaven knows
That odious business was no fault of mine.
'Tis true, indeed, I saw thy signature.
What thou hadst sanctioned, should not, it might seem,
Have come amiss to me. But—'tis my nature—
Thou know'st that in such matters I must follow
My own light, not another's.

Octavio
(embraces him).
Follow it,
O follow it still further, my best son!
To-night, dear boy! it hath more faithfully
Guided thee than the example of thy father.

Max.
Declare thyself less darkly.

Octavio.
I will do so.
For after what has taken place this night,
There must remain no secrets 'twixt us two.
[Both seat themselves.
Max Piccolomini! what thinkest thou of
The oath that was sent round for signatures?

Max.
I hold it for a thing of harmless import,
Although I love not these set declarations.

Octavio.
And on no other ground hast thou refused
The signature they fain had wrested from thee?

Max.
It was a serious business—I was absent—
The affair itself seemed not so urgent to me.

Octavio.
Be open, Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion?

Max.
Suspicion! what suspicion? Not the least.

Octavio.
Thank thy good angel, Piccolomini:
He drew thee back unconscious from the abyss.

Max.
I know not what thou meanest.

Octavio.
I will tell thee.
Fain would they have extorted from thee, son,
The sanction of thy name to villainy;
Yea, with a single flourish of thy pen,
Made thee renounce thy duty and thy honour!

Max
(rises).
Octavio!

Octavio.
Patience! Seat yourself. Much yet
Hast thou to hear from me, friend!—hast for years
Lived in incomprehensible illusion.
Before thine eyes is Treason drawing out
As black a web as e'er was spun for venom:
A power of hell o'erclouds thy understanding.
I dare no longer stand in silence—dare
No longer see thee wandering on in darkness,
Nor pluck the bandage from thine eyes.

Max.
My father!
Yet, ere thou speak'st, a moment's pause of thought!
If your disclosures should appear to be
Conjectures only—and almost I fear
They will be nothing further—spare them! I
Am not in that collected mood at present,
That I could listen to them quietly.

Octavio.
The deeper cause thou hast to hate this light,
The more impatient cause have I, my son,
To force it on thee. To the innocence
And wisdom of thy heart I could have trusted thee
With calm assurance—but I see the net
Preparing—and it is thy heart itself
Alarms me for thine innocence—that secret,
Which thou concealest, forces mine from me.
Know, then, they are duping thee!—a most foul game
With thee and with us all—nay, hear me calmly—
The Duke even now is playing. He assumes
The mask, as if he would forsake the army;
And in this moment makes he preparations
That army from the Emperor to steal,
And carry it over to the enemy!

Max.
That low Priest's legend I know well, but did not
Expect to hear it from thy mouth.

Octavio.
That mouth,
From which thou hearest it at this present moment,
Doth warrant thee that it is no Priest's legend.

Max.
How mere a maniac they supposed the Duke!
What, he can meditate?—the Duke?—can dream
That he can lure away full thirty thousand
Tried troops and true, all honourable soldiers,
More than a thousand noblemen among them,
From oaths, from duty, from their honour lure them,
And make them all unanimous to do
A deed that brands them scoundrels?

Octavio.
Such a deed,
With such a front of infamy, the Duke
No wise desires—what he requires of us
Bears a far gentler appellation. Nothing
He wishes, but to give the Empire peace.
And so, because the Emperor hates this peace,
Therefore the Duke—the Duke will force him to it.
All parts of the Empire will he pacify,
And for his trouble will retain in payment
(What he has already in his gripe)—Bohemia!

Max.
Has he, Octavio, merited of us,
That we—that we should think so vilely of him?

Octavio.
What we would think is not the question here.
The affair speaks for itself—and clearest proofs!
Hear me, my son—'tis not unknown to thee,
In what ill credit with the Court we stand.
But little dost thou know, or guess, what tricks,
What base intrigues, what lying artifices,
Have been employed—for this sole end—to sow
Mutiny in the camp! All bands are loosed—
Loosed all the bands, that link the officer
To his liege Emperor, all that bind the soldier
Affectionately to the citizen.
Lawless he stands, and threateningly beleaguers
The state he's bound to guard. To such a height
'Tis swoln, that at this hour the Emperor
Before his armies—his own armies—trembles;
Yea, in his capital, his palace, fears
The traitor's poniards, and is meditating
To hurry off and hide his tender offspring—
Not from the Swedes, not from the Lutherans—
No! from his own troops hide and hurry them!

Max.
Cease, cease! thou tortur'st, shatter'st me. I know
That oft we tremble at an empty terror;
But the false phantasm brings a real misery.

Octavio.
It is no phantasm. An intestine war,
Of all the most unnatural and cruel,
Will burst out into flames, if instantly
We do not fly and stifle it. The Generals
Are many of them long ago won over;
The subalterns are vacillating—whole
Regiments and garrisons are vacillating.
To foreigners our strong holds are entrusted;
To that suspected Schafgotch is the whole
Force of Silesia given up: to Tertsky
Five regiments, foot and horse—to Isolani,
To Illo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops.

Max.
Likewise to both of us.

Octavio.
Because the Duke
Believes he has secured us—means to lure us
Still further on by splendid promises.
To me he portions forth the princedoms, Glatz
And Sagan; and too plain I see the angle
With which he doubts not to catch thee.

Max.
No! no!
I tell thee—no!

Octavio.
O open yet thine eyes!
And to what purpose think'st thou he has called us
Hither to Pilsen?—to avail himself
Of our advice?—O when did Friedland ever
Need our advice?—Be calm, and listen to me.
To sell ourselves are we called hither, and,
Decline we that—to be his hostages.
Therefore doth noble Galas stand aloof;
Thy father, too, thou would'st not have seen here,
If higher duties had not held him fettered.

Max.
He makes no secret of it—needs make none—
That we're called hither for his sake—he owns it.
He needs our aidance to maintain himself—
He did so much for us; and 'tis but fair
That we too should do somewhat now for him.

Octavio.
And know'st thou what it is which we must do?
That Illo's drunken mood betrayed it to thee.
Bethink thyself—what hast thou heard, what seen?
The counterfeited paper—the omission
Of that particular clause, so full of meaning,
Does it not prove, that they would bind us down
To nothing good?

Max.
That counterfeited paper
Appears to me no other than a trick
Of Illo's own device. These underhand
Traders in great men's interests ever use
To urge and hurry all things to the extreme.
They see the Duke at variance with the court,
And fondly think to serve him, when they widen
The breach irreparably. Trust me, father,
The Duke knows nothing of all this.

Octavio.
It grieves me
That I must dash to earth, that I must shatter
A faith so specious; but I may not spare thee!
For this is not a time for tenderness.
Thou must take measures, speedy ones—must act.
I therefore will confess to thee, that all
Which I've entrusted to thee now—that all
Which seems to thee so unbelievable,
That—yes, I will tell thee—Max! I had it all
From his own mouth—from the Duke's mouth I had it.

Max.
No!—no!—never!

Octavio.
Himself confided to me
What I, 'tis true, had long before discovered
By other means—himself confided to me,
That 'twas his settled plan to join the Swedes;
And, at the head of the united armies,
Compel the Emperor—

Max.
He is passionate.
The Court has stung him—he is sore all over
With injuries and affronts; and in a moment
Of irritation, what if he, for once,
Forgot himself? He's an impetuous man.

Octavio.
Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me:
And having construed my astonishment
Into a scruple of his power, he shewed me
His written evidences—shewed me letters,
Both from the Saxon and the Swede, that gave
Promise of aidance, and defin'd the amount.

Max.
It cannot be! — can not be! can not be!
Dost thou not see, it cannot!
Thou wouldest of necessity have shewn him
Such horror, such deep loathing—that or he
Had taken thee for his better genius, or
Thou stood'st not now a living man before me—

Octavio.
I have laid open my objections to him,
Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness;
But my abhorrence, the full sentiment
Of my whole heart—that I have still kept sacred
To my own consciousness.

Max.
And thou hast been
So treacherous? That looks not like my father!
I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell me
Evil of him; much less can I now do it,
That thou calumniatest thy own self.

Octavio.
I did not thrust myself into his secrecy.

Max.
Uprightness merited his confidence.

Octavio.
He was no longer worthy of sincerity.

Max.
Dissimulation, sure, was still less worthy
Of thee, Octavio!

Octavio.
Gave I him a cause
To entertain a scruple of my honour?

Max.
That he did not, evinced his confidence.

Octavio.
Dear son, it is not always possible
Still to preserve that infant purity
Which the voice teaches in our inmost heart.
Still in alarm, for ever on the watch
Against the wiles of wicked men, e'en Virtue
Will sometimes bear away her outward robes
Soiled in the wrestle with Iniquity.
This is the curse of every evil deed,
That, propagating still, it brings forth evil.
I do not cheat my better soul with sophisms:
I but perform my orders; the Emperor
Prescribes my conduct to me. Dearest boy,
Far better were it, doubtless, if we all
Obeyed the heart at all times; but so doing,
In this our present sojourn with bad men,
We must abandon many an honest object.
'Tis now our call to serve the Emperor,
By what means he can best be served—the heart
May whisper what it will—this is our call!

Max.
It seems a thing appointed, that to-day
I should not comprehend, not understand thee.
The Duke thou say'st did honestly pour out
His heart to thee, but for an evil purpose;
And thou dishonestly hast cheated him
For a good purpose! Silence, I entreat thee—
My friend thou stealest not from me—
Let me not lose my father!

Octavio.
[After a pause.

Max.
O nothing rash, my sire! By all that's good
Let me invoke thee—no precipitation!

Octavio.
With light tread stole he on his evil way,
With light tread hath Vengeance stole on after him.
Unseen she stands already, dark behind him—
But one step more—he shudders in her grasp!
Thou hast seen Questenberg with me. As yet
Thou know'st but his ostensible commission;
He brought with him a private one, my son!
And that was for me only.

Max.
May I know it?

Octavio
(seizes the patent).
Max!
[A pause.
—In this disclosure place I in thy hands
The Empire's welfare and thy father's life.
Dear to thy inmost heart is Wallenstein:
A powerful tie of love, of veneration,
Hath knit thee to him from thy earliest youth.
Thou nourishest the wish.—O let me still
Anticipate thy loitering confidence!
The hope thou nourishest to knit thyself
Yet closer to him—

Max.
Father—

Octavio.
O my son!
I trust thy heart undoubtingly. But am I
Equally sure of thy collectedness?
Wilt thou be able, with calm countenance,
To enter this man's presence, when that I
Have trusted to thee his whole fate?

Max.
According
As thou dost trust me, father, with his crime.

[Octavio takes a paper out of his escrutoire, and gives it to him.
Max.
What? how? a full Imperial patent!

Octavio.
Read it.

Max
(just glances on it).
Duke Friedland sentenced and condemned!

Octavio.
Even so.

Max
(throws down the paper).
O this is too much! O unhappy error!

Octavio.
Read on. Collect thyself.

Max
(after he has read further, with a look of affright and astonishment on his father).
How! what! Thou! thou!

Octavio.
But for the present moment, till the King
Of Hungary may safely join the army,
Is the command assigned to me.

Max.
And think'st thou,
Dost thou believe, that thou wilt tear it from him?
O never hope it!—Father! father! father!
An inauspicious office is enjoined thee.
This paper here—this! and wilt thou enforce it?
The mighty in the middle of his host,
Surrounded by his thousands, him would'st thou
Disarm—degrade! Thou art lost, both thou and all of us.

Octavio.
What hazard I incur thereby, I know.
In the great hand of God I stand. The Almighty
Will cover with his shield the Imperial house,
And shatter, in his wrath, the work of darkness.
The Emperor hath true servants still; and even
Here in the camp, there are enough brave men,
Who for the good cause will fight gallantly.
The faithful have been warned—the dangerous
Are closely watched. I wait but the first step,
And then immediately—

Max.
What! on suspicion?
Immediately?

Octavio.
The Emperor is no tyrant.
The deed alone he'll punish, not the wish.
The Duke hath yet his destiny in his power.
Let him but leave the treason uncompleted,
He will be silently displaced from office,
And make way to his Emperor's royal son.
An honourable exile to his castles
Will be a benefaction to him rather
Than punishment. But the first open step—

Max.
What callest thou such a step? A wicked step
Ne'er will he take; but thou mightest easily,
Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret him.

Octavio.
Nay, howsoever punishable were
Duke Friedland's purposes, yet still the steps
Which he hath taken openly, permit
A mild construction. It is my intention
To leave this paper wholly uninforced
Till some act is committed which convicts him
Of a high-treason, without doubt or plea,
And that shall sentence him.

Max.
But who the judge?

Octavio.
Thyself.

Max.
For ever, then, this paper will lie idle.

Octavio.
Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved.
After the counter-promise of this evening,
It cannot be but he must deem himself
Secure of the majority with us;
And of the army's general sentiment
He hath a pleasing proof in that petition
Which thou delivered'st to him from the regiments.
Add this too—I have letters that the Rhinegrave
Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches
To the Bohemian Forest. What this purports,
Remains unknown; and, to confirm suspicion,
This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here.

Max.
I have thy word. Thou'lt not proceed to action
Before thou hast convinced me—me myself.

Octavio.
Is it possible? Still, after all thou know'st,
Canst thou believe still in his innocence?

Max.
Thy judgment may mistake; my heart can not.
These reasons might expound thy spirit or mine;
But they expound not Friedland—I have faith:
For as he knits his fortunes to the stars,
Even so doth he resemble them in secret,
Wonderful, still inexplicable courses!
Trust me, they do him wrong. All will be solved.
These smokes, at once, will kindle into flame—
The edges of this black and stormy cloud
Will brighten suddenly, and we shall view
The Unapproachable glide out in splendour.

Octavio.
I will await it.

Scene II

Octavio and Max as before. To them the Valet of the Chamber.
Octavio.
How now, then?

Valet.
A dispatch is at the door.

Octavio.
So early? From whom comes he then? Who is it?

Valet.
That he refused to tell me.

Octavio.
Lead him in:
And, hark you—let it not transpire.

[Exit Valet—the Cornet steps in.
Octavio.
Ha! Cornet—is it you? and from Count Galas?
Give me your letters.

Cornet.
The Lieutenant-General
Trusted it not to letters.

Octavio.
And what is it?

Cornet.
He bade me tell you—Dare I speak openly here?

Octavio.
My son knows all.

Cornet.
We have him.

Octavio.
Whom?

Cornet.
Sesina,
The old negotiator.

Octavio.
And you have him?

Cornet.
In the Bohemian Forest Captain Mohrbrand
Found and secured him yester morning early:
He was proceeding then to Regenspurg,
And on him were dispatches for the Swede.

Octavio.
And the dispatches—

Cornet.
The Lieutenant-General
Sent them that instant to Vienna, and
The prisoner with them.

Octavio.
This is, indeed, a tiding!
That fellow is a precious casket to us,
Enclosing weighty things.—Was much found on him?

Cornet.
I think, six packets, with Count Tertsky's arms.

Octavio.
None in the Duke's own hand?

Cornet.
Not that I know.

Octavio.
And old Sesina?

Cornet.
He was sorely frightened,
When it was told him he must to Vienna.
But the Count Altringer bade him take heart,
Would he but make a full and free confession.

Octavio.
Is Altringer then with your Lord? I heard
That he lay sick at Linz.

Cornet.
These three days past
He's with my master, the Lieutenant-General,
At Frauenberg. Already have they sixty
Small companies together, chosen men;
Respectfully they greet you with assurances,
That they are only waiting your commands.

Octavio.
In a few days may great events take place.
And when must you return?

Cornet.
I wait your orders.

Octavio.
Remain till evening.

[Cornet signifies his assent and obeisance, and is going.
Octavio.
No one saw you—ha?

Cornet.
No living creature. Through the cloister wicket
The Capuchins, as usual, let me in.

Octavio.
Go, rest your limbs, and keep yourself concealed.
I hold it probable, that yet ere evening
I shall dispatch you. The development
Of this affair approaches: ere the day,
That even now is dawning in the heaven,
Ere this eventful day hath set, the lot
That must decide our fortunes will be drawn.

[Exit Cornet.

Scene III

Octavio and Max Piccolomini.
Octavio.
Well—and what now, son? All will soon be clear;
For all, I'm certain, went through that Sesina.

Max.
I will procure me light a shorter way.
Farewell.

Octavio.
Where now?—Remain here.

Max.
To the Duke.

Octavio.
What—

Max.
If thou hast believed that I shall act
A part in this thy play—
Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously.
My way must be straight on. True with the tongue,
False with the heart—I may not, cannot be:
Nor can I suffer that a man should trust me—
As his friend trust me—and then lull my conscience
With such low pleas as these:—‘I ask'd him not—
He did it all at his own hazard—and
My mouth has never lied to him.’—No, no!
What a friend takes me for, that I must be.
—I'll to the Duke; ere yet this day is ended
Will I demand of him that he do save
His good name from the world, and with one stride
Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours.
He can, he will!—I still am his believer.
Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters
May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him.
How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded—
What may not he himself too have permitted
Himself to do, to snare the enemy,
The laws of war excusing? Nothing, save
His own mouth shall convict him—nothing less!
And face to face will I go question him.

Octavio.
Thou wilt?

Max.
I will, as sure as this heart beats.

Octavio.
I have, indeed, miscalculated on thee.
I calculated on a prudent son,
Who would have blest the hand beneficent
That plucked him back from the abyss—and lo!
A fascinated being I discover,
Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.
Go, question him!—Be mad enough, I pray thee.
The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor,
Go, give it up free booty:—Force me, drive me
To an open breach before the time. And now,
Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
My secret purpose even to this hour,
And laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes,
Let me have lived to see that mine own son,
With frantic enterprise, annihilates
My toilsome labours and state-policy.

Max.
Aye—this state-policy! O how I curse it!
You will some time, with your state-policy,
Compel him to the measure: it may happen,
Because ye are determined that he is guilty,
Guilty ye'll make him. All retreat cut off,
You close up every outlet, hem him in
Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him—
Yes, ye,—ye force him, in his desperation,
To set fire to his prison. Father! Father!
That never can end well—it cannot—will not!
And let it be decided as it may,
I see with boding heart the near approach
Of an ill-starred unblest catastrophe.
For this great Monarch-spirit, if he fall,
Will drag a world into the ruin with him.
And as a ship (that midway on the ocean
Takes fire) at once, and with a thunder-burst
Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew
In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven;
So will he, falling, draw down in his fall
All us, who're fixed and mortised to his fortune.
Deem of it what thou wilt; but pardon me,
That I must bear me on in my own way.
All must remain pure betwixt him and me;
And, ere the day-light dawns, it must be known
Which I must lose—my father, or my friend.

[During his exit the curtain drops.

ACT IV

Scene I

Scene—A Room fitted up for astrological Labours, and provided with celestial Charts, with Globes, Telescopes, Quadrants, and other mathematical Instruments.—Seven Colossal Figures, representing the Planets, each with a transparent Star of a different Colour on its Head, stand in a Semi-circle in the Back-ground, so that Mars and Saturn are nearest the Eye.— The remainder of the Scene, and its Disposition, is given in the Fourth Scene of the Second Act.—There must be a Curtain over the Figures, which may be dropped, and conceal them on Occasions.
[In the Fifth Scene of this Act it must be dropped; but in the Seventh Scene, it must be again drawn up wholly or in part.]
Wallenstein at a black Table, on which a Speculum Astrologicum is described with Chalk. Seni is taking Observations through a window.
Wallenstein.
All well—and now let it be ended, Seni.—Come,
The dawn commences, and Mars rules the hour.
We must give o'er the operation. Come,
We know enough.

Seni.
Your Highness must permit me
Just to contemplate Venus. She's now rising:
Like as a sun, so shines she in the east.

Wallenstein.
She is at present in her perigee,
And shoots down now her strongest influences.
[Contemplating the figure on the table.
Auspicious aspect! fateful in conjunction,
At length the mighty three corradiate;
And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter
And Venus, take between them the malignant
Slily-malicious Mars, and thus compel
Into my service that old mischief-founder;
For long he viewed me hostilely, and ever
With beam oblique, or perpendicular,
Now in the Quartile, now in the Secundan,
Shot his red lightnings at my stars, disturbing
Their blessed influences and sweet aspects.
Now they have conquered the old enemy,
And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me.

Seni
(who has come down from the window).
And in a corner house, your Highness—think of that!
That makes each influence of double strength.

Wallenstein.
And sun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect,
The soft light with the vehement—so I love it.
Sol is the heart, Luna the head of heaven,
Bold be the plan, fiery the execution.

Seni.
And both the mighty Lumina by no
Maleficus affronted. Lo! Saturnus,
Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Domo.

Wallenstein.
The empire of Saturnus is gone by;
Lord of the secret birth of things is he;
Within the lap of earth, and in the depths
Of the imagination dominates;
And his are all things that eschew the light.
The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance;
For Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth now,
And the dark work, complete of preparation,
He draws by force into the realm of light.
Now must we hasten on to action, ere
The scheme, and most auspicious positure
Parts o'er my head, and takes once more its flight;
For the heavens journey still, and sojourn not.
[There are knocks at the door.
There's some one knocking there. See who it is.

Tertsky
(from without).
Open, and let me in.

Wallenstein.
Aye—'tis Tertsky.
What is there of such urgence? We are busy.

Tertsky
(from without).
Lay all aside at present, I entreat you.
It suffers no delaying.

Wallenstein.
Open, Seni!

[While Seni opens the doors for Tertsky, Wallenstein draws the curtain over the figures.
Tertsky
(enters).
Hast thou already heard it? He is taken.
Galas has given him up to the Emperor.

[Seni draws off the black table, and exit.

Scene II

Wallenstein, Count Tertsky.
Wallenstein
(to Tertsky).
Who has been taken?—Who is given up?

Tertsky.
The man who knows our secrets, who knows every
Negotiation with the Swede and Saxon,
Through whose hands all and every thing has passed—

Wallenstein
(drawing back).
Nay, not Sesina?—Say, No! I entreat thee.

Tertsky.
All on his road for Regenspurg to the Swede
He was plunged down upon by Galas' agent,
Who had been long in ambush, lurking for him.
There must have been found on him my whole packet
To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstirn, to Arnheim:
All this is in their hands; they have now an insight
Into the whole—our measures, and our motives.

Scene III

To them enters Illo.
Illo
(to Tertsky).
Has he heard it?

Tertsky.
He has heard it.

Illo
(to Wallenstein).
Thinkest thou still
To make thy peace with the Emperor, to regain
His confidence?—E'en were it now thy wish
To abandon all thy plans, yet still they know
What thou hast wished; then forwards thou must press;
Retreat is now no longer in thy power.

Tertsky.
They have documents against us, and in hands,
Which shew beyond all power of contradiction—

Wallenstein.
Of my hand-writing—no iota. Thee
I punish for thy lies.

Illo.
And thou believest,
That what this man, that what thy sister's husband,
Did in thy name, will not stand on thy reck'ning?
His word must pass for thy word with the Swede,
And not with those that hate thee at Vienna.

Tertsky.
In writing thou gav'st nothing—But bethink thee,
How far thou ventured'st by word of mouth
With this Sesina? And will he be silent?
If he can save himself by yielding up
Thy secret purposes, will he retain them?

Illo.
Thyself dost not conceive it possible;
And since they now have evidence authentic
How far thou hast already gone, speak!—tell us,
What art thou waiting for? thou canst no longer
Keep thy command; and beyond hope of rescue
Thou'rt lost, if thou resign'st it.

Wallenstein.
In the army
Lies my security. The army will not
Abandon me. Whatever they may know,
The power is mine, and they must gulp it down—
And substitute I caution for my fealty,
They must be satisfied, at least appear so.

Illo.
The army, Duke, is thine now—for this moment—
'Tis thine: but think with terror on the slow,
The quiet power of time. From open violence
The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee
To-day—to-morrow; but grant'st thou them a respite,
Unheard, unseen, they'll undermine that love
On which thou now dost feel so firm a footing,
With wily theft will draw away from thee
One after the other—

Wallenstein.
'Tis a curséd accident!

Illo.
O, I will call it a most blessed one,
If it work on thee as it ought to do,
Hurry thee on to action—to decision.
The Swedish General—

Wallenstein.
He's arrived! Know'st thou
What his commission is—

Illo.
To thee alone
Will he entrust the purpose of his coming.

Wallenstein.
A curséd, curséd accident! Yes, yes,
Sesina knows too much, and won't be silent.

Tertsky.
He's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel,
His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself
At thy cost, think you he will scruple it?
And if they put him to the torture, will he,
Will he, that dastardling, have strength enough—

Wallenstein.
Their confidence is lost—irreparably!
And I may act what way I will, I shall
Be and remain for ever in their thought
A traitor to my country. How sincerely
Soever I return back to my duty,
It will no longer help me—

Illo.
Ruin thee,
That it will do! Not thy fidelity,
Thy weakness will be deemed the sole occasion—

Wallenstein.
What! I must realize it now in earnest,
Because I toy'd too freely with the thought?
Accurséd he who dallies with a devil!
And must I—I must realize it now—
Now, while I have the power, it must take place?

Illo.
Now—now—ere they can ward and parry it!

Wallenstein
(looking at the paper of signatures).
I have the Generals' word—a written promise!
Max Piccolomini stands not here—how's that?

Tertsky.
It was—he fancied—

Illo.
Mere self-willedness.
There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you.

Wallenstein.
He is quite right—there needeth no such thing.
The regiments, too, deny to march for Flanders—
Have sent me in a paper of remonstrance,
And openly resist the Imperial orders.
The first step to revolt's already taken.

Illo.
Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy
To lead them over to the enemy
Than to the Spaniard.

Wallenstein.
I will hear, however,
What the Swede has to say to me.

Illo
(to Tertsky).
Go, call him!
He stands without the door in waiting.

Wallenstein.
Stay!
Stay yet a little. It hath taken me
All by surprise,—it came too quick upon me;
'Tis wholly novel, that an accident,
With its dark lordship, and blind agency,
Should force me on with it.

Illo.
First hear him only,
And after weigh it.

[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo.

Scene IV

Wallenstein.
Is it possible?
Is't so? I can no longer what I would?
No longer draw back at my liking? I
Must do the deed, because I thought of it,
And fed this heart here with a dream? Because
I did not scowl temptation from my presence,
Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment,
Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,
And only kept the road, the access open?
By the great God of Heaven! it was not
My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve.
I but amused myself with thinking of it.
The free-will tempted me, the power to do
Or not to do it.—Was it criminal
To make the fancy minister to hope,
To fill the air with pretty toys of air,
And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me?
Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not
The road of duty close beside me—but
One little step, and once more I was in it!
Where am I? Whither have I been transported?
No road, no track behind me, but a wall,
Impenetrable, insurmountable,
Rises obedient to the spells I muttered
And meant not—my own doings tower behind me.
A punishable man I seem, the guilt,
Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me;
The equivocal demeanour of my life
Bears witness on my prosecutor's party;
And even my purest acts from purest motives
Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss.
Were I that thing, for which I pass, that traitor,
A goodly outside I had sure reserved,
Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me,
Been calm and chary of my utterance.
But being conscious of the innocence
Of my intent, my uncorrupted will,
I gave way to my humours, to my passion:
Bold were my words, because my deeds were not.
Now every planless measure, chance event,
The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph,
And all the May-games of a heart o'erflowing,
Will they connect, and weave them all together
Into one web of treason; all will be plan,
My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark,
Step tracing step, each step a politic progress;
And out of all they'll fabricate a charge
So specious, that I must myself stand dumb.
I am caught in my own net, and only force,
Naught but a sudden rent can liberate me.
How else! since that the heart's unbiass'd instinct
Impelled me to the daring deed, which now
Necessity, self-preservation, orders.
Stern is the On-look of Necessity,
Not without shudder many a human hand
Grasps the mysterious urn of destiny.
My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom,
Once suffered to escape from its safe corner
Within the heart, its nursery and birthplace,
Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs
For ever to those sly malicious powers
Whom never art of man conciliated.
What is thy enterprize? thy aim? thy object?
Hast honestly confessed it to thyself?
Power seated on a quiet throne thou'dst shake,
Power on an ancient consecrated throne,
Strong in possession, founded in old custom;
Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots
Fixed to the people's pious nursery-faith.
This, this will be no strife of strength with strength.
That feared I not. I brave each combatant,
Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye,
Who full himself of courage kindles courage
In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible,
The which I fear—a fearful enemy,
Which in the human heart opposes me,
By its coward fear alone made fearful to me.
Not that, which full of life, instinct with power,
Makes known its present being, that is not
The true, the perilously formidable.
O no! it is the common, the quite common,
The thing of an eternal yesterday,
What ever was, and evermore returns,
Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 'twas sterling!
For of the wholly common is man made,
And custom is his nurse! Woe then to them,
Who lay irreverent hands upon his old
House furniture, the dear inheritance
From his forefathers. For time consecrates;
And what is grey with age becomes religion.
Be in possession, and thou hast the right,
And sacred will the many guard it for thee!
[To the Page, who here enters.
The Swedish officer?—Well, let him enter.
[The Page exit, Wallenstein fixes his eye in deep thought on the door.
Yet is it pure—as yet!—the crime has come
Not o'er this threshold yet—so slender is
The boundary that divideth life's two paths.

Scene V

Wallenstein and Wrangel.
Wallenstein.
Your name is Wrangel?

Wrangel.
Gustave Wrangel, General
Of the Sudermanian Blues.

Wallenstein.
It was a Wrangel
Who injured me materially at Stralsund,
And by his brave resistance was the cause
Of the opposition which that sea-port made.

Wrangel.
It was the doing of the element
With which you fought, my Lord! and not my merit.
The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom,
The sea and land, it seemed, were not to serve
One and the same.

Wallenstein
(makes a motion for him to take a seat, and seats himself).
And where are your credentials?
Come you provided with full powers, Sir General?

Wrangel.
There are so many scruples yet to solve—

Wallenstein
(having read the credentials).
An able letter!—Ay—he is a prudent,
Intelligent master, whom you serve, Sir General!
The Chancellor writes me, that he but fulfils
His late departed Sovereign's own idea
In helping me to the Bohemian crown.

Wrangel.
He says the truth. Our great King, now in heaven,
Did ever deem most highly of your Grace's
Pre-eminent sense and military genius;
And always the commanding Intellect,
He said, should have command, and be the King.

Wallenstein.
Yes, he might say it safely.—General Wrangel,
[Taking his hand.
Come, fair and open—Trust me, I was always
A Swede at heart. Ey! that did you experience
Both in Silesia and at Nuremburg;
I had you often in my power, and let you
Always slip out by some back door or other.
'Tis this for which the Court can ne'er forgive me,
Which drives me to this present step: and since
Our interests so run in one direction,
E'en let us have a thorough confidence
Each in the other.

Wrangel.
Confidence will come
Has each but only first security.

Wallenstein.
The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust me;
And, I confess—the gain does not wholly lie
To my advantage—Without doubt he thinks
If I can play false with the Emperor,
Who is my Sov'reign, I can do the like
With the enemy, and that the one too were
Sooner to be forgiven me than the other.
Is not this your opinion too, Sir General?

Wrangel.
I have here an office merely, no opinion.

Wallenstein.
The Emperor hath urged me to the uttermost.
I can no longer honourably serve him.
For my security, in self-defence,
I take this hard step, which my conscience blames.

Wrangel.
[After a pause.

Wallenstein.
Of what then are ye doubting? Of my will?
Or of my power? I pledged me to the Chancellor,
Would he trust me with sixteen thousand men,
That I would instantly go over to them
With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops.

Wrangel.
Your Grace is known to be a mighty war-chief,
To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus.
'Tis talked of still with fresh astonishment,
How some years past, beyond all human faith,
You called an army forth, like a creation:
But yet—

Wallenstein.
But yet?

Wrangel.
But still the Chancellor thinks,
It might yet be an easier thing from nothing
To call forth sixty thousand men of battle,
Than to persuade one sixtieth part of them—

Wallenstein.
What now? Out with it, friend!

Wrangel.
To break their oaths.

Wallenstein.
And he thinks so?—He judges like a Swede,
And like a Protestant. You Lutherans
Fight for your Bible. You are interested
About the cause; and with your hearts you follow
Your banners.—Among you, whoe'er deserts
To the enemy, hath broken covenant
With two Lords at one time.—We've no such fancies.

Wrangel.
Great God in Heaven! Have then the people here
No house and home, no fire-side, no altar?

Wallenstein.
I will explain that to you, how it stands—
The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it,
And has good cause to love it—but this army,
That calls itself the Imperial, this that houses
Here in Bohemia, this has none—no country;
This is an outcast of all foreign lands,
Unclaimed by town or tribe, to whom belongs
Nothing, except the universal sun.

Wrangel.
But then the Nobles and the Officers?
Such a desertion, such a felony,
It is without example, my Lord Duke,
In the world's history.

Wallenstein.
[He gives him the paper containing the written oath. Wrangel reads it through, and, having read it, lays it on the table, remaining silent.

Wrangel.
Comprehend who can!
My Lord Duke; I will let the mask drop—yes!
I've full powers for a final settlement.
The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from here
With fifteen thousand men, and only waits
For orders to proceed and join your army.
Those orders I give out, immediately
We're compromised.

Wallenstein.
What asks the Chancellor?

Wrangel.
Twelve Regiments, every man a Swede—my head
The warranty—and all might prove at last
Only false play—

Wallenstein
(starting).
Sir Swede!

Wrangel.
Am therefore forced
T'insist thereon, that he do formally,
Irrevocably break with the Emperor,
Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Friedland.

Wallenstein.
Come, brief and open! What is the demand?

Wrangel.
That he forthwith disarm the Spanish regiments
Attached to the Emperor, that he seize Prague,
And to the Swedes give up that city, with
The strong pass Egra.

Wallenstein.
That is much indeed!
Prague!—Egra's granted— But—but Prague!— 'Twon't do.
I give you every security
Which you may ask of me in common reason—
But Prague—Bohemia—these, Sir General,
I can myself protect.

Wrangel.
We doubt it not.
But 'tis not the protection that is now
Our sole concern. We want security,
That we shall not expend our men and money
All to no purpose.

Wallenstein.
'Tis but reasonable.

Wrangel.
And till we are indemnified, so long
Stays Prague in pledge.

Wallenstein.
Then trust you us so little?

Wrangel
(rising).
The Swede, if he would treat well with the German,
Must keep a sharp look-out. We have been called
Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire
From ruin—with our best blood have we seal'd
The liberty of faith, and gospel truth.
But now already is the benefaction
No longer felt, the load alone is felt.—
Ye look askance with evil eye upon us,
As foreigners, intruders in the empire,
And would fain send us, with some paltry sum
Of money, home again to our old forests.
No, no! my Lord Duke! no!—it never was
For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver,
That we did leave our King by the Great Stone.
No, not for gold and silver have there bled
So many of our Swedish Nobles—neither
Will we, with empty laurels for our payment,
Hoist sail for our own country. Citizens
Will we remain upon the soil, the which
Our Monarch conquered for himself, and died.

Wallenstein.
Help to keep down the common enemy,
And the fair border land must needs be yours.

Wrangel.
But when the common enemy lies vanquished,
Who knits together our new friendship then?
We know, Duke Friedland! though perhaps the Swede
Ought not t' have known it, that you carry on
Secret negotiations with the Saxons.
Who is our warranty, that we are not
The sacrifices in those articles
Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us?

Wallenstein
(rises).
Think you of something better, Gustave Wrangel!
Of Prague no more.

Wrangel.
Here my commission ends.

Wallenstein.
Surrender up to you my capital!
Far liever would I face about, and step
Back to my Emperor.

Wrangel.
If time yet permits—

Wallenstein.
That lies with me, even now, at any hour.

Wrangel.
Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer,
No longer since Sesina is a prisoner.
My Lord Duke, hear me—We believe that you
At present do mean honourably by us.
Since yesterday we're sure of that—and now
This paper warrants for the troops, there's nothing
Stands in the way of our full confidence.
Prague shall not part us. Hear! The Chancellor
Contents himself with Albstadt, to your Grace
He gives up Ratschin and the narrow side,
But Egra above all must open to us,
Ere we can think of any junction.

Wallenstein.
You,
You therefore must I trust, and you not me?
I will consider of your proposition.

Wrangel.
I must entreat, that your consideration
Occupy not too long a time. Already
Has this negotiation, my Lord Duke!
Crept on into the second year. If nothing
Is settled this time, will the Chancellor
Consider it as broken off for ever.

Wallenstein.
Ye press me hard. A measure, such as this,
Ought to be thought of.

Wrangel.
Ay! but think of this too,
That sudden action only can procure it
Success—think first of this, your Highness.

[Exit Wrangel.

Scene VI

Wallenstein, Tertsky, and Illo (re-enter).
Illo.
Is't all right?

Tertsky.
Are you compromised?

Illo.
This Swede
Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compromised.

Wallenstein.
As yet is nothing settled: and (well weighed)
I feel myself inclined to leave it so.

Tertsky.
How? What is that?

Wallenstein.
Come on me what will come,
The doing evil to avoid an evil
Cannot be good!

Tertsky.
Nay, but bethink you, Duke?

Wallenstein.
To live upon the mercy of these Swedes!
Of these proud-hearted Swedes! I could not bear it.

Illo.
Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant?
Bringest thou not more to them than thou receivest?

Scene VII

To these enter the Countess Tertsky.
Wallenstein.
Who sent for you? There is no business here
For women.

Countess.
I am come to bid you joy.

Wallenstein.
Use thy authority, Tertsky, bid her go.

Countess.
Come I perhaps too early? I hope not.

Wallenstein.
Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you.
You know it is the weapon that destroys me.
I am routed, if a woman but attack me.
I cannot traffic in the trade of words
With that unreasoning sex.

Countess.
I had already
Given the Bohemians a king.

Wallenstein.
They have one,
In consequence, no doubt.

Countess.
Ha! what new scruple?

Tertsky.
The Duke will not.

Countess.
He will not what he must!

Illo.
It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced,
When folks begin to talk to me of conscience,
And of fidelity.

Countess.
How? then, when all
Lay in the far-off distance, when the road
Stretched out before thine eyes interminably,
Then hadst thou courage and resolve; and now,
Now that the dream is being realized,
The purpose ripe, the issue ascertained,
Dost thou begin to play the dastard now?
Planned merely, 'tis a common felony;
Accomplished, an immortal undertaking:
And with success comes pardon hand in hand;
For all event is God's arbitrement.

Servant
(enters).
The Colonel Piccolomini.

Countess.
—Must wait.

Wallenstein.
I cannot see him now. Another time.

Servant.
But for two minutes he entreats an audience.
Of the most urgent nature is his business.

Wallenstein.
Who knows what he may bring us? I will hear him.

Countess.
Urgent for him, no doubt; but thou mayest wait.

Wallenstein.
What is it?

Countess.
Thou shalt be informed hereafter.
First let the Swede and thee be compromised.

[Exit Servant.
Wallenstein.
If there were yet a choice! if yet some milder
Way of escape were possible—I still
Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme.

Countess.
Desir'st thou nothing further? Such a way
Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off.
Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away
All thy past life; determine to commence
A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too,
As well as Fame and Fortune.—To Vienna—
Hence—to the Emperor—kneel before the throne;
Take a full coffer with thee—say aloud,
Thou did'st but wish to prove thy fealty;
Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede.

Illo.
For that too 'tis too late. They know too much.
He would but bear his own head to the block.

Countess.
I fear not that. They have not evidence
To attaint him legally, and they avoid
The avowal of an arbitrary power.
They'll let the Duke resign without disturbance.
I see how all will end. The King of Hungary
Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself
Be understood, that then the Duke retires.
There will not want a formal declaration.
The young King will administer the oath
To the whole army; and so all returns
To the old position. On some morrow morning
The Duke departs; and now 'tis stir and bustle
Within his castles. He will hunt, and build,
Superintend his horses' pedigrees;
Creates himself a court, gives golden keys,
And introduceth strictest ceremony
In fine proportions, and nice etiquette;
Keeps open table with high cheer; in brief,
Commenceth mighty King—in miniature.
And while he prudently demeans himself,
And gives himself no actual importance,
He will be let appear whate'er he likes;
And who dares doubt, that Friedland will appear
A mighty Prince to his last dying hour?
Well now, what then? Duke Friedland is as others,
A fire-new Noble, whom the war hath raised
To price and currency, a Jonah's Gourd,
An over-night creation of court-favour,
Which with an undistinguishable ease
Makes Baron or makes Prince.

Wallenstein.
Take her away.
Let in the young Count Piccolomini.

Countess.
Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee! Canst thou
Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave,
So ignominiously to be dried up?
Thy life, that arrogated such a height
To end in such a nothing! To be nothing,
When one was always nothing, is an evil
That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil,
But to become a nothing, having been—

Wallenstein
(starts up).
Shew me a way out of this stifling crowd,
Ye Powers of Aidance! Shew me such a way
As I am capable of going.—I
Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler;
I cannot warm by thinking; cannot say
To the good luck that turns her back upon me,
Magnanimously: ‘Go! I need thee not.’
Cease I to work, I am annihilated.
Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun,
If so I may avoid the last extreme;
But ere I sink down into nothingness,
Leave off so little, who began so great,
Ere that the world confuses me with those
Poor wretches, whom a day creates and crumbles,
This age and after-ages speak my name
With hate and dread; and Friedland be redemption
For each accurséd deed!

Countess.
What is there here, then,
So against nature? Help me to perceive it!
O let not Superstition's nightly goblins
Subdue thy clear bright spirit! Art thou bid
To murder?—with abhorr'd accurséd poniard,
To violate the breasts that nourished thee?
That were against our nature, that might aptly
Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken.
Yet not a few, and for a meaner object,
Have ventured even this, ay, and performed it.
What is there in thy case so black and monstrous?
Thou art accused of treason—whether with
Or without justice is not now the question—
Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly
Of the power which thou possessest—Friedland! Duke!
Tell me, where lives that thing so meek and tame,
That doth not all his living faculties
Put forth in preservation of his life?
What deed so daring, which necessity
And desperation will not sanctify?

Wallenstein.
Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me:
He loved me; he esteemed me; I was placed
The nearest to his heart. Full many a time
We like familiar friends, both at one table,
Have banquetted together. He and I—
And the young kings themselves held me the bason
Wherewith to wash me—and is't come to this?

Countess.
So faithfully preserv'st thou each small favour,
And hast no memory for contumelies?
Must I remind thee, how at Regenspurg
This man repaid thy faithful services?
All ranks and all conditions in the Empire
Thou hadst wronged, to make him great,—hadst loaded on thee,
On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world.
No friend existed for thee in all Germany,
And why? because thou hadst existed only
For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone
Clung Friedland in that storm which gathered round him
At Regenspurg in the Diet—and he dropped thee!
He let thee fall! He let thee fall a victim
To the Bavarian, to that insolent!
Deposed, stript bare of all thy dignity
And power, amid the taunting of thy foes,
Thou wert let drop into obscurity.—
Say not, the restoration of thy honour
Hath made atonement for that first injustice.
No honest good-will was it that replaced thee,
The law of hard necessity replaced thee,
Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not.

Wallenstein.
Not to their good wishes, that is certain,
Nor yet to his affection I'm indebted
For this high office; and if I abuse it,
I shall therein abuse no confidence.

Countess.
Affection! confidence!—They needed thee.
Necessity, impetuous remonstrant!
Who not with empty names, or shews of proxy,
Is served, who'll have the thing and not the symbol,
Ever seeks out the greatest and the best,
And at the rudder places him, e'en though
She had been forced to take him from the rabble—
She, this Necessity, it was that placed thee
In this high office, it was she that gave thee
Thy letters patent of inauguration.
For, to the uttermost moment that they can,
This race still help themselves at cheapest rate
With slavish souls, with puppets! At the approach
Of extreme peril, when a hollow image
Is found a hollow image and no more,
Then falls the power into the mighty hands
Of Nature, of the spirit giant-born,
Who listens only to himself, knows nothing
Of stipulations, duties, reverences
And, like the emancipated force of fire,
Unmastered scorches, ere it reaches them,
Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy.

Wallenstein.
'Tis true! they saw me always as I am—
Always! I did not cheat them in the bargain.
I never held it worth my pains to hide
The bold all-grasping habit of my soul.

Countess.
Nay rather—thou hast ever shewn thyself
A formidable man, without restraint;
Hast exercised the full prerogatives
Of thy impetuous nature, which had been
Once granted to thee. Therefore, Duke, not thou,
Who hast still remained consistent with thyself,
But they are in the wrong, who fearing thee,
Entrusted such a power in hands they feared.
For, by the laws of Spirit, in the right
Is every individual character
That acts in strict consistence with itself.
Self-contradiction is the only wrong.
Wert thou another being, then, when thou
Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire
And sword, and desolation, through the Circles
Of Germany, the universal scourge,
Didst mock all ordinances of the empire,
The fearful rights of strength alone exertedst,
Trampledst to earth each rank, each magistracy,
All to extend thy Sultan's domination?
Then was the time to break thee in, to curb
Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance.
But no! the Emperor felt no touch of conscience,
What served him pleased him, and without a murmur
He stamped his broad seal on these lawless deeds.
What at that time was right, because thou didst it
For him, to-day is all at once become
Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed
Against him.—O most flimsy superstition!

Wallenstein
(rising).
I never saw it in this light before.
'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated
Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly.
And even this prince's mantle, which I wear,
I owe to what were services to him,
But most high misdemeanours 'gainst the empire.

Countess.
Then betwixt thee and him (confess it, Friedland!)
The point can be no more of right and duty,
Only of power and opportunity.
That opportunity, lo! it comes yonder,
Approaching with swift steeds; then with a swing
Throw thyself up into the chariot-seat,
Seize with firm hand the reins, ere thy opponent
Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest
Of the now empty seat. The moment comes—
It is already here, when thou must write
The absolute total of thy life's vast sum.
The constellations stand victorious o'er thee,
The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions,
And tell thee, ‘Now's the time!’ The starry courses
Hast thou thy life long measured to no purpose?
The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings?
[Pointing to the different objects in the room.
The zodiacs, the rolling orbs of heaven,
Hast pictured on these walls, and all around thee
In dumb, foreboding symbols hast thou placed
These seven presiding Lords of Destiny—
For toys? Is all this preparation nothing?
Is there no marrow in this hollow art,
That even to thyself it doth avail
Nothing, and has no influence over thee
In the great moment of decision?—

Wallenstein
(interrupting the Countess).
Send Wrangel to me—I will instantly
Dispatch three couriers—

Illo
(hurrying out).
God in heaven be praised!

Wallenstein.
[To Tertsky.
Go, conduct you Gustave Wrangel
To my state-cabinet.—Myself will speak to
The couriers.—And dispatch immediately
A servant for Octavio Piccolomini.
[To the Countess.
No exultation—woman, triumph not!
For jealous are the Powers of Destiny.
Joy premature, and shouts ere victory,
Incroach upon their rights and privileges.
We sow the seed, and they the growth determine.

[While he is making his exit the curtain drops.

ACT V

Scene I

Scene—As in the preceding Act.
Wallenstein, Octavio Piccolomini.
Wallenstein
(coming forward in conversation).
Enter Max Piccolomini.

Octavio
(to his son).
I shall see you
Yet ere I go.

Scene II

Wallenstein, Max Piccolomini.
Max
(advances to him).
My General!

Wallenstein.
That am I no longer, if
Thou styl'st thyself the Emperor's officer.

Max.
Then thou wilt leave the army, General?

Wallenstein.
I have renounced the service of the Emperor.

Max.
And thou wilt leave the army?

Wallenstein.
Rather hope I
To bind it nearer still and faster to me.
[He seats himself.
Yes, Max, I have delayed to open it to thee,
Even till the hour of acting 'gins to strike.
Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily
The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is
To exercise the single apprehension
Where the sums square in proof;
But where it happens, that of two sure evils
One must be taken, where the heart not wholly
Brings itself back from out the strife of duties,
There 'tis a blessing to have no election,
And blank necessity is grace and favour.
—This is now present: do not look behind thee,—
It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards!
Think not! judge not! prepare thyself to act!
The Court—it hath determined on my ruin,
Therefore I will to be beforehand with them.
We'll join the Swedes—right gallant fellows are they,
And our good friends.
[He stops himself, expecting Piccolomini's answer.
I have ta'en thee by surprise. Answer me not.
I grant thee time to recollect thyself.

[He rises, and retires at the back of the stage. Max remains for a long time motionless, in a trance of excessive anguish. At his first motion Wallenstein returns, and places himself before him.
Max.
My General, this day thou makest me
Of age to speak in my own right and person,
For till this day I have been spared the trouble
To find out my own road. Thee have I followed
With most implicit unconditional faith,
Sure of the right path if I followed thee.
To-day, for the first time, dost thou refer
Me to myself, and forcest me to make
Election between thee and my own heart.

Wallenstein.
Soft cradled thee thy Fortune till to-day;
Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport,
Indulge all lovely instincts, act for ever
With undivided heart. It can remain
No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads
Start from each other. Duties strive with duties.
Thou must needs choose thy party in the war
Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him
Who is thy Emperor.

Max.
War! is that the name?
War is as frightful as heaven's pestilence.
Yet it is good, is it heaven's will as that is.
Is that a good war, which against the Emperor
Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army?
O God of heaven! what a change is this.
Beseems it me to offer such persuasion
To thee, who like the fixed star of the pole
Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless ocean?
O! what a rent thou makest in my heart!
The ingrained instinct of old reverence,
The holy habit of obediency,
Must I pluck live asunder from thy name?
Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me—
It always was as a god looking at me!
Duke Wallenstein, its power is not departed:
The senses still are in thy bonds, although,
Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself.

Wallenstein.
Max, hear me.

Max.
O! do it not, I pray thee, do it not!
There is a pure and noble soul within thee,
Knows not of this unblest, unlucky doing.
Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only
Which hath polluted thee—and innocence,
It will not let itself be driven away
From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not,
Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce
All human creatures to disloyalty
Against the nobleness of their own nature.
'Twill justify the vulgar misbelief,
Which holdeth nothing noble in free will,
And trusts itself to impotence alone
Made powerful only in an unknown power.

Wallenstein.
The world will judge me sternly, I expect it.
Already have I said to my own self
All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids
The extreme,—can he by going round avoid it?
But here there is no choice. Yes—I must use
Or suffer violence—so stands the case,
There remains nothing possible but that.

Max.
O that is never possible for thee!
'Tis the last desperate resource of those
Cheap souls, to whom their honour, their good name
Is their poor saving, their last worthless keep,
Which having staked and lost, they stake themselves
In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich,
And glorious; with an unpolluted heart
Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems highest!
But he, who once hath acted infamy,
Does nothing more in this world.

Wallenstein
(grasps his hand).
Calmly, Max!
Much that is great and excellent will we
Perform together yet. And if we only
Stand on the height with dignity, 'tis soon
Forgotten, Max, by what road we ascended.
Believe me, many a crown shines spotless now,
That yet was deeply sullied in the winning.
To the evil spirit doth the earth belong,
Not to the good. All, that the powers divine
Send from above, are universal blessings:
Their light rejoices us, their air refreshes,
But never yet was man enriched by them:
In their eternal realm no property
Is to be struggled for—all there is general.
The jewel, the all-valued gold we win
From the deceiving Powers, depraved in nature,
That dwell beneath the day and blessed sun-light.
Not without sacrifices are they rendered
Propitious, and there lives no soul on earth
That e'er retired unsullied from their service.

Max.
Whate'er is human, to the human being
Do I allow—and to the vehement
And striving spirit readily I pardon
The excess of action; but to thee, my General!
Above all others make I large concession.
For thou must move a world, and be the master—
He kills thee, who condemns thee to inaction.
So be it then! maintain thee in thy post
By violence. Resist the Emperor,
And if it must be, force with force repel:
I will not praise it, yet I can forgive it.
But not—not to the traitor—yes!—the word
Is spoken out—
Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon.
That is no mere excess! that is no error
Of human nature—that is wholly different,
O that is black, black as the pit of hell!
Thou canst not hear it nam'd, and wilt thou do it?
O turn back to thy duty. That thou canst,
I hold it certain. Send me to Vienna.
I'll make thy peace for thee with the Emperor.
He knows thee not. But I do know thee. He
Shall see thee, Duke! with my unclouded eye,
And I bring back his confidence to thee.

Wallenstein.
It is too late. Thou knowest not what has happened.

Max.
Were it too late, and were things gone so far,
That a crime only could prevent thy fall,
Then—fall! fall honourably, even as thou stood'st.
Lose the command. Go from the stage of war.
Thou canst with splendour do it—do it too
With innocence. Thou hast liv'd much for others,
At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee.
My destiny I never part from thine.

Wallenstein.
It is too late! Even now, while thou art losing
Thy words, one after the other are the mile-stones
Left fast behind by my post couriers,
Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra.
Yield thyself to it. We act as we are forced.
I cannot give assent to my own shame
And ruin. Thou—no—thou canst not forsake me!
So let us do, what must be done, with dignity,
With a firm step. What am I doing worse
Than did famed Cæsar at the Rubicon,
When he the legions led against his country,
The which his country had delivered to him?
Had he thrown down the sword, he had been lost,
As I were, if I but disarmed myself.
I trace out something in me of his spirit.
Give me his luck, that other thing I'll bear.

[Max quits him abruptly. Wallenstein, startled and overpowered, continues looking after him, and is still in this posture when Tertsky enters.

Scene III

Wallenstein, Tertsky.
Tertsky.
Max Piccolomini just left you?

Wallenstein.
Where is Wrangel?

Tertsky.
He is already gone.

Wallenstein.
In such a hurry?

Tertsky.
It is as if the earth had swallowed him.
He had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him.
I wished some words with him—but he was gone.
How, when, and where, could no one tell me. Nay,
I half believe it was the devil himself;
A human creature could not so at once
Have vanished.

Illo
(enters).
Is it true that thou wilt send
Octavio?

Tertsky.
How, Octavio! Whither send him?

Wallenstein.
He goes to Frauenberg, and will lead hither
The Spanish and Italian regiments.

Illo.
No!
Nay, Heaven forbid!

Wallenstein.
And why should Heaven forbid?

Illo.
Him!—that deceiver! Would'st thou trust to him
The soldiery? Him wilt thou let slip from thee,
Now, in the very instant that decides us—

Tertsky.
Thou wilt not do this!—No! I pray thee, no!

Wallenstein.
Ye are whimsical.

Illo.
O but for this time, Duke,
Yield to our warning! Let him not depart.

Wallenstein.
And why should I not trust him only this time,
Who have always trusted him? What, then, has happened,
That I should lose my good opinion of him?
In complaisance to your whims, not my own,
I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment.
Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him
E'en till to-day, to-day too will I trust him.

Tertsky.
Must it be he—he only? Send another.

Wallenstein.
It must be he, whom I myself have chosen;
He is well fitted for the business. Therefore
I gave it him.

Illo.
Because he's an Italian—
Therefore is he well fitted for the business.

Wallenstein.
I know you love them not—nor sire nor son—
Because that I esteem them, love them—visibly
Esteem them, love them more than you and others,
E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights,
Thorns in your foot-path. But your jealousies,
In what affect they me or my concerns?
Are they the worse to me because you hate them?
Love or hate one another as you will,
I leave to each man his own moods and likings;
Yet know the worth of each of you to me.

Illo.
Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always
Lurking about with this Octavio.

Wallenstein.
It happened with my knowledge and permission.

Illo.
I know that secret messengers came to him
From Galas—

Wallenstein.
That's not true.

Illo.
O thou art blind
With thy deep-seeing eyes.

Wallenstein.
Thou wilt not shake
My faith for me—my faith, which founds itself
On the profoundest science. If 'tis false,
Then the whole science of the stars is false.
For know, I have a pledge from fate itself,
That he is the most faithful of my friends.

Illo.
Hast thou a pledge, that this pledge is not false?

Wallenstein.
There exist moments in the life of man,
When he is nearer the great soul of the world
Than is man's custom, and possesses freely
The power of questioning his destiny:
And such a moment 'twas, when in the night
Before the action in the plains of Lützen,
Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts,
I looked out far upon the ominous plain.
My whole life, past and future, in this moment
Before my mind's eye glided in procession,
And to the destiny of the next morning
The spirit, filled with anxious presentiment,
Did knit the most removed futurity.
Then said I also to myself, ‘So many
Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars,
And as on some great number set their All
Upon thy single head, and only man
The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day
Will come, when destiny shall once more scatter
All these in many a several direction:
Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee.’
I yearn'd to know which one was faithfullest
Of all, this camp included. Great Destiny,
Give me a sign! And he shall be the man,
Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first
To meet me with a token of his love:
And thinking this, I fell into a slumber.
Then midmost in the battle was I led
In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult!
Then was my horse killed under me: I sank:
And over me away, all unconcernedly,
Drove horse and rider—and thus trod to pieces
I lay, and panted like a dying man.
Then seized me suddenly a saviour arm;
It was Octavio's—I awoke at once,
'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me.
‘My brother,’ said he, ‘do not ride to-day
The dapple, as you're wont; but mount the horse
Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother!
In love to me. A strong dream warned me so.’
It was the swiftness of this horse that snatched me
From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons.
My cousin rode the dapple on that day,
And never more saw I or horse or rider.

Illo.
That was a chance.

Wallenstein.
There's no such thing as chance.
In brief, 'tis signed and sealed that this Octavio
Is my good angel—and now no word more.

[He is retiring.
Tertsky.
This is my comfort—Max remains our hostage.

Illo.
And he shall never stir from here alive.

Wallenstein
(stops and turns himself round).
Are ye not like the women, who for ever
Only recur to their first word, although
One had been talking reason by the hour?
Know, that the human being's thoughts and deeds
Are not, like ocean billows, blindly moved.
The inner world, his microcosmus, is
The deep shaft, out of which they spring eternally.
They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit—
No juggling chance can metamorphose them.
Have I the human kernel first examined?
Then I know, too, the future will and action.

Scene IV

Scene—A Chamber in Piccolomini's Dwelling-House.
Octavio Piccolomini, Isolani (entering).
Isolani.
Here am I—Well! who comes yet of the others?

Octavio.
But, first, a word with you, Count Isolani.

Isolani.
Will it explode, ha?—Is the Duke about
To make the attempt? In me, friend, you may place
Full confidence.—Nay, put me to the proof.

Octavio.
That may happen.

Isolani.
Noble brother, I am
Not one of those men who in words are valiant,
And when it comes to action skulk away.
The Duke has acted towards me as a friend.
God knows it is so; and I owe him all—
He may rely on my fidelity.

Octavio.
That will be seen hereafter.

Isolani.
Be on your guard,
All think not as I think; and there are many
Who still hold with the Court—yes, and they say
That those stolen signatures bind them to nothing.

Octavio.
I am rejoiced to hear it.

Isolani.
You rejoice!

Octavio.
That the Emperor has yet such gallant servants
And loving friends.

Isolani.
Nay, jeer not, I entreat you.
They are no such worthless fellows, I assure you.

Octavio.
I am assured already. God forbid
That I should jest!—In very serious earnest
I am rejoiced to see an honest cause
So strong.

Isolani.
The Devil!—what!—why, what means this?
Are you not, then—For what, then, am I here?

Octavio.
That you may make full declaration, whether
You will be called the friend or enemy
Of the Emperor.

Isolani.
That declaration, friend,
I'll make to him in whom a right is placed
To put that question to me.

Octavio.
Whether, Count,
That right is mine, this paper may instruct you.

Isolani.
Why,—why—what! This is the Emperor's hand and seal!
[Reads.
‘Whereas the officers collectively
Throughout our army will obey the orders
Of the Lieutenant-General Piccolomini
As from ourselves.’—Hem!—Yes! so!—Yes! yes!—
I—I give you joy, Lieutenant-General!

Octavio.
And you submit you to the order?

Isolani.
I—
But you have taken me so by surprise—
Time for reflection one must have—

Octavio.
Two minutes.

Isolani.
My God! But then the case is—

Octavio.
Plain and simple.
You must declare you, whether you determine
To act a treason 'gainst your Lord and Sovereign,
Or whether you will serve him faithfully.

Isolani.
Treason!—My God!—But who talks then of treason?

Octavio.
That is the case. The Prince-Duke is a traitor—
Means to lead over to the enemy
The Emperor's army.—Now, Count!—brief and full—
Say, will you break your oath to the Emperor?
Sell yourself to the enemy?—Say, will you?

Isolani.
What mean you? I—I break my oath, d'ye say,
To his Imperial Majesty?
Did I say so?—When, when have I said that?

Octavio.
You have not said it yet—not yet. This instant
I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it.

Isolani.
Aye! that delights me now, that you yourself
Bear witness for me that I never said so.

Octavio.
And you renounce the Duke then?

Isolani.
If he's planning
Treason—why, treason breaks all bonds asunder.

Octavio.
And are determined, too, to fight against him?

Isolani.
He has done me service—but if he's a villain,
Perdition seize him!—All scores are rubbed off.

Octavio.
I am rejoiced that you're so well disposed.
This night break off in the utmost secrecy
With all the light-armed troops—it must appear
As came the order from the Duke himself.
At Frauenberg's the place of rendezvous;
There will Count Galas give you further orders.

Isolani.
It shall be done. But you'll remember me
With the Emperor—how well disposed you found me.

Octavio.
I will not fail to mention it honourably.
[Exit Isolani. A Servant enters.
What, Colonel Butler!—Shew him up.

Isolani
(returning).
Forgive me too my bearish ways, old father!
Lord God! how should I know, then, what a great
Person I had before me.

Octavio.
No excuses!

Isolani.
I am a merry lad, and if at time
A rash word might escape me 'gainst the court
Amidst my wine—You know no harm was meant.

[Exit.
Octavio.
You need not be uneasy on that score.
That has succeeded. Fortune favour us
With all the others only but as much!

Scene V

Octavio Piccolomini, Butler.
Butler.
At your command, Lieutenant-General.

Octavio.
Welcome, as honoured friend and visitor.

Butler.
You do me too much honour.

Octavio
(after both have seated themselves).
You have not
Returned the advances which I made you yesterday—
Misunderstood them, as mere empty forms.
That wish proceeded from my heart—I was
In earnest with you—for 'tis now a time
In which the honest should unite most closely.

Butler.
'Tis only the like-minded can unite.

Octavio.
True! and I name all honest men like-minded.
I never charge a man but with those acts
To which his character deliberately
Impels him; for alas! the violence
Of blind misunderstandings often thrusts
The very best of us from the right track.
You came through Frauenberg. Did the Count Galas
Say nothing to you? Tell me. He's my friend.

Butler.
His words were lost on me.

Octavio.
It grieves me sorely
To hear it: for his counsel was most wise.
I had myself the like to offer.

Butler.
Spare
Yourself the trouble—me th' embarrassment,
To have deserved so ill your good opinion.

Octavio.
The time is precious—let us talk openly.
You know how matters stand here. Wallenstein
Meditates treason—I can tell you further—
He has committed treason; but few hours
Have past, since he a covenant concluded
With the enemy. The messengers are now
Full on their way to Egra and to Prague.
To-morrow he intends to lead us over
To the enemy. But he deceives himself;
For prudence wakes—the Emperor has still
Many and faithful friends here, and they stand
In closest union, mighty though unseen.
This manifesto sentences the Duke—
Recalls the obedience of the army from him,
And summons all the loyal, all the honest,
To join and recognize in me their leader.
Choose—will you share with us an honest cause?
Or with the evil share an evil lot?

Butler
(rises).
His lot is mine.

Octavio.
Is that your last resolve?

Butler.
It is.

Octavio.
Nay, but bethink you, Colonel Butler!
As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast
That rashly uttered word remains interred.
Recall it, Butler! choose a better party:
You have not chosen the right one.

Butler
(going).
Any other
Commands for me, Lieutenant-General?

Octavio.
See your white hairs! Recall that word!

Butler.
Farewell!

Octavio.
What, would you draw this good and gallant sword
In such a cause? Into a curse would you
Transform the gratitude which you have earned
By forty years' fidelity from Austria?

Butler
(laughing with bitterness).
Gratitude from the House of Austria.

[He is going.
Octavio
(permits him to go as far as the door, then calls after him).
Butler!

Butler.
What wish you?

Octavio.
How was't with the Count?

Butler.
Count? what?

Octavio.
The title that you wished, I mean.

Butler
(starts in sudden passion).
Hell and damnation!

Octavio.
You petitioned for it—
And your petition was repelled—Was it so?

Butler.
Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunished.
Draw!

Octavio.
Nay! your sword to 'ts sheath! and tell me calmly,
How all that happened. I will not refuse you
Your satisfaction afterwards.—Calmly, Butler!

Butler.
Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness
For which I never can forgive myself.
Lieutenant-General! Yes—I have ambition.
Ne'er was I able to endure contempt.
It stung me to the quick, that birth and title
Should have more weight than merit has in the army.
I would fain not be meaner than my equal,
So in an evil hour I let myself
Be tempted to that measure—It was folly!
But yet so hard a penance it deserved not.
It might have been refused; but wherefore barb
And venom the refusal with contempt?
Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scorn
The grey-haired man, the faithful veteran?
Why to the baseness of his parentage
Refer him with such cruel roughness, only
Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself?
But nature gives a sting e'en to the worm
Which wanton power treads on in sport and insult.

Octavio.
You must have been calumniated. Guess you
The enemy, who did you this ill service?

Butler.
Be't who it will—a most low-hearted scoundrel,
Some vile court-minion must it be, some Spaniard,
Some young squire of some ancient family,
In whose light I may stand, some envious knave,
Stung to his soul by my fair self-earned honours!

Octavio.
But tell me! Did the Duke approve that measure?

Butler.
Himself impelled me to it, used his interest
In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship.

Octavio.
Ay? Are you sure of that?

Butler.
I read the letter.

Octavio.
And so did I—but the contents were different.
By chance I'm in possession of that letter—
Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you.

[He gives him the letter.
Butler.
Ha! what is this?

Octavio.
I fear me, Colonel Butler,
An infamous game have they been playing with you.
The Duke, you say, impelled you to this measure?
Now, in this letter talks he in contempt
Concerning you, counsels the Minister
To give sound chastisement to your conceit,
For so he calls it.
[Butler reads through the letter, his knees tremble, he seizes a chair, and sinks down in it.
You have no enemy, no persecutor;
There's no one wishes ill to you. Ascribe
The insult you received to the Duke only.
His aim is clear and palpable. He wished
To tear you from your Emperor—he hoped
To gain from your revenge what he well knew
(What your long-tried fidelity convinced him)
He ne'er could dare expect from your calm reason.
A blind tool would he make you, in contempt
Use you, as means of most abandoned ends.
He has gained his point. Too well has he succeeded
In luring you away from that good path
On which you had been journeying forty years!

Butler.
Can e'er the Emperor's Majesty forgive me?

Octavio.
More than forgive you. He would fain compensate
For that affront, and most unmerited grievance
Sustained by a deserving, gallant veteran.
From his free impulse he confirms the present,
Which the Duke made you for a wicked purpose.
The regiment, which you now command, is yours.

[Butler attempts to rise, sinks down again. He labours inwardly with violent emotions; tries to speak, and

---

720

cannot. At length he takes his sword from the belt, and offers it to Piccolomini.
Octavio.
What wish you? Recollect yourself, friend.

Butler.
Take it.

Octavio.
But to what purpose? Calm yourself.

Butler.
O take it!
I am no longer worthy of this sword.

Octavio.
Receive it then anew from my hands—and
Wear it with honour for the right cause ever.

Butler.
—Perjure myself to such a gracious Sovereign!

Octavio.
You'll make amends. Quick! break off from the Duke!

Butler.
Break off from him!

Octavio.
What now? Bethink thyself.

Butler
(no longer governing his emotion).
Only break off from him?—He dies!—he dies!

Octavio.
Come after me to Frauenberg, where now
All who are loyal are assembling under
Counts Altringer and Galas. Many others
I've brought to a remembrance of their duty.
This night be sure that you escape from Pilsen.

Butler.
Count Piccolomini! Dare that man speak
Of honour to you, who once broke his troth?

Octavio.
He, who repents so deeply of it, dares.

Butler.
Then leave me here, upon my word of honour!

Octavio.
What's your design?

Butler.
Leave me and my regiment.

Octavio.
I have full confidence in you. But tell me
What are you brooding?

Butler.
That the deed will tell you.
Ask me no more at present. Trust to me.
Ye may trust safely. By the living God
Ye give him over, not to his good angel!
Farewell.

[Exit Butler.
Servant
(enters with a billet).
A stranger left it, and is gone.
The Prince-Duke's horses wait for you below.

[Exit Servant.
Octavio
(reads).
‘Be sure, make haste! Your faithful Isolan.’
—O that I had but left this town behind me.
To split upon a rock so near the haven!—
Away! This is no longer a safe place for me!
Where can my son be tarrying?

Scene VI

Octavio and Max Piccolomini.
Octavio
(advances to Max).
[Receiving no answer he takes his hand.

Max.
Farewell.

Octavio.
Thou wilt soon follow me?

Max.
I follow thee?
Thy way is crooked—it is not my way.
[Octavio drops his hand, and starts back.
O, hadst thou been but simple and sincere,
Ne'er had it come to this—all had stood otherwise.
He had not done that foul and horrible deed,
The virtuous had retained their influence o'er him:
He had not fallen into the snares of villains.
Wherefore so like a thief, and thief's accomplice
Did'st creep behind him—lurking for thy prey?
O, unblest falsehood! Mother of all evil!
Thou misery-making demon, it is thou
That sink'st us in perdition. Simple truth,
Sustainer of the world, had saved us all!
Father, I will not, I cannot excuse thee!
Wallenstein has deceived me—O, most foully!
But thou hast acted not much better.

Octavio.
Son!
My son, ah! I forgive thy agony!

Max.
Was't possible? had'st thou the heart, my father,
Had'st thou the heart to drive it to such lengths,
With cold premeditated purpose? Thou—
Had'st thou the heart, to wish to see him guilty.
Rather than saved? Thou risest by his fall.
Octavio, 'twill not please me.

Octavio.
God in Heaven!

Max.
O, woe is me! sure I have changed my nature.
How comes suspicion here—in the free soul?
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone; for all
Lied to me, all what I e'er loved or honoured.
No! No! Not all! She—she yet lives for me,
And she is true, and open as the Heavens!
Deceit is every where, hypocrisy,
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury:
The single holy spot is now our love,
The only unprofaned in human nature.

Octavio.
Max!—we will go together. 'Twill be better.

Max.
What? ere I've taken a last parting leave,
The very last—no never!

Octavio.
Spare thyself
The pang of necessary separation.
Come with me! Come, my son!

[Attempts to take him with him.
Max.
No! as sure as God lives, no!

Octavio.
Come with me, I command thee! I, thy father.

Max.
Command me what is human. I stay here.

Octavio.
Max! in the Emperor's name I bid thee come.

Max.
No Emperor has power to prescribe
Laws to the heart; and would'st thou wish to rob me
Of the sole blessing which my fate has left me,
Her sympathy? Must then a cruel deed
Be done with cruelty? The unalterable
Shall I perform ignobly—steal away,
With stealthy coward flight forsake her? No!
She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish,
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul,
And weep tears o'er me. Oh! the human race
Have steely souls—but she is as an angel.
From the black deadly madness of despair
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death!

Octavio.
Thou wilt not tear thyself away; thou canst not.
O, come, my son! I bid thee save thy virtue.

Max.
Squander not thou thy words in vain.
The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it.

Octavio.
Max! Max! if that most damnéd thing could be,
If thou—my son—my own blood—(dare I think it?)
Do sell thyself to him, the infamous,
Do stamp this brand upon our noble house,
Then shall the world behold the horrible deed,
And in unnatural combat shall the steel
Of the son trickle with the father's blood.

Max.
O hadst thou always better thought of men,
Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion!
Unholy miserable doubt! To him
Nothing on earth remains unwrenched and firm,
Who has no faith.

Octavio.
And if I trust thy heart,
Will it be always in thy power to follow it?

Max.
The heart's voice thou hast not o'erpower'd—as little
Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it.

Octavio.
O, Max! I see thee never more again!

Max.
Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me.

Octavio.
I go to Frauenberg—the Pappenheimers
I leave thee here, the Lothrings too; Toskana
And Tiefenbach remain here to protect thee.
They love thee, and are faithful to their oath,
And will far rather fall in gallant contest
Than leave their rightful leader, and their honour.

Max.
Rely on this, I either leave my life
In the struggle, or conduct them out of Pilsen.

Octavio.
Farewell, my son!

Max.
Farewell!

Octavio.
How? not one look
Of filial love? No grasp of the hand at parting?
It is a bloody war, to which we are going,
And the event uncertain and in darkness.
So used we not to part—it was not so!
Is it then true? I have a son no longer?

[Max falls into his arms, they hold each [other] for a long time in a speechless embrace, then go away at different sides.
The Curtain drops.

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR TO THE FIRST EDITION

The two Dramas, Piccolomini, or the first part of Wallenstein, and Wallenstein, are introduced in the original manuscript by a Prelude in one Act, entitled Wallenstein's Camp. This is written in rhyme, and in nine-syllable verse, in the same lilting metre (if that expression may be permitted) with the second Eclogue of Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar.

This Prelude possesses a sort of broad humour, and is not deficient in character; but to have translated it into prose, or into any other metre than that of the original, would have given a false notion both of its style and purport; to have translated it into the same metre would have been incompatible with a faithful adherence to the sense of the German, from the comparative poverty of our language in rhymes; and it would have been unadvisable from the incongruity of those lax verses with the present taste of the English Public. Schiller's intention seems to have been merely to have prepared his reader for the Tragedies by a lively picture of the laxity of discipline, and the mutinous dispositions of Wallenstein's soldiery. It is not necessary as a preliminary explanation. For these reasons it has been thought expedient not to translate it.

The admirers of Schiller, who have abstracted their conception of that author from the Robbers, and the Cabal and Love, plays in which the main interest is produced by the excitement of curiosity, and in which the curiosity is excited by terrible and extraordinary incident, will not have perused without some portion of disappointment the Dramas, which it has been my employment to translate. They should, however, reflect that these are Historical Dramas, taken from a popular German History; that we must therefore judge of them in some measure with the feelings of Germans; or by analogy, with the interest excited in us by similar Dramas in our own language. Few, I trust, would be rash or ignorant enough to compare Schiller with Shakspeare yet, merely as illustration, I would say

that we should proceed to the perusal of Wallenstein, not from Lear or Othello, but from Richard the Second, or the three parts of Henry the Sixth. We scarcely expect rapidity in an Historical Drama; and many prolix speeches are pardoned from characters, whose names and actions have formed the most amusing tales of our early life. On the other hand, there exist in these plays more individual beauties, more passages the excellence of which will bear reflection, than in the former productions of Schiller. The description of the Astrological Tower, and the reflections of the Young Lover, which follow it, form in the original a fine poem; and my translation must have been wretched indeed, if it can have wholly overclouded the beauties of the Scene in the first Act of the first Play between Questenberg, Max, and Octavio Piccolomini. If we except the Scene of the setting sun in the Robbers, I know of no part in Schiller's Plays which equals the whole of the first Scene of the fifth Act of the concluding Play. It would be unbecoming in me to be more diffuse on this subject. A Translator stands connected with the original Author by a certain law of subordination, which makes it more decorous to point out excellencies than defects: indeed he is not likely to be a fair judge of either. The pleasure or disgust from his own labour will mingle with the feelings that arise from an afterview of the original. Even in the first perusal of a work in any foreign language which we understand, we are apt to attribute to it more excellence than it really possesses from our own pleasurable sense of difficulty overcome without effect. Translation of poetry into poetry is difficult, because the Translator must give a brilliancy to his language without that warmth of original conception, from which such brilliancy would follow of its own accord. But the translator of a living Author is encumbered with additional inconveniences. If he render his original faithfully, as to the sense of each passage, he must necessarily destroy a considerable portion of the spirit; if he endeavour to give a work executed according to laws of compensation, he subjects himself to imputations of vanity, or misrepresentation. I have thought it my duty to remain bound by the sense of my original, with as few exceptions as the nature of the languages rendered possible.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Wallenstein, Duke of Friedland, Generalissimo of the Imperial Forces in the Thirty Years' War.
• Duchess of Friedland, Wife of Wallenstein.
• Thekla, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland.
• The Countess Tertsky, Sister of the Duchess.
• Lady Neubrunn.
• Octavio Piccolomini, Lieutenant-General.
• Max Piccolomini, his Son, Colonel of a Regiment of Cuirassiers.
• Count Tertsky, the Commander of several Regiments, and Brother-in-law of Wallenstein.
• Illo, Field Marshal, Wallenstein's confidant.
• Butler, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of Dragoons.
• Gordon, Governor of Egra.
• Major Geraldin.
• Captain Devereux.
• Captain Macdonald.
• Neumann, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to Tertsky.
• Swedish Captain.
• Seni.
• Burgomaster of Egra.
• Anspessade of the Cuirassiers.
• Groom of the Chamber, belonging to the Duke.
• A Page, belonging to the Duke.
• Cuirassiers, Dragoons, Servants.

ACT I

Scene I

Scene—A Chamber in the House of the Duchess of Friedland.
Countess Tertsky, Thekla, Lady Neubrunn (the two latter sit at the same table at work).
Countess
(watching them from the opposite side).
[The Countess rises and advances to her.

Thekla.
To-day and yesterday I have not seen him.

Countess.
And not heard from him either? Come, be open!

Thekla.
No syllable.

Countess.
And still you are so calm?

Thekla.
I am.

Countess.
May't please you, leave us, Lady Neubrunn!

[Exit Lady Neubrunn.

Scene II

The Countess, Thekla.
Countess.
It does not please me, Princess! that he holds
Himself so still, exactly at this time.

Thekla.
Exactly at this time?

Countess.
He now knows all.
'Twere now the moment to declare himself.

Thekla.
If I'm to understand you, speak less darkly.

Countess.
'Twas for that purpose that I bade her leave us.
Thekla, you are no more a child. Your heart
Is now no more in nonage: for you love,
And boldness dwells with love—that you have proved.
Your nature moulds itself upon your father's
More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you
Hear, what were too much for her fortitude.

Thekla.
Enough! no further preface, I entreat you.
At once, out with it! Be it what it may,
It is not possible that it should torture me
More than this introduction. What have you
To say to me? Tell me the whole and briefly!

Countess.
You'll not be frightened—

Thekla.
Name it, I entreat you.

Countess.
It lies within your power to do your father
A weighty service—

Thekla.
Lies within my power?

Countess.
Max Piccolomini loves you. You can link him
Indissolubly to your father.

Thekla.
I?
What need of me for that? And is he not
Already linked to him?

Countess.
He was.

Thekla.
And wherefore
Should he not be so now—not be so always?

Countess.
He cleaves to the Emperor too.

Thekla.
Not more than duty
And honour may demand of him.

Countess.
We ask
Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honour.
Duty and honour!
Those are ambiguous words with many meanings.
You should interpret them for him: his love
Should be the sole definer of his honour.

Thekla.
How?

Countess.
The Emperor or you must he renounce.

Thekla.
He will accompany my father gladly
In his retirement. From himself you heard,
How much he wished to lay aside the sword.

Countess.
He must not lay the sword aside, we mean;
He must unsheath it in your father's cause.

Thekla.
He'll spend with gladness and alacrity
His life, his heart's blood in my father's cause,
If shame or injury be intended him.

Countess.
You will not understand me. Well, hear then!
Your father has fallen off from the Emperor,
And is about to join the enemy
With the whole soldiery—

Thekla.
Alas, my mother!

Countess.
There needs a great example to draw on
The army after him. The Piccolomini
Possess the love and reverence of the troops;
They govern all opinions, and wherever
They lead the way, none hesitate to follow.
The son secures the father to our interests—
You've much in your hands at this moment.

Thekla.
Ah,
My miserable mother! what a death-stroke
Awaits thee!—No! She never will survive it.

Countess.
She will accommodate her soul to that
Which is and must be. I do know your mother.
The far-off future weights upon her heart
With torture of anxiety; but is it
Unalterably, actually present,
She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly.

Thekla.
O my fore-boding bosom! Even now,
E'en now 'tis here, that icy hand of horror!
And my young hope lies shuddering in its grasp;
I knew it well—no sooner had I entered,
A heavy ominous presentiment
Revealed to me, that spirits of death were hovering
Over my happy fortune. But why think I
First of myself? My mother! O my mother!

Countess.
Calm yourself! Break not out in vain lamenting!
Preserve you for your father the firm friend,
And for yourself the lover, all will yet
Prove good and fortunate.

Thekla.
Prove good? What good?
Must we not part? Part ne'er to meet again?

Countess.
He parts not from you! He can not part from you.

Thekla.
Alas for his sore anguish! It will rend
His heart asunder.

Countess.
If indeed he loves you,
His resolution will be speedily taken.

Thekla.
His resolution will be speedily taken—
O do not doubt of that! A resolution!
Does there remain one to be taken?

Countess.
Hush!
Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming.

Thekla.
How shall I bear to see her?

Countess.
Collect yourself.

Scene III

To them enter the Duchess.
Duchess
(to the Countess).
Who was here, sister? I heard some one talking,
And passionately too.

Countess.
Nay! There was no one.

Duchess.
I am grown so timorous, every trifling noise
Scatters my spirits, and announces to me
The footstep of some messenger of evil.
And can you tell me, sister, what the event is?
Will he agree to do the Emperor's pleasure,
And send the horse-regiments to the Cardinal?
Tell me, has he dismissed Von Questenberg
With a favourable answer?

Countess.
No, he has not.

Duchess.
Alas! then all is lost! I see it coming,
The worst that can come! Yes, they will depose him;
The accurséd business of the Regenspurg diet
Will all be acted o'er again!

Countess.
No! never!
Make your heart easy, sister, as to that.

[Thekla throws herself upon her mother, and enfolds her in her arms, weeping.
Duchess.
Yes, my poor child!
Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother
In the Empress. O that stern unbending man!
In this unhappy marriage what have I
Not suffered, not endured. For ev'n as if
I had been linked on to some wheel of fire
That restless, ceaseless, whirls impetuous onward,
I have passed a life of frights and horrors with him,
And ever to the brink of some abyss
With dizzy headlong violence he whirls me.
Nay, do not weep, my child! Let not my sufferings
Presignify unhappiness to thee,
Nor blacken with their shade the fate that waits thee.
There lives no second Friedland: thou, my child,
Hast not to fear thy mother's destiny.

Thekla.
O let us supplicate him, dearest mother!
Quick! quick! here's no abiding-place for us.
Here every coming hour broods into life
Some new affrightful monster.

Duchess.
Thou wilt share
An easier, calmer lot, my child! We too,
I and thy father, witnessed happy days.
Still think I with delight of those first years,
When he was making progress with glad effort,
When his ambition was a genial fire,
Not that consuming flame which now it is.
The Emperor loved him, trusted him: and all
He undertook could not but be successful.
But since that ill-starred day at Regenspurg,
Which plunged him headlong from his dignity,
A gloomy uncompanionable spirit,
Unsteady and suspicious, has possessed him.
His quiet mind forsook him, and no longer
Did he yield up himself in joy and faith
To his old luck, and individual power;
But thenceforth turned his heart and best affections
All to those cloudy sciences, which never
Have yet made happy him who followed them.

Countess.
You see it, sister! as your eyes permit you.
But surely this is not the conversation
To pass the time in which we are waiting for him.
You know he will be soon here. Would you have him
Find her in this condition?

Duchess.
Come, my child!
Come, wipe away thy tears, and shew thy father
A cheerful countenance. See, the tie-knot here
Is off—this hair must not hang so dishevelled.
Come, dearest! dry thy tears up. They deform
Thy gentle eye—well now—what was I saying?
Yes, in good truth, this Piccolomini
Is a most noble and deserving gentleman.

Countess.
That is he, sister!

Thekla
(to the Countess).
Aunt, you will excuse me?

[Is going.
Countess.
But whither? See, your father comes.

Thekla.
I cannot see him now.

Countess.
Nay, but bethink you.

Thekla.
Believe me, I cannot sustain his presence.

Countess.
But he will miss you, will ask after you.

Duchess.
What now? Why is she going?

Countess.
She's not well.

Duchess.
What ails then my beloved child?

[Both follow the Princess, and endeavour to detain her. During this Wallenstein appears, engaged in conversation with Illo.

Scene IV

Wallenstein, Illo, Countess, Duchess, Thekla.
Wallenstein.
All quiet in the camp?

Illo.
It is all quiet.

Wallenstein.
In a few hours may couriers come from Prague
With tidings, that this capital is ours.
Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops
Assembled in this town make known the measure
And its result together. In such cases
Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost
Still leads the herd. An imitative creature
Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other,
Than that the Pilsen army has gone through
The forms of homage to us; and in Pilsen
They shall swear fealty to us, because
The example has been given them by Prague.
Butler, you tell me, has declared himself.

Illo.
At his own bidding, unsolicited,
He came to offer you himself and regiment.

Wallenstein.
I find we must not give implicit credence
To every warning voice that makes itself
Be listened to in the heart. To hold us back,
Oft does the lying spirit counterfeit
The voice of Truth and inward Revelation,
Scattering false oracles. And thus have I
To intreat forgiveness, for that secretly
I've wrong'd this honourable gallant man,
This Butler: for a feeling, of the which
I am not master (fear I would not call it),
Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering,
At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion.
And this same man, against whom I am warned,
This honest man is he, who reaches to me
The first pledge of my fortune.

Illo.
And doubt not
That his example will win over to you
The best men in the army.

Wallenstein.
Go and send
Isolani hither. Send him immediately.
He is under recent obligations to me.
With him will I commence the trial. Go.

[Illo exit.
Wallenstein
(turns himself round to the females).
Lo, there the mother with the darling daughter!
For once we'll have an interval of rest—
Come! my heart yearns to live a cloudless hour
In the beloved circle of my family.

Countess.
'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother.

Wallenstein
(to the Countess aside).
Can she sustain the news? Is she prepared?

Countess.
Not yet.

Wallenstein.
Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me,
For there is a good spirit on thy lips.
Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill:
She says a voice of melody dwells in thee,
Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice
Will drive away from me the evil demon
That beats his black wings close above my head.

Duchess.
Where is thy lute, my daughter? Let thy father
Hear some small trial of thy skill.

Thekla.
My mother!
I—

Duchess.
Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer
Thy father.

Thekla.
O my mother! I—I cannot.

Countess.
How, what is that, niece?

Thekla
(to the Countess).
O spare me—sing—now—in this sore anxiety,
Of the o'erburthen'd soul—to sing to him,
Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong
Into her grave!

Duchess.
How, Thekla? Humoursome?
What! shall thy father have expressed a wish
In vain?

Countess.
Here is the lute.

Thekla.
My God! how can I—

[The orchestra plays. During the ritornello Thekla expresses in her gestures and countenance the struggle of her feelings: and at the moment that she should begin to sing, contracts herself together, as one shuddering, throws the instrument down, and retires abruptly.
Duchess.
My child! O she is ill—

Wallenstein.
What ails the maiden?
Say, is she often so?

Countess.
Since then herself
Has now betrayed it, I too must no longer
Conceal it.

Wallenstein.
What?

Countess.
She loves him!

Wallenstein.
Loves him! Whom?

Countess.
Max does she love! Max Piccolomini.
Hast thou ne'er noticed it? Nor yet my sister?

Duchess.
Was it this that lay so heavy on her heart?
God's blessing on thee, my sweet child! Thou needest
Never take shame upon thee for thy choice.

Countess.
This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it
To thine own self. Thou shouldest have chosen another
To have attended her.

Wallenstein.
And does he know it?

Countess.
Yes, and he hopes to win her.

Wallenstein.
Hopes to win her!
Is the boy mad?

Countess.
Well—hear it from themselves.

Wallenstein.
He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter!
Aye?—The thought pleases me.
The young man has no grovelling spirit.

Countess.
Since
Such and such constant favour you have shewn him—

Wallenstein.
He chooses finally to be my heir.
And true it is, I love the youth; yea, honour him.
But must he therefore be my daughter's husband!
Is it daughters only? Is it only children
That we must shew our favour by?

Duchess.
His noble disposition and his manners—

Wallenstein.
Win him my heart, but not my daughter.

Duchess.
Then
His rank, his ancestors—

Wallenstein.
Ancestors! What?
He is a subject, and my son-in-law
I will seek out upon the thrones of Europe.

Duchess.
O dearest Albrecht! Climb we not too high,
Lest we should fall too low.

Wallenstein.
What? have I paid
A price so heavy to ascend this eminence,
And jut out high above the common herd,
Only to close the mighty part I play
In Life's great drama, with a common kinsman?
Have I for this— [pause.]
She is the only thing
That will remain behind of me on earth;
And I will see a crown around her head,
Or die in the attempt to place it there.
I hazard all—all! and for this alone,
To lift her into greatness—
Yea, in this moment, in the which we are speaking—
[pause.
And I must now, like a soft-hearted father,
Couple together in good peasant fashion
The pair, that chance to suit each other's liking—
And I must do it now, even now, when I
Am stretching out the wreath that is to twine
My full accomplished work—no! she is the jewel,
Which I have treasured long, my last, my noblest,
And 'tis my purpose not to let her from me
For less than a king's sceptre.

Duchess.
O my husband!
You're ever building, building to the clouds,
Still building higher, and still higher building,
And ne'er reflect, that the poor narrow basis
Cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.

Wallenstein
(to the Countess).
Have you announced the place of residence
Which I have destined for her?

Countess.
No! not yet.
'Twere better you yourself disclosed it to her.

Duchess.
How? Do we not return to Karn then?

Wallenstein.
No.

Duchess.
And to no other of your lands or seats?

Wallenstein.
You would not be secure there.

Duchess.
Not secure
In the Emperor's realms, beneath the Emperor's
Protection?

Wallenstein.
Friedland's wife may be permitted
No longer to hope that.

Duchess.
O God in heaven!
And have you brought it even to this?

Wallenstein.
In Holland
You'll find protection.

Duchess.
In a Lutheran country?
What? And you send us into Lutheran countries?

Wallenstein.
Duke Franz of Lauenburg conducts you thither.

Duchess.
Duke Franz of Lauenburg?
The ally of Sweden, the Emperor's enemy.

Wallenstein.
The Emperor's enemies are mine no longer.

Duchess
(casting a look of terror on the Duke and the Countess).
Is it then true? It is. You are degraded?
Deposed from the command? O God in heaven!

Countess
(aside to the Duke).
Leave her in this belief. Thou seest she cannot
Support the real truth.

Scene V

To them enter Count Tertsky.
Countess.
—Tertsky!
What ails him? What an image of affright!
He looks as he had seen a ghost.

Tertsky
(leading Wallenstein aside).
Is it thy command that all the Croats—

Wallenstein.
Mine!

Tertsky.
We are betrayed.

Wallenstein.
What?

Tertsky.
They are off! This night
The Jägers likewise—all the villages
In the whole round are empty.

Wallenstein.
Isolani?

Tertsky.
Him thou hast sent away. Yes, surely.

Wallenstein.
I?

Tertsky.
No! Hast thou not sent him off? Nor Deodate?
They are vanished both of them.

Scene VI

To them enter Illo.
Illo.
Has Tertsky told thee?

Tertsky.
He knows all.

Illo.
And likewise
That Esterhatzy, Goetz, Maradas, Kaunitz,
Kolatto, Palfi, have forsaken thee?

Tertsky.
Damnation!

Wallenstein
(winks at them).
Hush!

Countess
(who has been watching them anxiously from the distance and now advances to them).
Tertsky! Heaven! What is it? What has happened?

Wallenstein
(scarcely suppressing his emotions).
Nothing! let us be gone!

Tertsky
(following him).
Theresa, it is nothing.

Countess
(holding him back).
Nothing? Do I not see, that all the lifeblood
Has left your cheeks—look you not like a ghost?
That even my brother but affects a calmness?

Page
(enters).
An Aid-de-Camp enquires for the Count Tertsky.

[Tertsky follows the Page.
Wallenstein.
[To Illo.

Illo.
'Twas Tiefenbach.

Wallenstein.
[Illo is going.

Illo.
Him I met.
He will be here himself immediately.
Butler remains unshaken.

[Illo exit. Wallenstein is following him.
Countess.
Let him not leave thee, sister! go, detain him!
There's some misfortune.

Duchess
(clinging to him).
Gracious heaven! What is it?

Wallenstein.
Be tranquil! leave me, sister! dearest wife!
We are in camp, and this is nought unusual;
Here storm and sunshine follow one another
With rapid interchanges. These fierce spirits
Champ the curb angrily, and never yet
Did quiet bless the temples of the leader.
If I am to stay, go you. The plaints of women
Ill suit the scene where men must act.

[He is going: Tertsky returns.
Tertsky.
Remain here. From this window must we see it.

Wallenstein
(to the Countess).
Sister, retire!

Countess.
No—never.

Wallenstein.
'Tis my will.

Tertsky
(leads the Countess aside, and drawing her attention to the Duchess).
Theresa!

Duchess.
Sister, come! since he commands it.

Scene VII

Wallenstein, Tertsky.
Wallenstein
(stepping to the window).
What now, then?

Tertsky.
There are strange movements among all the troops,
And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,
With gloomy silentness, the several corps
Marshal themselves, each under its own banners.
Tiefenbach's corps makes threatening movements; only
The Pappenheimers still remain aloof
In their own quarters, and let no one enter.

Wallenstein.
Does Piccolomini appear among them?

Tertsky.
We are seeking him: he is no where to be met with.

Wallenstein.
What did the Aid-de-Camp deliver to you?

Tertsky.
My regiments had dispatched him; yet once more
They swear fidelity to thee, and wait
The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager.

Wallenstein.
But whence arose this larum in the camp?
It should have been kept secret from the army,
Till fortune had decided for us at Prague.

Tertsky.
O that thou hadst believed me! Yester evening
Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker,
That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen.
Thou gav'st him thy own horses to flee from thee.

Wallenstein.
The old tune still! Now, once for all, no more
Of this suspicion—it is doting folly.

Tertsky.
Thou did'st confide in Isolani too;
And lo! he was the first that did desert thee.

Wallenstein.
It was but yesterday I rescued him
From abject wretchedness. Let that go by.
I never reckon'd yet on gratitude.
And wherein doth he wrong in going from me?
He follows still the god whom all his life
He has worshipped at the gaming table. With
My Fortune, and my seeming destiny,
He made the bond, and broke it not with me.
I am but the ship in which his hopes were stowed,
And with the which well-pleased and confident
He traversed the open sea; now he beholds it
In imminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks,
And hurries to preserve his wares. As light
As the free bird from the hospitable twig
Where it had nested, he flies off from me:
No human tie is snapped betwixt us two.
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead,
Nought sinks into the bosom's silent depth:
Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
Warmeth the inner frame.

Tertsky.
Yet, would I rather
Trust the smooth brow than that deep furrowed one.

Scene VIII

Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo.
Illo.
Treason and mutiny!

Tertsky.
And what further now?

Illo.
Tiefenbach's soldiers, when I gave the orders
To go off guard—Mutinous villains!

Tertsky.
Well!

Wallenstein.
What followed?

Illo.
They refused obedience to them.

Tertsky.
Fire on them instantly! Give out the order.

Wallenstein.
Gently! what cause did they assign?

Illo.
No other,
They said, had right to issue orders but
Lieutenant-General Piccolomini.

Wallenstein.
What? How is that?

Illo.
He takes that office on him by commission,
Under sign-manual of the Emperor.

Tertsky.
From the Emperor—hear'st thou, Duke?

Illo.
At his incitement
The Generals made that stealthy flight—

Tertsky.
Duke! hearest thou?

Illo.
Caraffa too, and Montecuculi,
Are missing, with six other Generals,
All whom he had induced to follow him.
This plot he has long had in writing by him
From the Emperor; but 'twas finally concluded
With all the detail of the operation
Some days ago with the Envoy Questenberg.

[Wallenstein sinks down into a chair and covers his face.
Tertsky.
O hadst thou but believed me!

Scene IX

To them enter the Countess.
Countess.
This suspense,
This horrid fear—I can no longer bear it.
For heaven's sake, tell me, what has taken place.

Illo.
The regiments are all falling off from us.

Tertsky.
Octavio Piccolomini is a traitor.

Countess.
O my foreboding!

[Rushes out of the room.
Tertsky.
Hadst thou but believed me!
Now seest thou how the stars have lied to thee.

Wallenstein.
The stars lie not; but we have here a work
Wrought counter to the stars and destiny.
The science is still honest: this false heart
Forces a lie on the truth-telling heaven.
On a divine law divination rests;
Where nature deviates from that law, and stumbles
Out of her limits, there all science errs.
True, I did not suspect! Were it superstition
Never by such suspicion t' have affronted
The human form, O may that time ne'er come
In which I shame me of the infirmity.
The wildest savage drinks not with the victim
Into whose breast he means to plunge the sword.
This, this, Octavio, was no hero's deed:
'Twas not thy prudence that did conquer mine;
A bad heart triumphed o'er an honest one.
No shield received the assassin stroke; thou plungest
Thy weapon on an unprotected breast—
Against such weapons I am but a child.

Scene X

To these enter Butler.
Tertsky
(meeting him).
O look there! Butler! Here we've still a friend!

Wallenstein
(meets him with outspread arms, and embraces him with warmth).
Come to my heart, old comrade! Not the sun
Looks out upon us more revivingly
In the earliest month of spring,
Than a friend's countenance in such an hour.

Butler.
My General: I come—

Wallenstein
(leaning on Butler's shoulders).
Know'st thou already?
That old man has betrayed me to the Emperor.
What say'st thou? Thirty years have we together
Lived out, and held out, sharing joy and hardship.
We have slept in one camp-bed, drunk from one glass,
One morsel shared! I leaned myself on him,
As now I lean me on thy faithful shoulder.
And now in the very moment, when, all love,
All confidence, my bosom beat to his,
He sees and takes the advantage, stabs the knife
Slowly into my heart.

[He hides his face on Butler's breast.
Butler.
Forget the false one.
What is your present purpose?

Wallenstein.
Well remembered!
Courage my soul! I am still rich in friends,
Still loved by Destiny; for in the moment,
That it unmasks the plotting hypocrite,
It sends and proves to me one faithful heart.
Of the hypocrite no more! Think not, his loss
Was that which struck the pang: O no! his treason
Is that which strikes this pang! No more of him!
Dear to my heart, and honoured were they both,
And the young man—yes—he did truly love me,
He—he—has not deceived me. But enough,
Enough of this—Swift counsel now beseems us.
The Courier, whom Count Kinsky sent from Prague
I expect him every moment: and whatever
He may bring with him, we must take good care
To keep it from the mutineers. Quick, then!
Dispatch some messenger you can rely on
To meet him, and conduct him to me.

[Illo is going.
Butler
(detaining him).
My General, whom expect you then?

Wallenstein.
The Courier
Who brings me word of the event at Prague.

Butler
(hesitating).
Hem!

Wallenstein.
And what now?

Butler.
You do not know it?

Wallenstein.
Well?

Butler.
From what that larum in the camp arose?

Wallenstein.
From what?

Butler.
That Courier.

Wallenstein.
Well?

Butler.
Is already here.

Tertsky and Illo
(at the same time).
Already here?

Wallenstein.
My Courier?

Butler.
For some hours.

Wallenstein.
And I not know it?

Butler.
The centinels detain him
In custody.

Illo.
Damnation!

Butler.
And his letter
Was broken open, and is circulated
Through the whole camp.

Wallenstein.
You know what it contains?

Butler.
Question me not.

Tertsky.
Illo! alas for us.

Wallenstein.
Hide nothing from me—I can hear the worst.
Prague then is lost. It is. Confess it freely.

Butler.
Yes! Prague is lost. And all the several regiments
At Budweiss, Tabor, Brannau, Konigingratz,
At Brun and Znaym, have forsaken you,
And ta'en the oaths of fealty anew
To the Emperor. Yourself, with Kinsky, Tertsky,
And Illo have been sentenced.

[Tertsky and Illo express alarm and fury. Wallenstein remains firm and collected.
Wallenstein.
'Tis decided!
'Tis well! I have received a sudden cure
From all the pangs of doubt: with steady stream
Once more my life-blood flows! My soul's secure!
In the night only Friedland's stars can beam.
Lingering irresolute, with fitful fears
I drew the sword—'twas with an inward strife,
While yet the choice was mine. The murderous knife
Is lifted for my heart! Doubt disappears!
I fight now for my head and for my life.

[Exit Wallenstein; the others follow him.

Scene XI

Countess Tertsky
(enters from a side room).
[Looks around her.

Scene XII

Countess, Duchess, Thekla.
Thekla
(endeavouring to hold back the Duchess).
Dear mother, do stay here!

Duchess.
No! Here is yet
Some frightful mystery that is hidden from me.
Why does my sister shun me? Don't I see her
Full of suspense and anguish roam about
From room to room?—Art thou not full of terror?
And what import these silent nods and gestures
Which stealthwise thou exchangest with her?

Thekla.
Nothing:
Nothing, dear Mother!

Duchess
(to the Countess).
Sister, I will know.

Countess.
What boots it now to hide it from her? Sooner
Or later she must learn to hear and bear it.
'Tis not the time now to indulge infirmity,
Courage beseems us now, a heart collected,
And exercise and previous discipline
Of fortitude. One word, and over with it!
Sister, you are deluded. You believe,
The Duke has been deposed—The Duke is not
Deposed—he is—

Thekla
(going to the Countess).
What? do you wish to kill her?

Countess.
The Duke is—

Thekla
(throwing her arms round her mother).
O stand firm! stand firm, my mother!

Countess.
Revolted is the Duke, he is preparing
To join the enemy, the army leave him,
And all has failed.

ACT II

Scene I

Scene—A spacious Room in the Duke of Friedland's Palace.
Wallensten
(in armour).
(Illo and Tertsky enter.)

Scene II

Wallenstein, Illo, Tertsky. (To them enter Neumann, who leads Tertsky aside, and talks with him.)
Tertsky.
What do they want?

Wallenstein.
What now?

Tertsky.
Ten Cuirassiers
From Pappenheim request leave to address you
In the name of the regiment.

Wallenstein
(hastily to Neumann).
Let them enter.
[Exit Neumann.
This
May end in something. Mark you. They are still
Doubtful, and may be won.

Scene III

Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo, Ten Cuirassiers (led by an Anspessade, march up and arrange themselves, after the word of command, in one front before the Duke, and make their obeisance. He takes his hat off, and immediately covers himself again).
Anspessade.

Halt! Front! Present!

Wallenstein
(after he has run through them with his eye, to the Anspessade).

I know thee well. Thou art out of Brüggin in Flanders: Thy name is Mercy.

Anspessade.

Henry Mercy.

Wallenstein.

Thou wert cut off on the march. surrounded by the Hessians, and didst fight thy way with a hundred and eighty men through their thousand.

Anspessade.

'Twas even so, General!

Wallenstein.

What reward hadst thou for this gallant exploit?

Anspessade.

That which I asked for: the honour to serve in this corps.

Wallenstein
(turning to a second).

Thou wert among the

volunteers that seized and made booty of the Swedish battery at Altenburg.

Second Cuirassier.

Yes, General!

Wallenstein.

I forget no one with whom I have exchanged words. (A pause).
Who sends you?

Anspessade.

Your noble regiment, the Cuirassiers of Piccolomini.

Wallenstein.

Why does not your colonel deliver in your request, according to the custom of service?

Anspessade.

Because we would first know whom we serve.

Wallenstein.

Begin your address.

Anspessade
(giving the word of command).

Shoulder your arms!

Wallenstein
(turning to a third).

Thy name is Risbeck, Cologne is thy birthplace.

Third Cuirassier.

Risbeck of Cologne.

Wallenstein.

It was thou that broughtest in the Swedish colonel, Diebald, prisoner, in the camp at Nuremberg.

Third Cuirassier.

It was not I, General!

Wallenstein.

Perfectly right! It was thy elder brother: thou hadst a younger brother too: Where did he stay?

Third Cuirassier.

He is stationed at Olmutz with the Imperial army.

Wallenstein
(to the Anspessade).

Now then—begin.

Anspessade.
There came to hand a letter from the Emperor
Commanding us—

Wallenstein.
Who chose you?

Anspessade.
Every company
Drew its own man by lot.

Wallenstein.
Now! to the business.

Anspessade.
There came to hand a letter from the Emperor
Commanding us collectively, from thee
All duties of obedience to withdraw,
Because thou wert an enemy and traitor.

Wallenstein.
And what did you determine?

Anspessade.
All our comrades
At Brannau, Budweiss, Prague and Olmutz, have
Obeyed already, and the regiments here,
Tiefenbach and Toscana, instantly
Did follow their example. But—but we
Do not believe that thou art an enemy
And traitor to thy country, hold it merely
For lie and trick, and a trumped-up Spanish story!
Thyself shalt tell us what thy purpose is,
For we have found thee still sincere and true:
No mouth shall interpose itself betwixt
The gallant General and the gallant troops.

Wallenstein.
Therein I recognize my Pappenheimers.

Anspessade.
And this proposal makes thy regiment to thee:
Is it thy purpose merely to preserve
In thy own hands this military sceptre,
Which so becomes thee, which the Emperor
Made over to thee by a covenant?
Is it thy purpose merely to remain
Supreme commander of the Austrian armies?—
We will stand by thee, General! and guarantee
Thy honest rights against all opposition.
And should it chance, that all the other regiments
Turn from thee, by ourselves will we stand forth
Thy faithful soldiers, and, as is our duty,
Far rather let ourselves be cut to pieces,
Than suffer thee to fall. But if it be
As the Emperor's letter says, if it be true,
That thou in traitorous wise wilt lead us over
To the enemy, which God in heaven forbid!
Then we too will forsake thee, and obey
That letter—

Wallenstein.
Hear me, children!

Anspessade.
Yes, or no!
There needs no other answer.

Wallenstein.
Yield attention.
You're men of sense, examine for yourselves;
Ye think, and do not follow with the herd:
And therefore have I always shewn you honour
Above all others, suffered you to reason;
Have treated you as free men, and my orders
Were but the echoes of your prior suffrage.—

Anspessade.
Most fair and noble has thy conduct been
To us, my General! With thy confidence
Thou hast honoured us, and shewn us grace and favour
Beyond all other regiments; and thou seest
We follow not the common herd. We will
Stand by thee faithfully. Speak but one word—
Thy word shall satisfy us, that it is not
A treason which thou meditatest—that
Thou meanest not to lead the army over
To the enemy; nor e'er betray thy country.

Wallenstein.
Me, me are they betraying. The Emperor
Hath sacrificed me to my enemies,
And I must fall, unless my gallant troops
Will rescue me. See! I confide in you.
And be your hearts my strong hold! At this breast
The aim is taken, at this hoary head.
This is your Spanish gratitude, this is our
Requital for that murderous fight at Lutzen!
For this we threw the naked breast against
The halbert, made for this the frozen earth
Our bed, and the hard stone our pillow! never stream
Too rapid for us, nor wood too impervious:
With cheerful spirit we pursued that Mansfield
Through all the turns and windings of his flight;
Yea, our whole life was but one restless march;
And homeless, as the stirring wind, we travelled
O'er the war-wasted earth. And now, even now,
That we have well-nigh finished the hard toil,
The unthankful, the curse-laden toil of weapons,
With faithful indefatigable arm
Have rolled the heavy war-load up the hill,
Behold! this boy of the Emperor's bears away
The honours of the peace, an easy prize!
He'll weave, forsooth, into his flaxen locks
The olive branch, the hard-earn'd ornament
Of this grey head, grown grey beneath the helmet.

Anspessade.
That shall he not, while we can hinder it!
No one, but thou, who hast conducted it
With fame, shall end this war, this frightful war.
Thou led'st us out into the bloody field
Of death, thou and no other shalt conduct us home,
Rejoicing, to the lovely plains of peace—
Shalt share with us the fruits of the long toil—

Wallenstein.
[The Cuirassiers express agitation by their gestures.

Anspessade.
'Tis then but mere appearances which thou
Dost put on with the Swede? Thou'lt not betray
The Emperor? Wilt not turn us into Swedes?
This is the only thing which we desire
To learn from thee.

Wallenstein.
What care I for the Swedes?
I hate them as I hate the pit of hell,
And under Providence I trust right soon
To chase them to their homes across their Baltic.
My cares are only for the whole: I have
A heart—it bleeds within me for the miseries
And piteous groaning of my fellow-Germans.
Ye are but common men, but yet ye think
With minds not common; ye appear to me
Worthy before all others, that I whisper ye
A little word or two in confidence!
See now! already for full fifteen years
The war-torch has continued burning, yet
No rest, no pause of conflict. Swede and German,
Papist and Lutheran! neither will give way
To the other, every hand's against the other.
Each one is party and no one a judge.
Where shall this end? Where's he that will unravel
This tangle, ever tangling more and more.
It must be cut asunder.
I feel that I am the man of destiny,
And trust, with your assistance, to accomplish it.

Scene IV

To these enter Butler.
Butler
(passionately).
General! This is not right!

Wallenstein.
What is not right?

Butler.
It must needs injure us with all honest men.

Wallenstein.
But what?

Butler.
It is an open proclamation
Of insurrection.

Wallenstein.
Well, well—but what is it?

Butler.
Count Tertsky's regiments tear the Imperial Eagle
From off the banners, and instead of it,
Have reared aloft thy arms.

Anspessade
(abruptly to the Cuirassiers).
Right about! March!

Wallenstein.
Cursed be this counsel, and accursed who gave it!
[To the Cuirassiers, who are retiring.
Halt, children, halt! There's some mistake in this;
Hark!—I will punish it severely. Stop!
They do not hear. (To Illo.)
Go after them, assure them,
And bring them back to me, cost what it may.
[Illo hurries out.
This hurls us headlong. Butler! Butler!
You are my evil genius, wherefore must you
Announce it in their presence? It was all
In a fair way. They were half won, those madmen
With their improvident over-readiness—
A cruel game is fortune playing with me.
The zeal of friends it is that razes me,
And not the hate of enemies.

Scene V

To these enter the Duchess, who rushes into the Chamber. Thekla and the Countess follow her.
Duchess.
O Albrecht!
What hast thou done?

Wallenstein.
And now comes this beside.

Countess.
Forgive me, brother! It was not in my power.
They know all.

Duchess.
What hast thou done?

Countess
(to Tertsky).
Is there no hope? Is all lost utterly?

Tertsky.
All lost. No hope. Prague in the Emperor's hands,
The soldiery have ta'en their oaths anew.

Countess.
That lurking hypocrite. Octavio!
Count Max is off too?

Tertsky.
Where can he be? He's
Gone over to the Emperor with his father.

[Thekla rushes out into the arms of her mother, hiding her face in her bosom.
Duchess
(enfolding her in her arms).
Unhappy child! and more unhappy mother!

Wallenstein
(aside to Tertsky).
Quick! Let a carriage stand in readiness
In the court behind the palace. Scherfenberg
Be their attendant; he is faithful to us;
To Egra he'll conduct them, and we follow.
[To Illo, who returns.
Thou hast not brought them back?

Illo.
Hear'st thou the uproar?
The whole corps of the Pappenheimers is
Drawn out: the younger Piccolomini,
Their colonel, they require; for they affirm,
That he is in the palace here, a prisoner;
And if thou dost not instantly deliver him,
They will find means to free him with the sword.

Tertsky.
What shall we make of this?

Wallenstein.
Said I not so?
O my prophetic heart! he is still here.
He has not betrayed me—he could not betray me.
I never doubted of it.

Countess.
If he be
Still here, then all goes well; for I know what
[Embracing Thekla.
Will keep him here for ever.

Tertsky.
It can't be.
His father has betrayed us, is gone over
To the Emperor—the son could not have ventured
To stay behind.

Thekla
(her eye fixed on the door).
There he is!

Scene VI

To these enter Max Piccolomini.
Max.
Yes! here he is! I can endure no longer
To creep on tiptoe round this house, and lurk
In ambush for a favourable moment.
This loitering, this suspense exceeds my powers.
[Advancing to Thekla.
Turn not thine eyes away. O look upon me!
Confess it freely before all. Fear no one,
Let who will hear that we both love each other.
Wherefore continue to conceal it? Secrecy
Is for the happy—misery, hopeless misery,
Needeth no veil! Beneath a thousand suns
It dares act openly.
[He observes the Countess looking on Thekla with expressions of triumph.
No, Lady! No!
Expect not, hope it not. I am not come
To stay: to bid farewell, farewell for ever.
For this I come! 'Tis over! I must leave thee!
Thekla, I must—must leave thee! Yet thy hatred
Let me not take with me. I pray thee, grant me
One look of sympathy, only one look.
Say that thou dost not hate me. Say it to me, Thekla!
[Grasps her hand.
O God! I cannot leave this spot—I cannot!
Cannot let go this hand. O tell me, Thekla!
That thou dost suffer with me, art convinced
That I cannot act otherwise.
[Thekla, avoiding his look, points with her hand to her father. Max turns round to the Duke, whom he had not till then perceived.
Thou here? It was not thou, whom here I sought.
I trusted never more to have beheld thee.
My business is with her alone. Here will I
Receive a full acquittal from this heart—
For any other I am no more concerned.

Wallenstein.
Think'st thou, that fool-like, I shall let thee go,
And act the mock-magnanimous with thee?
Thy father is become a villain to me;
I hold thee for his son, and nothing more:
Nor to no purpose shalt thou have been given
Into my power. Think not, that I will honour
That ancient love, which so remorselessly
He mangled. They are now past by, those hours
Of friendship and forgiveness. Hate and vengeance
Succeed—'tis now their turn—I too can throw
All feelings of the man aside—can prove
Myself as much a monster as thy father!

Max.
Thou wilt proceed with me, as thou hast power.
Thou know'st, I neither brave nor fear thy rage.
What has detained me here, that too thou know'st.
[Taking Thekla by the hand.
See, Duke! All—all would I have owed to thee,
Would have received from thy paternal hand
The lot of blessed spirits. This hast thou
Laid waste for ever—that concerns not thee.
Indifferent thou tramplest in the dust
Their happiness, who most are thine. The god
Whom thou dost serve, is no benignant deity.
Like as the blind irreconcileable
Fierce element, incapable of compact,
Thy heart's wild impulse only dost thou follow.

Wallenstein.
Thou art describing thy own father's heart.
The adder! O, the charms of hell o'erpowered me.
He dwelt within me, to my inmost soul
Still to and fro he passed, suspected never!
On the wide ocean, in the starry heaven
Did mine eyes seek the enemy, whom I
In my heart's heart had folded! Had I been
To Ferdinand what Octavio was to me,
War had I ne'er denounced against him. No,
I never could have done it. The Emperor was
My austere master only, not my friend.
There was already war 'twixt him and me
When he delivered the Commander's Staff
Into my hands; for there's a natural
Unceasing war 'twixt cunning and suspicion;
Peace exists only betwixt confidence
And faith. Who poisons confidence, he murders
The future generations.

Max.

Wallenstein.
Max, remain with me.
Go you not from me, Max! Hark! I will tell thee—
How when at Prague, our winter quarters, thou
Wert brought into my tent a tender boy,
Not yet accustomed to the German winters;
Thy hand was frozen to the heavy colours;
Thou would'st not let them go.—
At that time did I take thee in my arms,
And with my mantle did I cover thee;
I was thy nurse, no woman could have been
A kinder to thee; I was not ashamed
To do for thee all little offices,
However strange to me; I tended thee
Till life returned; and when thine eyes first opened,
I had thee in my arms. Since then, when have I
Altered my feelings towards thee? Many thousands
Have I made rich, presented them with lands;
Rewarded them with dignities and honours;
Thee have I loved: my heart, my self, I gave
To thee! They all were aliens: thou wert
Our child and inmate. Max! Thou canst not leave me;
It cannot be; I may not, will not think
That Max can leave me.

Max.
O my God!

Wallenstein.
I have
Held and sustained thee from thy tottering childhood.
What holy bond is there of natural love?
What human tie, that does not knit thee to me?
I love thee, Max! What did thy father for thee,
Which I too have not done, to the height of duty?
Go hence, forsake me, serve thy Emperor;
He will reward thee with a pretty chain
Of gold; with his ram's fleece will he reward thee;
For that the friend, the father of thy youth,
For that the holiest feeling of humanity,
Was nothing worth to thee.

Max.
O God! how can I
Do otherwise? Am I not forced to do it?
My oath—my duty—honour—

Wallenstein.
How? Thy duty?
Duty to whom? Who art thou? Max! bethink thee
What duties may'st thou have? If I am acting
A criminal part toward the Emperor,
It is my crime, not thine. Dost thou belong
To thine own self? Art thou thine own commander?
Stand'st thou, like me, a freeman in the world,
That in thy actions thou should'st plead free agency?
On me thou'rt planted, I am thy Emperor;
To obey me, to belong to me, this is
Thy honour, this a law of nature to thee!
And if the planet, on the which thou liv'st
And hast thy dwelling, from its orbit starts,
It is not in thy choice, whether or no
Thou'lt follow it. Unfelt it whirls thee onward
Together with his ring and all his moons.
With little guilt stepp'st thou into this contest,
Thee will the world not censure, it will praise thee,
For that thou heldst thy friend more worth to thee
Than names and influences more removed.
For justice is the virtue of the ruler,
Affection and fidelity the subject's.
Not every one doth it beseem to question
The far-off high Arcturus. Most securely
Wilt thou pursue the nearest duty—let
The pilot fix his eye upon the pole-star.

Scene VII

To these enter Neumann.
Wallenstein.
What now?

Neumann.
The Pappenheimers are dismounted,
And are advancing now on foot, determined
With sword in hand to storm the house, and free
The Count, their colonel.

Wallenstein
(to Tertsky).
Have the cannon planted.
I will receive them with chain-shot.
[Exit Tertsky.
Prescribe to me with sword in hand! Go, Neumann!
'Tis my command that they retreat this moment,
And in their ranks in silence wait my pleasure.

[Neumann exit. Illo steps to the window.
Countess.
Let him go, I entreat thee, let him go.

Illo
(at the window).
Hell and perdition!

Wallenstein.
What is it?

Illo.
They scale the council-house, the roof's uncovered.
They level at this house the cannon—

Max.
Madmen!

Illo.
They are making preparations now to fire on us.

Duchess and Countess.
Merciful Heaven!

Max
(to Wallenstein).
Let me go to them!

Wallenstein.
Not a step!

Max
(pointing to Thekla and the Duchess).
But their life! Thine!

Wallenstein.
What tidings bring'st thou, Tertsky?

Scene VIII

To these Tertsky (returning).
Tertsky.
Message and greeting from our faithful regiments.
Their ardour may no longer be curbed in.
They intreat permission to commence the attack,
And if thou would'st but give the word of onset,
They could now charge the enemy in rear,
Into the city wedge them, and with ease
O'erpower them in the narrow streets.

Illo.
O come!
Let not their ardour cool. The soldiery
Of Butler's corps stand by us faithfully;
We are the greater number. Let us charge them,
And finish here in Pilsen the revolt.

Wallenstein.
[Turns to Max.

Countess.
Is it then,
Can it have come to this?—What! Cousin, Cousin!
Have you the heart?

Max.
The regiments that are trusted to my care
I have pledged my troth to bring away from Pilsen
True to the Emperor, and this promise will I
Make good, or perish. More than this no duty
Requires of me. I will not fight against thee,
Unless compelled; for though an enemy,
Thy head is holy to me still.

[Two reports of cannon. Illo and Tertsky hurry to the window.
Wallenstein.
What's that?

Tertsky.
He falls.

Wallenstein.
Falls! Who?

Illo.
Tiefenbach's corps
Discharged the ordnance.

Wallenstein.
Upon whom?

Illo.
On Neumann,
Your messenger.

Wallenstein
(starting up).
Ha! Death and hell! I will—

Tertsky.
Expose thyself to their blind frenzy?

Duchess and Countess.
No!
For God's sake, no!

Illo.
Not yet, my General!

Countess.
O, hold him! hold him!

Wallenstein.
Leave me—

Max.
Do it not
Not yet! This rash and bloody deed has thrown them
Into a frenzy-fit—allow them time—

Wallenstein.
Away! too long already have I loitered.
They are emboldened to these outrages,
Beholding not my face. They shall behold
My countenance, shall hear my voice—
Are they not my troops? Am I not their General,
And their long-feared commander? Let me see,
Whether indeed they do no longer know
That countenance, which was their sun in battle!
From the balcony (mark!) I shew myself
To these rebellious forces, and at once
Revolt is mounded, and the high-swoln current
Shrinks back into the old bed of obedience.

[Exit Wallenstein; Illo, Tertsky, and Butler follow.

Scene IX

Countess, Duchess, Max, and Thekla.
Countess
(to the Duchess).
Let them but see him—there is hope still, sister.

Duchess.
Hope! I have none!

Max
(who during the last scene has been standing at a distance advances).
This can I not endure.
With most determined soul did I come hither,
My purposed action seemed unblameable
To my own conscience—and I must stand here
Like one abhorred, a hard inhuman being;
Yea, loaded with the curse of all I love!
Must see all whom I love in this sore anguish,
Whom I with one word can make happy—O!
My heart revolts within me, and two voices
Make themselves audible within my bosom.
My soul's benighted; I no longer can
Distinguish the right track. O, well and truly
Didst thou say, father, I relied too much
On my own heart. My mind moves to and fro—
I know not what to do.

Countess.
What! you know not?
Does not your own heart tell you? O! then I
Will tell it you. Your father is a traitor,
A frightful traitor to us—he has plotted
Against our General's life, has plunged us all
In misery—and you're his son! 'Tis yours
To make the amends—Make you the son's fidelity
Outweigh the father's treason, that the name
Of Piccolomini be not a proverb
Of infamy, a common form of cursing
To the posterity of Wallenstein.

Max.
Where is that voice of truth which I dare follow?
It speaks no longer in my heart. We all
But utter what our passionate wishes dictate:
O that an angel would descend from Heaven,
And scoop for me the right, the uncorrupted,
With a pure hand from the pure Fount of Light.
[His eyes glance on Thekla.
What other angel seek I? To this heart,
To this unerring heart, will I submit it,
Will ask thy love, which has the power to bless
The happy man alone, averted ever
From the disquieted and guilty—canst thou
Still love me, if I stay? Say that thou canst,
And I am the Duke's—

Countess.
Think, niece—

Max.
Think nothing, Thekla!
Speak what thou feelest.

Countess.
Think upon your father.

Max.
I did not question thee, as Friedland's daughter.
Thee, the beloved and the unerring god
Within thy heart, I question. What's at stake?
Not whether diadem of royalty
Be to be won or not—that might'st thou think on.
Thy friend, and his soul's quiet, are at stake;
The fortune of a thousand gallant men,
Who will all follow me; shall I forswear
My oath and duty to the Emperor?
Say, shall I send into Octavio's camp
The parricidal ball? For when the ball
Has left its cannon, and is on its flight,
It is no longer a dead instrument!
It lives, a spirit passes into it,
The avenging furies seize possession of it,
And with sure malice guide it the worst way.

Thekla.
O! Max—

Max.
Nay, not precipitately either, Thekla.
I understand thee. To thy noble heart
The hardest duty might appear the highest.
The human, not the great part, would I act.
Ev'n from my childhood to this present hour,
Think what the Duke has done for me, how loved me,
And think too, how my father has repaid him.
O likewise the free lovely impulses
Of hospitality, the pious friend's
Faithful attachment, these too are a holy
Religion to the heart; and heavily
The shudderings of nature do avenge
Themselves on the barbarian that insults them.
Lay all upon the balance, all—then speak,
And let thy heart decide it.

Thekla.
O, thy own
Hath long ago decided. Follow thou
Thy heart's first feeling—

Countess
Oh! ill-fated woman!

Thekla.
Is it possible, that that can be the right,
The which thy tender heart did not at first
Detect and seize with instant impulse? Go,
Fulfil thy duty! I should ever love thee.
Whate'er thou had'st chosen, thou would'st still have acted
Nobly and worthy of thee—but repentance
Shall ne'er disturb thy soul's fair peace.

Max.
Then I
Must leave thee, must part from thee!

Thekla.
Being faithful
To thine own self, thou art faithful too to me:
If our fates part, our hearts remain united.
A bloody hatred will divide for ever
The houses Piccolomini and Friedland;
But we belong not to our houses—Go!
Quick! quick! and separate thy righteous cause
From our unholy and unblessed one!
The curse of heaven lies upon our head:
'Tis dedicate to ruin. Even me
My father's guilt drags with it to perdition.
Mourn not for me:
My destiny will quickly be decided.

[Max clasps her in his arms. There is heard from behind the Scene a loud, wild, long continued cry, ‘Vivat Ferdinandus,’ accompanied by warlike instruments.

Scene X

To these enter Tertsky.
Countess
(meeting him).
What meant that cry? What was it?

Tertsky.
All is lost!

Countess.
What! they regarded not his countenance?

Tertsky.
'Twas all in vain.

Duchess.
They shouted Vivat!

Tertsky.
To the Emperor.

Countess.
The traitors!

Tertsky.
Nay! he was not once permitted
Even to address them. Soon as he began,
With deafening noise of warlike instruments
They drowned his words. But here he comes.

Scene XI

To these enter Wallenstein, accompanied by Illo and Butler.
Wallenstein
(as he enters).
Tertsky!

Tertsky.
My General?

Wallenstein.
[Exit Tertsky.

Butler.
Yes, my General.

Wallenstein.
The Governor at Egra is your friend
And countryman. Write to him instantly
By a Post Courier. He must be advised,
That we are with him early on the morrow.
You follow us yourself, your regiment with you.

Butler.
It shall be done, my General!

Wallenstein
(steps between Max and Thekla).
Part!

Max.
O God!

[Cuirassiers enter with drawn swords, and assemble in

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763

the back-ground. At the same time there are heard from below some spirited passages out of the Pappenheim March, which seem to address Max.
Wallenstein
(to the Cuirassiers).
Here he is, he is at liberty: I keep him
No longer.

[He turns away, and stands so that Max cannot pass by him nor approach the Princess.
Max.
Thou know'st that I have not yet learnt to live
Without thee! I go forth into a desert,
Leaving my all behind me. O do not turn
Thine eyes away from me! O once more shew me
Thy ever dear and honoured countenance.
[Max attempts to take his hand, but is repelled; he turns to the Countess.
Is there no eye that has a look of pity for me?
[The Countess turns away from him; he turns to the Duchess.
My mother!

Duchess.
Go where duty calls you. Haply
The time may come, when you may prove to us
A true friend, a good angel at the throne
Of the Emperor.

Max.
You give me hope; you would not
Suffer me wholly to despair. No! No!
Mine is a certain misery—Thanks to heaven
That offers me a means of ending it.
[The military music begins again. The stage fills more and more with armed men. Max sees Butler, and addresses him.
And you here, Colonel Butler—and will you
Not follow me? Well, then! remain more faithful
To your new lord, than you have proved yourself
To the Emperor. Come, Butler! promise me,
Give me your hand upon it, that you'll be
The guardian of his life, its shield, its watchman.
He is attainted, and his princely head
Fair booty for each slave that trades in murder.
Now he doth need the faithful eye of friendship,
And those whom here I see—

[Casting suspicious looks on Illo and Butler.
Illo.
Go—seek for traitors
In Galas, in your father's quarters. Here
Is only one. Away! away! and free us
From his detested sight! Away!

[Max attempts once more to approach Thekla. Wallenstein prevents him. Max stands irresolute, and in apparent anguish. In the mean time the stage fills more and more; and the horns sound from below louder and louder, and each time after a shorter interval.
Max.
Blow, blow! O were it but the Swedish Trumpets,
And all the naked swords, which I see here,
Were plunged into my breast! What purpose you?
You come to tear me from this place! Beware,
Ye drive me not in desperation.—Do it not!
Ye may repent it!
[The stage is entirely filled with armed men.
Yet more! weight upon weight to drag me down!
Think what ye're doing. It is not well done
To choose a man despairing for your leader;
You tear me from my happiness. Well, then.
I dedicate your souls to vengeance. Mark!
For your own ruin you have chosen me:
Who goes with me, must be prepared to perish.

[He turns to the background, there ensues a sudden and violent movement among the Cuirassiers; they surround him, and carry him off in wild tumult. Wallenstein remains immovable. Thekla sinks into her mother's arms. The curtain falls. The music becomes loud and overpowering, and passes into a complete war-march—the orchestra joins it— and continues during the interval between the second and third Act.

ACT III

Scene I

The Burgomaster's House at Egra.
Butler.
Butler.

Scene II

Butler and Gordon
Gordon.
Is it you?
How my heart sinks! The Duke a fugitive traitor!
His princely head attainted! O my God!

Butler.
You have received the letter which I sent you
By a post-courier?

Gordon.
Yes! and in obedience to it
Opened the strong hold to him without scruple.
For an imperial letter orders me
To follow your commands implicitly.
But yet forgive me; when even now I saw
The Duke himself, my scruples recommenced.
For truly, not like an attainted man,
Into this town did Friedland make his entrance;
His wonted majesty beamed from his brow,
And calm, as in the days when all was right,
Did he receive from me the accounts of office;
'Tis said, that fallen pride learns condescension:
But sparing and with dignity the Duke
Weighed every syllable of approbation,
As masters praise a servant who has done
His duty, and no more.

Butler.
'Tis all precisely
As I related in my letter. Friedland
Has sold the army to the enemy,
And pledged himself to give up Prague and Egra.
On this report the regiments all forsook him,
The five excepted that belong to Tertsky,
And which have followed him, as thou hast seen.
The sentence of attainder is passed on him,
And every loyal subject is required
To give him in to justice, dead or living.

Gordon.
A traitor to the Emperor—Such a noble!
Of such high talents! What is human greatness!
I often said, this can't end happily.
His might, his greatness, and this obscure power
Are but a covered pit-fall. The human being
May not be trusted to self-government.
The clear and written law, the deep trod foot-marks
Of ancient custom, are all necessary
To keep him in the road of faith and duty.
The authority entrusted to this man
Was unexampled and unnatural
It placed him on a level with his Emperor,
Till the proud soul unlearned submission. Wo is me;
I mourn for him! for where he fell, I deem
Might none stand firm. Alas! dear General,
We in our lucky mediocrity
Have ne'er experienced, cannot calculate,
What dangerous wishes such a height may breed
In the heart of such a man.

Butler.
Spare your laments
Till he need sympathy; for at this present
He is still mighty, and still formidable.
The Swedes advance to Egra by forced marches,
And quickly will the junction be accomplished.
This must not be! The Duke must never leave
This strong hold on free footing; for I have
Pledged life and honour here to hold him prisoner,
And your assistance 'tis on which I calculate.

Gordon.
O that I had not lived to see this day!
From his hand I received this dignity,
He did himself entrust this strong hold to me,
Which I am now required to make his dungeon.
We subalterns have no will of our own:
The free, the mighty man alone may listen
To the fair impulse of his human nature.
Ah! we are but the poor tools of the law,
Obedience the sole virtue we dare aim at!

Butler.
Nay, let it not afflict you, that your power
Is circumscribed. Much liberty, much error!
The narrow path of duty is securest.

Gordon.
And all then have deserted him, you say?
He has built up the luck of many thousands;
For kingly was his spirit: his full hand
Was ever open! Many a one from dust
Hath he selected, from the very dust
Hath raised him into dignity and honour.
And yet no friend, not one friend hath he purchased,
Whose heart beats true to him in the evil hour.

Butler.
Here's one, I see.

Gordon.
I have enjoyed from him
No grace or favour. I could almost doubt,
If ever in his greatness he once thought on
An old friend of his youth. For still my office
Kept me at distance from him; and when first
He to this citadel appointed me,
He was sincere and serious in his duty.
I do not then abuse his confidence,
If I preserve my fealty in that
Which to my fealty was first delivered.

Butler.
Say, then, will you fulfil the attainder on him?

Gordon.
If it be so—if all be as you say—
If he've betrayed the Emperor, his master,
Have sold the troops, have purposed to deliver
The strong holds of the country to the enemy—
Yea, truly!—there is no redemption for him!
Yet it is hard, that me the lot should destine
To be the instrument of his perdition;
For we were pages at the court of Bergau
At the same period; but I was the senior.

Butler.
I have heard so—

Gordon.
'Tis full thirty years since then.
A youth who scarce had seen his twentieth year
Was Wallenstein, when he and I were friends:
Yet even then he had a daring soul:
His frame of mind was serious and severe
Beyond his years: his dreams were of great objects.
He walked amidst us of a silent spirit,
Communing with himself: yet I have known him
Transported on a sudden into utterance
Of strange conceptions; kindling into splendour
His soul revealed itself, and he spake so
That we looked round perplexed upon each other,
Not knowing whether it were craziness,
Or whether it were a god that spoke in him.

Butler.
But was it where he fell two story high
From a window-ledge, on which he had fallen asleep;
And rose up free from injury? From this day
(It is reported) he betrayed clear marks
Of a distempered fancy.

Gordon.
He became
Doubtless more self-enwrapt and melancholy;
He made himself a Catholic. Marvellously
His marvellous preservation had transformed him.
Thenceforth he held himself for an exempted
And privileged being, and, as if he were
Incapable of dizziness or fall,
He ran along the unsteady rope of life.
But now our destinies drove us asunder:
He paced with rapid step the way of greatness,
Was Count, and Prince, Duke-regent, and Dictator.
And now is all, all this too little for him;
He stretches forth his hands for a king's crown.
And plunges in unfathomable ruin.

Butler.
No more, he comes.

Scene III

To these enter Wallenstein, in conversation with the Burgomaster of Egra.
Wallenstein.
You were at one time a free town. I see,
Ye bear the half eagle in your city arms.
Why the half eagle only?

Burgomaster.
We were free,
But for these last two hundred years has Egra
Remained in pledge to the Bohemian crown,
Therefore we bear the half eagle, the other half
Being cancelled till the empire ransom us,
If ever that should be.

Wallenstein.
Ye merit freedom.
Only be firm and dauntless. Lend your ears
To no designing whispering court-minions.
What may your imposts be?

Burgomaster.
So heavy that
We totter under them. The garrison
Lives at our costs.

Wallenstein.
I will relieve you. Tell me,
There are some Protestants among you still?
[The Burgomaster hesitates.
Yes, yes; I know it. Many lie concealed
Within these walls—Confess now—you yourself—
Be not alarmed. I hate the Jesuits.
Could my will have determined it, they had
Been long ago expelled the empire. Trust me—
Mass-book or Bible—'tis all one to me.
Of that the world has had sufficient proof.
I built a church for the reformed in Glogan
At my own instance. Hark'e, Burgomaster!
What is your name?

Burgomaster.
Pachhälbel, may it please you.

Wallenstein.
[Laying his hand on the Burgomaster's shoulder.

Burgomaster.
With wonder and affright!

Wallenstein.
Whereof did two
Strangely transform themselves to bloody daggers,
And only one, the middle moon, remained
Steady and clear.

Burgomaster.
We applied it to the Turks.

Wallenstein.
[Observing Gordon and Butler.

Gordon.
Distinctly. The wind brought it from the South.

Butler.
It seemed to come from Weiden or from Neustadt.

Wallenstein.
'Tis likely. That's the route the Swedes are taking.
How strong is the garrison?

Gordon.
Not quite two hundred
Competent men, the rest are invalids.

Wallenstein.
Good! And how many in the vale of Jochim?

Gordon.
Two hundred arquebussiers have I sent thither
To fortify the posts against the Swedes.

Wallenstein.
Good! I commend your foresight. At the works too
You have done somewhat?

Gordon.
Two additional batteries
I caused to be run up. They were needless.
The Rhinegrave presses hard upon us, General!

Wallenstein.
You have been watchful in your Emperor's service.
I am content with you, Lieutenant-Colonel.
[To Butler.
Release the outposts in the vale of Jochim
With all the stations in the enemy's route.
[To Gordon.
Governor, in your faithful hands I leave
My wife, my daughter, and my sister. I
Shall make no stay here, and wait but the arrival
Of letters, to take leave of you, together
With all the regiments.

Scene IV

To these enter Count Tertsky.
Tertsky.
Joy, General; joy! I bring you welcome tidings.

Wallenstein.
And what may they be?

Tertsky.
There has been an engagement
At Neustadt; the Swedes gained the victory.

Wallenstein.
From whence did you receive the intelligence?

Tertsky.
A countryman from Tirschenseil conveyed it.
Soon after sunrise did the fight begin!
A troop of the Imperialists from Fachau
Had forced their way into the Swedish camp;
The cannonade continued full two hours;
There were left dead upon the field a thousand
Imperialists, together with their Colonel;
Further than this he did not know.

Wallenstein.
How came
Imperial troops at Neustadt? Altringer,
But yesterday, stood sixty miles from there.
Count Galas' force collects at Frauenberg.
And have not the full complement. Is it possible,
That Suys perchance had ventured so far onward?
It cannot be.

Tertsky.
We shall soon know the whole,
For here comes Illo, full of haste, and joyous.

Scene V

To these enter Illo.
Illo
(to Wallenstein).
A courier, Duke! he wishes to speak with thee.

Tertsky.
Does he bring confirmation of the victory?

Wallenstein.
What does he bring? Whence comes he?

Illo.
From the Rhinegrave.
And what he brings I can announce to you
Beforehand. Seven leagues distant are the Swedes;
At Neustadt did Max Piccolomini
Throw himself on them with the cavalry;
A murderous fight took place! o'erpower'd by numbers
The Pappenheimers all, with Max their leader,
Were left dead on the field.

Wallenstein
(after a pause).
Where is the messenger? Conduct me to him.

[Wallenstein is going, when Lady Neubrunn rushes into the room. Some servants follow her and run across the stage.
Neubrunn.
Help! Help!

Illo and Tertsky
(at the same time).
What now?

Neubrunn.
The Princess!

Wallenstein and Tertsky.
Does she know it?

Neubrunn.
She is dying!

[Hurries off the stage, when Wallenstein and Tertsky follow her.

Scene VI

Butler and Gordon.
Gordon.
What's this?

Butler.
She has lost the man she lov'd—
Young Piccolomini, who fell in the battle.

Gordon.
Unfortunate Lady!

Butler.
You have heard what Illo
Reporteth, that the Swedes are conquerors,
And marching hitherward.

Gordon.
Too well I heard it.

Butler.
They are twelve regiments strong, and there are five
Close by us to protect the Duke. We have
Only my single regiment; and the garrison
Is not two hundred strong.

Gordon.
'Tis even so.

Butler.
It is not possible with such small force
To hold in custody a man like him.

Gordon.
I grant it.

Butler.
Soon the numbers would disarm us,
And liberate him.

Gordon.
It were to be feared.

Butler
(after a pause).
Know, I am warranty for the event;
With my head have I pledged myself for his,
Must make my word good, cost it what it will,
And if alive we cannot hold him prisoner,
Why—death makes all things certain!

Gordon.
Butler! What?
Do I understand you? Gracious God! You could—

Butler.
He must not live.

Gordon.
And you can do the deed!

Butler.
Either you or I. This morning was his last.

Gordon.
You would assassinate him.

Butler.
'Tis my purpose.

Gordon.
Who leans with his whole confidence upon you!

Butler.
Such is his evil destiny!

Gordon.
Your General!
The sacred person of your General!

Butler.
My General he has been.

Gordon.
That 'tis only
A ‘has been’ washes out no villainy.
And without judgment passed?

Butler.
The execution
Is here instead of judgment.

Gordon.
This were murder,
Not justice. The most guilty should be heard.

Butler.
His guilt is clear, the Emperor has passed judgment.
And we but execute his will.

Gordon.
We should not
Hurry to realize a bloody sentence.
A word may be recalled, a life can never be.

Butler.
Dispatch in service pleases sovereigns.

Gordon.
No honest man's ambitious to press forward
To the hangman's service.

Butler.
And no brave man loses
His colour at a daring enterprize.

Gordon.
A brave man hazards life, but not his conscience.

Butler.
What then? Shall he go forth anew to kindle
The unextinguishable flame of war?

Gordon.
Seize him, and hold him prisoner—do not kill him.

Butler.
Had not the Emperor's army been defeated,
I might have done so.—But 'tis now past by.

Gordon.
O, wherefore opened I the strong hold to him!

Butler.
His destiny and not the place destroys him.

Gordon.
Upon these ramparts, as beseemed a soldier,
I had fallen, defending the Emperor's citadel!

Butler.
Yes! and a thousand gallant men have perished.

Gordon.
Doing their duty—that adorns the man!
But murder's a black deed, and nature curses it.

Butler
(brings out a paper).
Here is the manifesto which commands us
To gain possession of his person. See—
It is addressed to you as well as me.
Are you content to take the consequences,
If through our fault he escape to the enemy?

Gordon.
I?—Gracious God!

Butler.
Take it on yourself.
Let come of it what may, on you I lay it.

Gordon.
O God in heaven!

Butler.
Can you advise aught else
Wherewith to execute the Emperor's purpose?
Say if you can. For I desire his fall.
Not his destruction.

Gordon.
Merciful heaven! what must be
I see as clear as you. Yet still the heart
Within my bosom beats with other feelings!

Butler.
Mine is of harder stuff! Necessity
In her rough school hath steeled me. And this Illo
And Tertsky likewise, they must not survive him.

Gordon.
I feel no pang for these. Their own bad hearts
Impelled them, not the influence of the stars.
'Twas they who strewed the seeds of evil passions
In his calm breast, and with officious villainy
Watered and nursed the pois'nous plants. May they
Receive their earnests to the uttermost mite!

Butler.
And their death shall precede his!
We meant to have taken them alive this evening
Amid the merry-making of a feast,
And kept them prisoners in the citadels.
But this makes shorter work. I go this instant
To give the necessary orders.

Scene VII

To these enter Illo and Tertsky.
Tertsky.
Our luck is on the turn. To-morrow come
The Swedes—twelve thousand gallant warriors, Illo!
Then straightways for Vienna. Cheerily, friend!
What! meet such news with such a moody face?

Illo.
It lies with us at present to prescribe
Laws, and take vengeance on those worthless traitors,
Those skulking cowards that deserted us;
One has already done his bitter penance
The Piccolomini, be his the fate
Of all who wish us evil! This flies sure
To the old man's heart; he has his whole life long
Fretted and toiled to raise his ancient house
From a Count's title to the name of Prince;
And now must seek a grave for his only son.

Butler.
'Twas pity though! A youth of such heroic
And gentle temperament! The Duke himself,
'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart.

Illo.
Hark'e, old friend! That is the very point
That never pleased me in our General—
He ever gave the preference to the Italians.
Yea, at this very moment, by my soul!
He'd gladly see us all dead ten times over,
Could he thereby recall his friend to life.

Tertsky.
Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! This evening's business
Is, who can fairly drink the other down—
Your regiment, Illo! gives the entertainment.
Come! we will keep a merry carnival—
The night for once be day, and mid full glasses
Will we expect the Swedish Avantgarde.

Illo.
Yes, let us be of good cheer for to-day,
For there's hot work before us, friends! This sword
Shall have no rest, till it be bathed to the hilt
In Austrian blood.

Gordon.
Shame, shame! what talk is this,
My Lord Field Marshal? Wherefore foam you so
Against your Emperor?

Butler.
Hope not too much
From this first victory. Bethink you, sirs!
How rapidly the wheel of Fortune turns;
The Emperor still is formidably strong.

Illo.
The Emperor has soldiers, no commander,
For this King Ferdinand of Hungary
Is but a tyro. Galas? He's no luck,
And was of old the ruiner of armies.
And then this viper, this Octavio,
Is excellent at stabbing in the back,
But ne'er meets Friedland in the open field.

Tertsky.
Trust me, my friends, it cannot but succeed;
Fortune, we know, can ne'er forsake the Duke!
And only under Wallenstein can Austria
Be conqueror.

Illo.
The Duke will soon assemble
A mighty army, all come crowding, streaming
To banners dedicate by destiny
To fame and prosperous fortune. I behold
Old times come back again, he will become
Once more the mighty Lord which he has been.
How will the fools, who've now deserted him,
Look then? I can't but laugh to think of them,
For lands will he present to all his friends,
And like a King and Emperor reward
True services; but we've the nearest claims.
[To Gordon.
You will not be forgotten, Governor!
He'll take you from this nest and bid you shine
In higher station: your fidelity
Well merits it.

Gordon.
I am content already,
And wish to climb no higher; where great height is
The fall must needs be great. ‘Great height, great depth.’

Illo.
Here you have no more business for to-morrow;
The Swedes will take possession of the citadel.
Come, Tertsky, it is supper-time. What think you?
Say, shall we have the State illuminated
In honour of the Swede? And who refuses
To do it is a Spaniard and a traitor.

Tertsky.
Nay! Nay! not that, it will not please the Duke—

Illo.
What! we are masters here; no soul shall dare
Avow himself imperial where we've rule.
Gordon! Good night, and for the last time, take
A fair leave of the place. Send out patroles
To make secure, the watch-word may be altered
At the stroke of ten; deliver in the keys
To the Duke himself, and then you're quit for ever
Your wardship of the gates, for on to-morrow
The Swedes will take possession of the citadel.

Tertsky
(as he is going, to Butler).
You come though to the castle.

Butler.
At the right time.

[Exeunt Tertsky and Illo.

Scene VIII

Gordon and Butler.
Gordon
(looking after them).
Unhappy men! How free from all foreboding!
They rush into the outspread net of murder,
In the blind drunkenness of victory;
I have no pity for their fate. This Illo,
This overflowing and fool-hardy villain
That would fain bathe himself in his Emperor's blood.

Butler.
Do as he ordered you. Send round patroles.
Take measures for the citadel's security;
When they are within I close the castle gate
That nothing may transpire.

Gordon.
Oh! haste not so!
Nay, stop; first tell me—

Butler.
You have heard already,
To-morrow to the Swedes belongs. This night
Alone is ours. They make good expedition,
But we will make still greater. Fare you well.

Gordon.
Ah! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler,
I pray you, promise me!

Butler.
The sun has set;
A fateful evening doth descend upon us,
And brings on their long night! Their evil stars
Deliver them unarmed into our hands,
And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes
The dagger at their heart shall rouse them. Well,
The Duke was ever a great calculator;
His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board.
To move and station, as his game required.
Other men's honour, dignity, good name,
Did he shift like pawns, and made no conscience of it:
Still calculating, calculating still;
And yet at last his calculation proves
Erroneous; the whole game is lost; and lo!
His own life will be found among the forfeits.

Gordon.
O think not of his errors now; remember
His greatness, his munificence, think on all
The lovely features of his character,
On all the noble exploits of his life,
And let them, like an angel's arm, unseen
Arrest the lifted sword.

Butler.
It is too late.
I suffer not myself to feel compassion,
Dark thoughts and bloody are my duty now:
[Grasping Gordon's hand.
Gordon! 'Tis not my hatred (I pretend not
To love the Duke, and have no cause to love him)
Yet 'tis not now my hatred that impels me
To be his murderer. 'Tis his evil fate.
Hostile concurrences of many events
Control and subjugate me to the office.
In vain the human being meditates
Free action. He is but the wire-worked puppet
Of the blind power, which out of his own choice
Creates for him a dread necessity.
What too would it avail him, if there were
A something pleading for him in my heart—
Still I must kill him.

Gordon.
If your heart speak to you,
Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God.
Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous
Bedewed with blood—his blood? Believe it not!

Butler.
You know not. Ask not! Wherefore should it happen,
That the Swedes gained the victory, and hasten
With such forced marches hitherward? Fain would I
Have given him to the Emperor's mercy.—Gordon!
I do not wish his blood—But I must ransom
The honour of my word—it lies in pledge—
And he must die, or—
[Passionately grasping Gordon's hand.
Listen then, and know!
I am dishonoured if the Duke escape us.

Gordon.
O! to save such a man—

Butler.
What!

Gordon.
It is worth
A sacrifice.—Come, friend! Be noble-minded!
Our own heart, and not other men's opinions,
Forms our true honour.

Butler.
He is a great Lord,
This Duke—and I am but of mean importance.
This is what you would say? Wherein concerns it
The world at large, you mean to hint to me,
Whether the man of low extraction keeps
Or blemishes his honour—
So that the man of princely rank be saved.
We all do stamp our value on ourselves.
The price we challenge for ourselves is given us.
There does not live on earth the man so stationed,
That I despise myself compared with him.
Man is made great or little by his own will;
Because I am true to mine, therefore he dies.

Gordon.
I am endeavouring to move a rock.
Thou hadst a mother, yet no human feelings.
I cannot hinder you, but may some God
Rescue him from you!

[Exit Gordon.

Scene IX

Butler
(alone).
I treasured my good name all my life long;
The Duke has cheated me of life's best jewel,
So that I blush before this poor weak Gordon!
He prizes above all his fealty;
His conscious soul accuses him of nothing;
In opposition to his own soft heart
He subjugates himself to an iron duty.
Me in a weaker moment passion warped;
I stand beside him, and must feel myself
The worst man of the two. What though the world
Is ignorant of my purposed treason, yet
One man does know it, and can prove it too—
High-minded Piccolomini!
There lives the man who can dishonour me!
This ignominy blood alone can cleanse!
Duke Friedland, thou or I—Into my own hands
Fortune delivers me—The dearest thing a man has is himself.

(The curtain drops.)

ACT IV

Scene I

Scene—Butler's Chamber.
Butler, and Major Geraldin.
Butler.
Find me twelve strong dragoons, arm them with pikes,
For there must be no firing—
Conceal them somewhere near the banquet-room,
And soon as the dessert is served up, rush all in
And cry—Who is loyal to the Emperor?
I will overturn the table—while you attack
Illo and Tertsky, and dispatch them both.
The castle-palace is well barred and guarded,
That no intelligence of this proceeding
May make its way to the Duke.—Go instantly;
Have you yet sent for Captain Devereux
And the Macdonald?—

Geraldin.
They'll be here anon.

[Exit Geraldin.
Butler.
Here's no room for delay. The citizens
Declare for him, a dizzy drunken spirit
Possesses the whole town. They see in the Duke
A Prince of peace, a founder of new ages
And golden times. Arms too have been given out
By the town-council, and a hundred citizens
Have volunteered themselves to stand on guard.
Dispatch then be the word. For enemies
Threaten us from without and from within.

Scene II

Butler, Captain Devereux. and Macdonald.
Macdonald.
Here we are, General.

Devereux.
What's to be the watchword?

Butler.
Long live the Emperor!

Both
(recoiling).
How?

Butler.
Live the House of Austria!

Devereux.
Have we not sworn fidelity to Friedland?

Macdonald.
Have we not marched to this place to protect him?

Butler.
Protect a traitor, and his country's enemy!

Devereux.
Why, yes! in his name you administered
Our oath.

Macdonald.
And followed him yourself to Egra.

Butler.
I did it the more surely to destroy him.

Devereux.
So then!

Macdonald.
An altered case!

Butler
(to Devereux).
Thou wretched man!
So easily leav'st thou thy oath and colours?

Devereux.
The devil!—I but followed your example,
If you could prove a villain, why not we?

Macdonald.
We've nought to do with thinking—that's your business.
You are our General, and give out the orders;
We follow you, though the track lead to hell.

Butler.
Good then! we know each other.

Macdonald.
I should hope so.

Devereux.
Soldiers of fortune are we—who bids most.
He has us.

Macdonald.
'Tis e'en so!

Butler.
Well, for the present
Ye must remain honest and faithful soldiers.

Devereux.
We wish no other.

Butler.
Ay, and make your fortunes.

Macdonald.
That is still better.

Butler.
Listen!

Both.
We attend.

Butler.
It is the Emperor's will and ordinance
To seize the person of the Prince-Duke Friedland,
Alive or dead.

Devereux.
It runs so in the letter.

Macdonald.
Alive or dead—these were the very words.

Butler.
And he shall be rewarded from the State
In land and gold, who proffers aid thereto.

Devereux.
Ay? That sounds well. The words sound always well
That travel hither from the Court. Yes! yes!
We know already what Court-words import.
A golden chain perhaps in sign of favour,
Or an old charger, or a parchment patent,
And such like.—The Prince-duke pays better.

Macdonald.
Yes,
The Duke's a splendid paymaster.

Butler.
All over
With that, my friends! His lucky stars are set.

Macdonald.
And is that certain?

Butler.
You have my word for it.

Devereux.
His lucky fortunes all past by?

Butler.
For ever.
He is as poor as we.

Macdonald.
As poor as we?

Devereux.
Macdonald, we'll desert him.

Butler.
We'll desert him?
Full twenty thousand have done that already;
We must do more, my countrymen! In short—
We—we must kill him.

Both.
Kill him!

Butler.
Yes! must kill him.
And for that purpose have I chosen you.

Both.
Us!

Butler.
You, Captain Devereux, and thee, Macdonald.

Devereux
(after a pause).
Choose you some other.

Butler.
What? art dastardly?
Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for—
Thou conscientious of a sudden?

Devereux.
Nay,
To assassinate our Lord and General—

Macdonald.
To whom we've sworn a soldier's oath—

Butler.
The oath
Is null, for Friedland is a traitor.

Devercux.
No, no! It is too bad!

Macdonald.
Yes, by my soul!
It is too bad. One has a conscience too—

Devereux.
If it were not our chieftain, who so long
Has issued the commands, and claim'd our duty.

Butler.
Is that the objection?

Devereux.
Were it my own father,
And the Emperor's service should demand it of me,
It might be done perhaps—But we are soldiers,
And to assassinate our chief commander,
That is a sin, a foul abomination,
From which no monk or confessor absolves us.

Butler.
I am your Pope, and give you absolution.
Determine quickly!

Devereux.
'Twill not do!

Macdonald.
'Twon't do!

Butler.
Well, off then! and—send Pestalutz to me.

Devereux.
The Pestalutz—

Macdonald.
What may you want with him?

Butler.
If you reject it, we can find enough—

Devereux.
Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty
As well as any other. What think you,
Brother Macdonald?

Macdonald.
Why if he must fall,
And will fall, and it can't be otherwise,
One would not give place to this Pestalutz.

Devereux.
When do you purpose he should fall?

Butler.
This night.
To-morrow will the Swedes be at our gates.

Devereux.
You take upon you all the consequences!

Butler.
I take the whole upon me.

Devereux.
And it is
The Emperor's will, his express absolute will?
For we have instances, that folks may like
The murder, and yet hang the murderer.

Butler.
The manifesto says—alive or dead.
Alive—'tis not possible—you see it is not.

Devereux.
Well, dead then! dead! But how can we come at him?
The town is fill'd with Tertsky's soldiery.

Macdonald.
Ay! and then Tertsky still remains, and Illo—

Butler.
With these you shall begin—you understand me?

Devereux.
How? And must they too perish?

Butler.
They the first.

Macdonald.
Hear, Devereux? A bloody evening this.

Devereux.
Have you a man for that? Commission me—

Butler.
'Tis given in trust to Major Geraldin;
This is a carnival night, and there's a feast
Given at the castle—there we shall surprise them,
And hew them down. The Pestalutz and Lesley
Have that commission—soon as that is finished—

Devereux.
Hear, General! It will be all one to you.
Hark'e! let me exchange with Geraldin.

Butler.
'Twill be the lesser danger with the Duke.

Devereux.
Danger! The devil! What do you think me, General?
'Tis the Duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear.

Butler.
What can his eye do to thee?

Devereux.
Death and hell!
Thou know'st that I'm no milk-sop, General!
But 'tis not eight days since the Duke did send me
Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat
Which I have on! and then for him to see me
Standing before him with the pike, his murderer,
That eye of his looking upon this coat—
Why—why—the devil fetch me! I'm no milk-sop!

Butler.
The Duke presented thee this good warm coat,
And thou, a needy wight, hast pangs of conscience
To run him through the body in return.
A coat that is far better and far warmer
Did the Emperor give to him, the Prince's mantle.
How doth he thank the Emperor? With revolt,
And treason.

Devereux.
That is true. The devil take
Such thankers! I'll dispatch him.

Butler.
And would'st quiet
Thy conscience, thou hast nought to do but simply
Pull off the coat; so canst thou do the deed
With light heart and good spirits.

Devereux.
You are right.
That did not strike me. I'll pull off the coat—
So there's an end of it.

Macdonald.
Yes, but there's another
Point to be thought of.

Butler.
And what's that, Macdonald?

Macdonald.
What avails sword or dagger against him?
He is not to be wounded—he is—

Butler.
What?

Macdonald.
Safe against shot, and stab and flash! Hard frozen,
Secured, and warranted by the black art!
His body is impenetrable, I tell you.

Devereux.
In Inglestadt there was just such another—
His whole skin was the same as steel; at last
We were obliged to beat him down with gunstocks.

Macdonald.
Hear what I'll do.

Devereux.
Well?

Macdonald.
In the cloister here
There's a Dominican, my countryman.
I'll make him dip my sword and pike for me
In holy water, and say over them
One of his strongest blessings. That's probatum!
Nothing can stand 'gainst that.

Butler.
So do, Macdonald!
But now go and select from out the regiment
Twenty or thirty able-bodied fellows,
And let them take the oaths to the Emperor.
Then when it strikes eleven, when the first rounds
Are passed, conduct them silently as may be
To the house—I will myself be not far off.

Devereux.
But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon,
That stand on guard there in the inner chamber?

Butler.
I have made myself acquainted with the place.
I lead you through a back-door that's defended
By one man only. Me my rank and office
Give access to the Duke at every hour.
I'll go before you—with one poniard-stroke
Cut Hartschier's wind-pipe, and make way for you.

Devereux.
And when we are there, by what means shall we gain
The Duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming
The servants of the Court; for he has here
A numerous company of followers?

Butler.
The attendants fill the right wing; he hates bustle,
And lodges in the left wing quite alone.

Devereux.
Were it well over—hey, Macdonald? I
Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows!

Macdonald.
And I too. 'Tis too great a personage.
People will hold us for a brace of villains.

Butler.
In plenty, honour, splendour—You may safely
Laugh at the people's babble.

Devereux.
If the business
Squares with one's honour—if that be quite certain—

Butler.
Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdinand
His Crown and Empire. The reward can be
No small one.

Devereux.
And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the Emperor?

Butler.
Yes!—Yes!—to rob him of his crown and life.

Devereux.
And he must fall by the executioner's hands,
Should we deliver him up to the Emperor
Alive?

Butler.
It were his certain destiny.

Devereux.
Well! Well! Come then, Macdonald, he shall not
Lie long in pain.

[Exeunt Butler through one door, Macdonald and Devereux through the other.

Scene III

Scene—A Gothic Apartment at the Duchess Friedland's. Thekla on a seat, pale, her eyes closed. The Duchess and Lady Neubrunn busied about her. Wallenstein and the Countess in conversation.
Wallenstein.
How knew she it so soon?

Countess.
She seems to have
Foreboded some misfortune. The report
Of an engagement, in the which had fallen
A colonel of the Imperial army, frighten'd her.
I saw it instantly. She flew to meet
The Swedish Courier, and with sudden questioning,
Soon wrested from him the disastrous secret.
Too late we missed her, hastened after her,
We found her lying in his arms, all pale
And in a swoon.

Wallenstein.
A heavy, heavy blow!
And she so unprepared! Poor child! How is it?
[Turning to the Duchess.
Is she coming to herself?

Duchess.
Her eyes are opening.

Countess.
She lives.

Thekla
(looking around her).
Where am I?

Wallenstein
(steps to her, raising her up in his arms).
Come, cheerly, Thekla! be my own brave girl!
See, there's thy loving mother. Thou art in
Thy father's arms.

Thekla
(standing up).
Where is he? Is he gone?

Duchess.
Who gone, my daughter?

Thekla.
He—the man who uttered
That word of misery.

Duchess.
O! think not of it,
My Thekla!

Wallenstein.
Give her sorrow leave to talk!
Let her complain—mingle your tears with hers,
For she hath suffered a deep anguish; but
She'll rise superior to it, for my Thekla
Hath all her father's unsubdued heart.

Thekla.
I am not ill. See, I have power to stand.
Why does my mother weep? Have I alarmed her?
It is gone by—I recollect myself—
[She casts her eyes round the room, as seeking some one.
Where is he? Please you, do not hide him from me.
You see I have strength enough: now I will hear him.

Duchess.
No, never shall this messenger of evil
Enter again into thy presence, Thekla!

Thekla.
My father—

Wallenstein.
Dearest daughter!

Thekla.
I'm not weak—
Shortly I shall be quite myself again.
You'll grant me one request?

Wallenstein.
Name it, my daughter.

Thekla.
Permit the stranger to be called to me,
And grant me leave, that by myself I may
Hear his report and question him.

Duchess.
No, never!

Countess.
'Tis not advisable—assent not to it.

Wallenstein.
Hush! Wherefore would'st thou speak with him, my daughter?

Thekla.
Knowing the whole, I shall be more collected;
I will not be deceived. My mother wishes
Only to spare me. I will not be spared.
The worst is said already: I can hear
Nothing of deeper anguish!

Countess and Duchess.
Do it not.

Thekla.
The horror overpowered me by surprise.
My heart betrayed me in the stranger's presence;
He was a witness of my weakness, yea,
I sank into his arms; and that has shamed me.
I must replace myself in his esteem,
And I must speak with him, perforce, that he,
The stranger, may not think ungently of me.

Wallenstein.
I see she is in the right, and am inclined
To grant her this request of hers. Go, call him.

[Lady Neubrunn goes to call him.
Duchess.
But I, thy mother, will be present—

Thekla.
'Twere
More pleasing to me, if alone I saw him:
Trust me, I shall behave myself the more
Collectedly.

Wallenstein.
Permit her her own will.
Leave her alone with him: for there are sorrows,
Where of necessity the soul must be
Its own support. A strong heart will rely
On its own strength alone. In her own bosom,
Not in her mother's arms, must she collect
The strength to rise superior to this blow.
It is mine own brave girl. I'll have her treated
Not as the woman, but the heroine.

[Going.
Countess
(detaining him).
Where art thou going? I heard Tertsky say
That 'tis thy purpose to depart from hence
To-morrow early, but to leave us here.

Wallenstein.
Yes, ye stay here, placed under the protection
Of gallant men.

Countess.
O take us with you, brother.
Leave us not in this gloomy solitude
To brood o'er anxious thoughts. The mists of doubt
Magnify evils to a shape of horror.

Wallenstein.
Who speaks of evil? I entreat you, sister,
Use words of better omen.

Countess.
Then take us with you.
O leave us not behind you in a place
That forces us to such sad omens. Heavy
And sick within me is my heart—
These walls breathe on me, like a church-yard vault.
I cannot tell you, brother, how this place
Doth go against my nature. Take us with you.
Come, sister, join you your entreaty!—Niece,
Yours too. We all entreat you, take us with you!

Wallenstein.
The place's evil omens will I change,
Making it that which shields and shelters for me
My best beloved.

Lady Neubrunn
(returning).
The Swedish officer.

Wallenstein.
Leave her alone with him.

[Exit.
Duchess
(to Thekla who starts and shivers).
There—pale as death!—Child, 'tis impossible
That thou should'st speak with him. Follow thy mother.

Thekla.
The Lady Neubrunn then may stay with me.

[Exeunt Duchess and Countess.

Scene IV

Thekla, the Swedish Captain, Lady Neubrunn.
Captain.
Princess—I must entreat your gentle pardon—
My inconsiderate rash speech—How could I—

Thekla.
You did behold me in my agony.
A most distressful accident occasioned
You from a stranger to become at once
My confidant.

Captain.
I fear you hate my presence,
For my tongue spake a melancholy word.

Thekla.
The fault is mine. Myself did wrest it from you.
The horror which came o'er me interrupted
Your tale at its commencement. May it please you,
Continue it to the end.

Captain.
Princess, 'twill
Renew your anguish.

Thekla.
I am firm.—
I will be firm. Well—how began the engagement?

Captain.
We lay, expecting no attack, at Neustadt,
Entrenched but insecurely in our camp,
When towards evening rose a cloud of dust
From the wood thitherward; our vanguard fled
Into the camp, and sounded the alarm.
Scarce had we mounted, ere the Pappenheimers,
Their horses at full speed, broke through the lines,
And leapt the trenches; but their heedless courage
Had borne them onward far before the others—
The infantry were still at distance, only
The Pappenheimers followed daringly
Their daring leader—

[Thekla betrays agitation in her gestures. The officer pauses till she makes a sign to him to proceed.
Captain.
[Thekla, as giddy, grasps a chair.

[Thekla, who has accompanied the last speech with all the marks of increasing agony, trembles through her whole frame, and is falling. The Lady Neubrunn runs to her, and receives her in her arms.
Neubrunn.
My dearest lady—

Captain.
I retire.

Thekla.
'Tis over.
Proceed to the conclusion.

Captain.
Wild despair
Inspired the troops with frenzy when they saw
Their leader perish; every thought of rescue
Was spurn'd; they fought like wounded tigers; their
Frantic resistance rous'd our soldiery;
A murderous fight took place, nor was the contest
Finish'd before their last man fell.

Thekla.
And where—
Where is—You have not told me all.

Captain
(after a pause).
This morning
We buried him. Twelve youths of noblest birth
Did bear him to interment; the whole army
Followed the bier. A laurel decked his coffin;
The sword of the deceased was placed upon it,
In mark of honour, by the Rhinegrave's self.
Nor tears were wanting; for there are among us
Many, who had themselves experienced
The greatness of his mind, and gentle manners;
All were affected at his fate. The Rhinegrave
Would willingly have saved him; but himself
Made vain the attempt—'tis said he wished to die.

Ncubrunn
(to Thekla who has hidden her countenance).
Look up, my dearest lady—

Thekla.
Where is his grave?

Captain.
At Neustadt, lady; in a cloister church
Are his remains deposited, until
We can receive directions from his father.

Thekla.
What is the cloister's name?

Captain.
Saint Catharine's.

Thekla.
And how far is it thither?

Captain.
Near twelve leagues.

Thekla.
And which the way?

Captain.
You go by Tirschenreit
And Falkenberg, through our advanced posts.

Thekla.
Who
Is their commander?

Captain.
Colonel Seckendorf.

[Thekla steps to the table, and takes a ring from a casket.
Thekla.
You have beheld me in my agony,
And shewn a feeling heart. Please you, accept
[Giving him the ring.
A small memorial of this hour. Now go!

Captain.
Princess—

[Thekla silently makes signs to him to go, and turns from him. The Captain lingers, and is about to speak. Lady Neubrunn repeats the signal, and he retires.

Scene V

Thekla, Lady Neubrunn.
Thekla
(falls on Lady Neubrunn's neck).
Now, gentle Neubrunn, shew me the affection
Which thou hast ever promised—prove thyself
My own true friend and faithful fellow-pilgrim.
This night we must away!

Neubrunn.
Away! and whither?

Thekla.
Whither! There is but one place in the world.
Thither where he lies buried! To his coffin!

Neubrunn.
What would you do there?

Thekla.
What do there?
That would'st thou not have asked, hadst thou e'er loved.
There, there is all that still remains of him.
That single spot is the whole earth to me.

Neubrunn.
That place of death—

Thekla.
Is now the only place,
Where life yet dwells for me: detain me not!
Come and make preparations: let us think
Of means to fly from hence.

Neubrunn.
Your father's rage—

Thekla.
That time is past—
And now I fear no human being's rage.

Neubrunn.
The sentence of the world! The tongue of calumny!

Thekla.
Whom am I seeking? Him who is no more.
Am I then hastening to the arms—O God!
I haste but to the grave of the beloved.

Neubrunn.
And we alone, two helpless feeble women?

Thekla.
We will take weapons: my arms shall protect thee.

Neubrunn.
In the dark night-time?

Thekla.
Darkness will conceal us.

Neubrunn.
This rough tempestuous night—

Thekla.
Had he a soft bed
Under the hoofs of his war-horses?

Neubrunn.
Heaven!
And then the many posts of the enemy!—

Thekla.
They are human beings. Misery travels free
Through the whole earth.

Neubrunn.
The journey's weary length—

Thekla.
The pilgrim, travelling to a distant shrine
Of hope and healing, doth not count the leagues.

Neubrunn.
How can we pass the gates?

Thekla.
Gold opens them.
Go, do but go.

Neubrunn.
Should we be recognized—

Thekla.
In a despairing woman, a poor fugitive,
Will no one seek the daughter of Duke Friedland.

Neubrunn.
And where procure we horses for our flight?

Thekla.
My equerry procures them. Go and fetch him.

Neubrunn.
Dares he, without the knowledge of his lord?

Thekla.
He will. Go, only go. Delay no longer.

Neubrunn.
Dear lady! and your mother?

Thekla.
Oh! my mother!

Neubrunn.
So much as she has suffered too already;
Your tender mother—Ah! how ill prepared
For this last anguish!

Thekla.
Woe is me! my mother!
[Pauses.
Go instantly.

Neubrunn.
But think what you are doing!

Thekla.
What can be thought, already has been thought.

Neubrunn.
And being there, what purpose you to do?

Thekla.
There a divinity will prompt my soul.

Neubrunn.
Your heart, dear lady, is disquieted!
And this is not the way that leads to quiet.

Thekla.
To a deep quiet, such as he has found.
It draws me on, I know not what to name it,
Resistless does it draw me to his grave.
There will my heart be eased, my tears will flow.
O hasten, make no further questioning!
There is no rest for me till I have left
These walls—they fall in on me—A dim power
Drives me from hence—Oh mercy! What a feeling!
What pale and hollow forms are those! They fill,
They crowd the place! I have no longer room here!
Mercy! Still more! More still! The hideous swarm!
They press on me; they chase me from these walls—
Those hollow, bodiless forms of living men!

Neubrunn.
You frighten me so, lady, that no longer
I dare stay here myself. I go and call
Rosenberg instantly.

[Exit Lady Neubrunn.

Scene VI

Thekla.
His spirit 'tis that calls me: 'tis the troop
Of his true followers, who offered up
Themselves to avenge his death: and they accuse me
Of an ignoble loitering—they would not
Forsake their leader even in his death—they died for him!
And shall I live?—
For me too was that laurel-garland twined
That decks his bier. Life is an empty casket:
I throw it from me. O! my only hope;—
To die beneath the hoofs of trampling steeds—
That is the lot of heroes upon earth!

[Exit Thekla.
(The curtain drops.)

ACT V

Scene I

Scene—A Saloon, terminated by a gallery which extends far into the back-ground. Wallenstein sitting at a table. The Swedish Captain standing before him.
Wallenstein.
Commend me to your lord. I sympathize
In his good fortune; and if you have seen me
Deficient in the expressions of that joy
Which such a victory might well demand,
Attribute it to no lack of good will,
For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell,
And for your trouble take my thanks. To-morrow
The citadel shall be surrendered to you
On your arrival.

[The Swedish Captain retires. Wallenstein sits lost in thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained by his hand. The Countess Tertsky

---

794

enters, stands before him awhile, unobserved by him; at length he starts, sees her, and recollects himself.
Wallenstein.
Com'st thou from her? Is she restored? How is she?

Countess.
My sister tells me, she was more collected
After her conversation with the Swede.
She has now retired to rest.

Wallenstein.
The pang will soften,
She will shed tears.

Countess.
I find thee altered too,
My brother! After such a victory
I had expected to have found in thee
A cheerful spirit. O remain thou firm!
Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art,
Our sun.

Wallenstein.
Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's
Thy husband?

Countess.
At a banquet—he and Illo.

Wallenstein
(rises).
The night's far spent. Betake thee to thy chamber.

Countess.
Bid me not go, O let me stay with thee!

Wallenstein
(moves to the window).
There is a busy motion in the Heaven,
The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower,
Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle of the moon,
Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light.
No form of star is visible! That one
White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder,
Is from Cassiopeia, and therein
Is Jupiter. (A pause.)
But now
The blackness of the troubled element hides him!

[He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly into the distance.
Countess
(looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand).
What art thou brooding on?

Wallenstein.
Methinks,
If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me.
He, is the star of my nativity,
And often marvellously hath his aspect
Shot strength into my heart.

Countess.
Thou'lt see him again.

Wallenstein.
See him again? O never, never again.

Countess.
How?

Wallenstein.
He is gone—is dust.

Countess.
Whom meanest thou then?

Wallenstein.
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
For him there is no longer any future,
His life is bright—bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap.
Far off is he, above desire and fear;
No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets. O 'tis well
With him! but who knows what the coming hour
Veil'd in thick darkness brings for us!

Countess.
Thou speakest
Of Piccolomini. What was his death?
The courier had just left thee as I came.
[Wallenstein by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to be silent.
Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view,
Let us look forward into sunny days,
Welcome with joyous heart the victory,
Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day,
For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead;
To thee he died, when first he parted from thee.

Wallenstein.
I shall grieve down this blow, of that I'm conscious.
What does not man grieve down? From the highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.
For O! he stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanished—and returns not.

Countess.
O be not treacherous to thy own power.
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify
Itself. Thou lov'st and prizest virtues in him,
The which thyself did'st plant, thyself unfold.

Wallenstein
(stepping to the door).
Who interrupts us now at this late hour?
It is the Governor. He brings the keys
Of the Citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister!

Countess.
O 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee—
A boding fear possesses me!

Wallenstein.
Fear? Wherefore?

Countess.
Should'st thou depart this night, and we at waking
Never more find thee!

Wallenstein.
Fancies!

Countess.
O my soul
Has long been weighed down by these dark forebodings.
And if I combat and repel them waking,
They still rush down upon my heart in dreams,
I saw thee yesternight with thy first wife
Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired.

Wallenstein.
This was a dream of favourable omen,
That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.

Countess.
To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee
In thy own chamber. As I entered, lo!
It was no more a chamber; the Chartreuse
At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded,
And where it is thy will that thou should'st be
Interred.

Wallenstein.
Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.

Countess.
What dost thou not believe that oft in dreams
A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?

Wallenstein.
There is no doubt that there exist such voices.
Yet I would not call them
Voices of warning that announce to us
Only the inevitable. As the sun,
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
That which we read of the fourth Henry's death
Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale
Of my own future destiny. The King
Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife,
Long ere Ravaillac arm'd himself therewith.
His quiet mind forsook him: the phantasma
Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth
Into the open air: like funeral knells
Sounded that coronation festival;
And still with boding sense he heard the tread
Of those feet that ev'n then were seeking him
Throughout the streets of Paris.

Countess.
And to thee
The voice within thy soul bodes nothing?

Wallenstein.
Nothing.
Be wholly tranquil.

Countess.
And another time
I hastened after thee, and thou ran'st from me
Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall,
There seemed no end of it: doors creaked and clapped;
I followed panting, but could not o'ertake thee;
When on a sudden did I feel myself
Grasped from behind—the hand was cold that grasped me—
'Twas thou, and thou did'st kiss me, and there seemed
A crimson covering to envelop us.

Wallenstein.
That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.

Countess
(gazing on him).
If it should come to that—if I should see thee,
Who standest now before me in the fulness
Of life—

[She falls on his breast and weeps.
Wallenstein.
The Emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee—
Alphabets wound not—and he finds no hands.

Countess.
If he should find them, my resolve is taken—
I bear about me my support and refuge.

[Exit Countess.

Scene II

Wallenstein, Gordon.
Wallenstein.
All quiet in the town?

Gordon.
The town is quiet.

Wallenstein.
I hear a boisterous music! and the Castle
Is lighted up. Who are the revellers?

Gordon.
There is a banquet given at the Castle
To the Count Tertsky, and Field Marshal Illo.

Wallenstein.
In honour of the victory.—This tribe
Can shew their joy in nothing else but feasting.
[Rings. The Groom of the Chamber enters.
Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep.
[Wallenstein takes the keys from Gordon.
So we are guarded from all enemies,
And shut in with sure friends.
For all must cheat me, or a face like this
[Fixing his eye on Gordon.
Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask.

[The Groom of the Chamber takes off his mantle, collar and scarf.
Wallenstein.
Take care—what is that?

Groom of the Chamber.
The golden chain is snapped in two.

Wallenstein.
Well, it has lasted long enough. Here—give it.
[He takes and looks at the chain.
'Twas the first present of the Emperor.
He hung it round me in the war of Friule.
He being then Archduke; and I have worn it
Till now from habit—
From superstition if you will. Belike,
It was to be a talisman to me,
And while I wore it on my neck in faith,
It was to chain to me all my life long
The volatile fortune whose first pledge it was.
Well, be it so! Henceforward a new fortune
Must spring up for me; for the potency
Of this charm is dissolved.
[Groom of the Chamber retires with the vestments. Wallenstein rises, takes a stride across the room, and stands at last before Gordon in a posture of meditation.
How the old time returns upon me! I
Behold myself once more at Burgau, where
We two were pages of the Court together.
We oftentimes disputed: thy intention
Was ever good; but thou wert wont to play
The moralist and preacher, and would'st rail at me—
That I strove after things too high for me,
Giving my faith to bold unlawful dreams,
And still extol to me the golden mean.
—Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend
To thy own self. See, it has made thee early
A superannuated man, and (but
That my munificent stars will intervene)
Would let thee in some miserable corner
Go out like an untended lamp.

Gordon.
My Prince!
With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat,
And watches from the shore the lofty ship
Stranded amid the storm.

Wallenstein.
Art thou already
In harbour then, old man? Well! I am not.
The unconquered spirit drives me o'er life's billows;
My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly.
Hope is my goddess still, and youth my inmate;
And while we stand thus front to front almost,
I might presume to say, that the swift years
Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair.
[He moves with long strides across the saloon, and remains on the opposite side over against Gordon.
Who now persists in calling Fortune false?
To me she has proved faithful, with fond love
Took me from out the common ranks of men,
And like a mother goddess, with strong arm
Carried me swiftly up the steps of life.
Nothing is common in my destiny,
Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares
Interpret then my life for me as 'twere
One of the undistinguishable many?
True in this present moment I appear
Fallen low indeed; but I shall rise again.
The high flood will soon follow on this ebb;
The fountain of my fortune, which now stops
Repressed and bound by some malicious star,
Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes.

Gordon.
And yet remember I the good old proverb,
‘Let the night come before we praise the day.’
I would be slow from long-continued fortune
To gather hope: for hope is the companion
Given to the unfortunate by pitying Heaven.
Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men,
For still unsteady are the scales of fate.

Wallenstein
(smiling).
I hear the very Gordon that of old
Was wont to preach to me, now once more preaching;
I know well, that all sublunary things
Are still the vassals of vicissitude.
The unpropitious gods demand their tribute.
This long ago the ancient Pagans knew:
And therefore of their own accord they offered
To themselves injuries, so to atone
The jealousy of their divinities:
And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.
[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner.
I too have sacrific'd to him—For me
There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault
He fell! No joy from favourable fortune
Can overweigh the anguish of this stroke.
The envy of my destiny is glutted:
Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning
Was drawn off which would else have shattered me.

Scene III

To these enter Seni.
Wallenstein.
Is not that Seni? and beside himself,
If one may trust his looks! What brings thee hither
At this late hour, Baptista?

Seni.
Terror, Duke!
On thy account.

Wallenstein.
What now?

Seni.
Flee ere the day-break!
Trust not thy person to the Swedes!

Wallenstein.
What now
Is in thy thoughts?

Seni
(with louder voice).
Trust not thy person to these Swedes.

Wallenstein.
What is it then?

Seni
(still more urgently).
O wait not the arrival of these Swedes!
An evil near at hand is threatening thee
From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror!
Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition—
Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee!

Wallenstein.
Baptista, thou art dreaming!—Fear befools thee.

Seni.
Believe not that an empty fear deludes me.
Come, read it in the planetary aspects;
Read it thyself, that ruin threatens thee
From false friends!

Wallenstein.
From the falseness of my friends
Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes.
The warning should have come before! At present
I need no revelation from the stars
To know that.

Seni.
Come and see! trust thine own eyes!
A fearful sign stands in the house of life;
An enemy, a fiend lurks close behind
The radiance of thy planet—O be warned!
Deliver not thyself up to these heathens
To wage a war against our holy church.

Wallenstein
(laughing gently).
The oracle rails that way! Yes, yes! Now
I recollect. This junction with the Swedes
Did never please thee—lay thyself to sleep,
Baptista! Signs like these I do not fear.

Gordon
(who during the whole of this dialogue has shewn marks of extreme agitation, and now turns to Wallenstein).
My
Duke and General! May I dare presume?

Wallenstein.
Speak freely.

Gordon.
What if 'twere no mere creation
Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsaf'd
To interpose its aid for your deliverance,
And made that mouth its organ.

Wallenstein.
Ye're both feverish!
How can mishap come to me from the Swedes?
They sought this junction with me—'tis their interest.

Gordon
(with difficulty suppressing his emotion).
But what if the arrival of these Swedes—
What if this were the very thing that winged
The ruin that is flying to your temples?
[Flings himself at his feet.
There is yet time, my Prince.

Seni.
O hear him! hear him!

Gordon
(rises).
The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the orders,
This citadel shall close its gates upon him.
If then he will besiege us, let him try it.
But this I say; he'll find his own destruction
With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner
Than weary down the valour of our spirit.
He shall experience what a band of heroes,
Inspirited by an heroic leader,
Is able to perform. And if indeed
It be thy serious wish to make amends
For that which thou hast done amiss,—this, this
Will touch and reconcile the Emperor,
Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy,
And Friedland, who returns repentant to him,
Will stand yet higher in his Emperor's favour,
Than e'er he stood when he had never fallen.

Wallenstein
(contemplates him with surprise, remains silent awhile, betraying strong emotion).
Gordon—your zeal and fervour lead you far.
Well, well—an old friend has a privilege.
Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never
Can the Emperor pardon me: and if he could,
Yet I—I ne'er could let myself be pardoned.
Had I foreknown what now has taken place,
That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me,
My first death-offering: and had the heart
Spoken to me, as now it has done—Gordon,
It may be, I might have bethought myself.
It may be too, I might not. Might or might not.
Is now an idle question. All too seriously
Has it begun to end in nothing, Gordon!
Let it then have its course.
[Stepping to the window.
All dark and silent—at the castle too
All is now hushed—Light me, Chamberlain!
[The Groom of the Chamber, who had entered during the last dialogue, and had been standing at a distance and listening to it with visible expressions of the deepest interest, advances in extreme agitation, and throws himself at the Duke's feet.
And thou too! But I know why thou dost wish
My reconcilement with the Emperor.
Poor man! he hath a small estate in Cärnthen,
And fears it will be forfeited because
He's in my service. Am I then so poor,
That I no longer can indemnify
My servants? Well! To no one I employ
Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief
That fortune has fled from me, go! Forsake me.
This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe me,
And then go over to thy Emperor.
Gordon, good night! I think to make a long
Sleep of it: for the struggle and the turmoil
Of this last day or two were great. May't please you!
Take care that they awake me not too early.

[Exit Wallenstein, the Groom of the Chamber lighting him. Seni follows. Gordon remains on the darkened stage, following the Duke with his eye, till he disappears at the farther end of the gallery: then by his gestures the old man expresses the depth of his anguish, and stands leaning against a pillar.

Scene IV

Gordon, Butler (at first behind the scenes).
Butler
(not yet come into view of the stage).
Here stand in silence till I give the signal.

Gordon
(starts up).
'Tis he, he has already brought the murderers.

Butler.
The lights are out. All lies in profound sleep.

Gordon.
What shall I do, shall I attempt to save him?
Shall I call up the house? Alarm the guards?

Butler
(appears, but scarcely on the stage).
A light gleams hither from the corridor.
It leads directly to the Duke's bedchamber.

Gordon.
But then I break my oath to the Emperor;
If he escape and strengthen the enemy,
Do I not hereby call down on my head
All the dread consequences?

Butler
(stepping forward).
Hark! Who speaks there?

Gordon.
'Tis better, I resign it to the hands
Of providence. For what am I, that I
Should take upon myself so great a deed?
I have not murdered him, if he be murdered;
But all his rescue were my act and deed;
Mine—and whatever be the consequences,
I must sustain them.

Butler
(advances).
I should know that voice.

Gordon.
Butler!

Butler.
'Tis Gordon. What do you want here?
Was it so late then, when the Duke dismissed you?

Gordon.
Your hand bound up and in a scarf?

Butler.
'Tis wounded.
That Illo fought as he was frantic, till
At last we threw him on the ground.

Gordon.
Both dead?

Butler.
Is he in bed?

Gordon.
Ah, Butler!

Butler.
Is he? speak.

Gordon.
He shall not perish! Not through you! The Heaven
Refuses your arm. See—'tis wounded!—

Butler.
There is no need of my arm.

Gordon.
The most guilty
Have perished, and enough is given to justice.

[The Groom of the Chamber advances from the gallery with his finger on his mouth, commanding silence.
Gordon.
He sleeps! O murder not the holy sleep!

Butler.
No! he shall die awake.

[Is going.
Gordon.
His heart still cleaves
To earthly things: he's not prepared to step
Into the presence of his God!

Butler
(going).
God's merciful!

Gordon
(holds him).
Grant him but this night's respite.

Butler
(hurrying off).
The next moment
May ruin all.

Gordon
(holds him still).
One hour!—

Butler.
Unhold me! What
Can that short respite profit him?

Gordon.
O—Time
Works miracles. In one hour many thousands
Of grains of sand run out; and quick as they,
Thought follows thought within the human soul.
Only one hour! Your heart may change its purpose,
His heart may change its purpose—some new tidings
May come; some fortunate event, decisive,
May fall from Heaven and rescue him. O what
May not one hour achieve!

Butler.
You but remind me,
How precious every minute is!

(He stamps on the floor.)

Scene V

To these enter Macdonald and Devereux, with the Halberdiers.
Gordon
(throwing himself between him and them).
No, monster!
First over my dead body thou shalt tread.
I will not live to see the accursed deed!

Butler
(forcing him out of the way).
Weak-hearted dotard!

[Trumpets are heard in the distance.
Devereux and Macdonald.
Hark! The Swedish trumpets!
The Swedes before the ramparts! Let us hasten!

Gordon
(rushes out).
O, God of Mercy!

Butler
(calling after him).
Governor, to your post!

Groom of the Chamber
(hurries in).
Who dares make larum here? Hush! The Duke sleeps.

Devereux
(with loud harsh voice).
Friend, it is time now to make larum.

Groom of the Chamber.
Help!
Murder!

Butler.
Down with him!

Groom of the Chamber
(run through the body by Devereux, falls at the entrance of the gallery).
Jesus Maria!

Butler.
Burst the doors open!

[They rush over the body into the gallery—two doors are heard to crash one after the other—Voices deadened by the distance—Clash of arms—then all at once a profound silence.

Scene VI

Countess Tertsky
(with a light).
Her bed-chamber is empty; she herself
Is no where to be found! The Neubrunn too,
Who watched by her, is missing. If she should
Be flown—But whither flown? We must call up
Every soul in the house. How will the Duke
Bear up against these worst bad tidings? O
If that my husband now were but returned
Home from the banquet: Hark! I wonder whether
The Duke is still awake! I thought I heard
Voices and tread of feet here! I will go
And listen at the door. Hark! What is that?
'Tis hastening up the steps!

Scene VII

Countess, Gordon.
Gordon
(rushes in out of breath).
[Then observing the Countess.

Countess.
You are come then from the castle? Where's my husband?

Gordon.
Your husband!—Ask not!—To the Duke—

Countess.
Not till
You have discovered to me—

Gordon.
[Calling loudly.

Countess.
Why, he is at the castle with my husband.

[Butler comes from the gallery.
Gordon.
'Twas a mistake—'Tis not the Swedes—it is
The Imperialist's Lieutenant-General
Has sent me hither, will be here himself
Instantly.—You must not proceed.

Butler.
He comes
Too late.

[Gordon dashes himself against the wall.
Gordon.
O God of mercy!

Countess.
What too late?
Who will be here himself? Octavio
In Egra? Treason! Treason! Where's the Duke?

[She rushes to the gallery.

Scene VIII

Servants run across the stage full of terror. The whole Scene must be spoken entirely without pauses.
Seni
(from the gallery).
O bloody frightful deed!

Countess.
What is it, Seni?

Page
(from the gallery).
O piteous sight!

[Other Servants hasten in with torches.
Countess.
What is it? For God's sake!

Seni.
And do you ask?
Within the Duke lies murder'd—and your husband
Assassinated at the Castle.

[The Countess stands motionless.
Female Servant
(rushing across the stage).
Help! Help! the Duchess!

Burgomaster
(enters).
What mean these confused
Loud cries, that wake the sleepers of this house?

Gordon.
Your house is cursed to all eternity.
In your house doth the Duke lie murdered!

Burgomaster
(rushing out).
Heaven forbid!

First Servant.
Fly! fly! they murder us all!

Second Servant
(carrying silver plate).
That way! The lower
Passages are blocked up.

Voice
(from behind the Scene).
Make room for the Lieutenant-General!

[At these words the Countess starts from her stupor, collects herself, and retires suddenly.
Voice
(from behind the Scene).
Keep back the people! Guard the door.

Scene IX

To these enters Octavio Piccolomini with all his train. At the same time Devereux and Macdonald enter from out the Corridor with the Halberdiers. Wallenstein's dead body is carried over the back part of the stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson tapestry.
Octavio
(entering abruptly).
It must not be! It is not possible!
Butler! Gordon!
I'll not believe it. Say no!

[Gordon without answering points with his hand to the body of Wallenstein as it is carried over the back of the stage. Octavio looks that way, and stands overpowered with horror.
Devereux
(to Butler).
Here is the golden fleece—the Duke's sword—

Macdonald.
Is it your order—

Butler
(pointing to Octavio).
Here stands he who now
Hath the sole power to issue orders.

[Devereux and Macdonald retire with marks of obeisance. One drops away after the other, till only Butler, Octavio, and Gordon remain on the stage.
Octavio
(turning to Butler).
Was that my purpose, Butler, when we parted?
O God of Justice!
To thee I lift my hand! I am not guilty
Of this foul deed.

Butler.
Your hand is pure. You have
Availed yourself of mine.

Octavio.
Merciless man!
Thus to abuse the orders of thy Lord—
And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder,
With bloody, most accursed assassination!

Butler.
I've but fulfilled the Emperor's own sentence.

Octavio.
O curse of Kings,
Infusing a dread life into their words,
And linking to the sudden transient thought
The unchangeable irrevocable deed.
Was there necessity for such an eager
Despatch? Could'st thou not grant the merciful
A time for mercy? Time is man's good Angel.
To leave no interval between the sentence,
And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem
God only, the immutable!

Butler.
For what
Rail you against me? What is my offence?
The Empire from a fearful enemy
Have I delivered, and expect reward.
The single difference betwixt you and me
Is this: you placed the arrow in the bow;
I pulled the string. You sowed blood, and yet stand
Astonished that blood is come up. I always
Knew what I did, and therefore no result
Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit.
Have you aught else to order?—for this instant
I make my best speed to Vienna; place
My bleeding sword before my Emperor's throne,
And hope to gain the applause which undelaying
And punctual obedience may demand
From a just judge.

[Exit Butler.

Scene X

To these enter the Countess Tertsky, pale and disordered. Her utterance is slow and feeble, and unimpassioned.
Octavio
(meeting her).
O Countess Tertsky! These are the results
Of luckless unblest deeds.

Countess.
They are the fruits
Of your contrivances. The Duke is dead,
My husband too is dead, the Duchess struggles
In the pangs of death, my niece has disappeared.
This house of splendour, and of princely glory,
Doth now stand desolated: the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein; I shut it up, and here deliver
The keys.

Octavio.
O Countess! my house too is desolate.

Countess.
Who next is to be murdered? Who is next
To be maltreated? Lo! The Duke is dead.
The Emperor's vengeance may be pacified!
Spare the old servants; let not their fidelity
Be imputed to the faithful as a crime—
The evil destiny surprised my brother
Too suddenly; he could not think on them.

Octavio.
Speak not of vengeance! Speak not of maltreatment!
The Emperor is appeased; the heavy fault
Hath heavily been expiated—nothing
Descended from the father to the daughter,
Except his glory and his services.
The Empress honours your adversity,
Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you
Her motherly arms! Therefore no farther fears!
Yield yourself up in hope and confidence
To the Imperial Grace!

Countess.
To the grace and mercy of a greater Master
Do I yield up myself. Where shall the body
Of the Duke have its place of final rest?
In the Chartreuse, which he himself did found,
At Gitschin rests the Countess Wallenstein;
And by her side, to whom he was indebted
For his first fortunes, gratefully he wished
He might sometime repose in death! O let him
Be buried there. And likewise, for my husband's
Remains, I ask the like grace. The Emperor
Is now proprietor of all our castles.
This sure may well be granted us—one sepulchre
Beside the sepulchres of our forefathers!

Octavio.
Countess, you tremble, you turn pale!

Countess.
You think
More worthily of me, than to believe
I would survive the downfall of my house.
We did not hold ourselves too mean to grasp
After a monarch's crown—the crown did fate
Deny, but not the feeling and the spirit
That to the crown belong! We deem a
Courageous death more worthy of our free station
Than a dishonoured life.—I have taken poison.

Octavio.
Help! Help! Support her!

Countess.
Nay, it is too late.
In a few moments is my fate accomplished.

[Exit Countess.
Gordon.
O house of death and horrors!

[An officer enters, and brings a letter with the great seal.
Gordon
(steps forward and meets him).
What is this?
It is the Imperial Seal.
[He reads the Address, and delivers the letter to Octavio with a look of reproach, and with an emphasis on the word.
To the Prince Piccolomini.

[Octavio, with his whole frame expressive of sudden anguish, raises his eyes to heaven.
(The curtain drops.)

REMORSE

PREFACE

This Tragedy was written in the summer and autumn of the year 1797; at Nether Stowey, in the county of Somerset. By whose recommendation, and of the manner in which both the Play and the Author were treated by the Recommender, let me be permitted to relate: that I knew of its having been received only by a third person; that I could procure neither answer nor the manuscript; and that but for an accident I should have had no copy of the Work itself. That such treatment would damp a young man's exertions may be easily conceived: there was no need of after-misrepresentation and calumny, as an additional sedative.

As an amusing anecdote, and in the wish to prepare future Authors, as young as I then was and as ignorant of the world, of the treatment they may meet with, I will add, that the Person who by a twice conveyed recommendation (in the year 1797) had urged me to write a Tragedy: who on my own objection that I was utterly ignorant of all Stage-tactics had promised that he would himself make the necessary alterations, if the Piece should be at all representable; who together with the copy of the Play (hastened by his means so as to prevent the full developement of the characters) received a letter from the Author to this purport, ‘that conscious of his inexperience, he had cherished no expectations, and should therefore feel no disappointment from the rejection of the Play; but that if beyond his hopes Mr. — found in it any capability of being adapted to the Stage, it was delivered to him as if it had been his own Manuscript, to add, omit, or alter, as he saw occasion; and that (if it were rejected) the Author would deem himself amply remunerated by the addition to his Experience, which he should receive, if Mr. — would point out to him the nature of its unfitness for public Representation’;

—that this very Person returned me no answer, and, spite of repeated applications, retained my Manuscript when I was not conscious of any other Copy being in existence (my duplicate having been destroyed by an accident); that he suffered this Manuscript to wander about the Town from his house, so that but ten days ago I saw the song in the third Act printed and set to music, without my name, by Mr. Carnaby, in the year 1802; likewise that the same person asserted (as I have been assured) that the Play was rejected, because I would not submit to the alteration of one ludicrous line; and finally in the year 1806 amused and delighted (as who was ever in his company, if I may trust the universal report, without being amused and delighted?) a large company at the house of a highly respectable Member of Parliament, with the ridicule of the Tragedy, as ‘a fair specimen’, of the whole of which he adduced a line:

‘Drip! drip! drip! there's nothing here but dripping.’

In the original copy of the Play, in the first Scene of the fourth Act, Isidore had commenced his Soliloquy in the Cavern with the words:

‘Drip! drip! a ceaseless sound of water-drops,’

as far as I can at present recollect: for on the possible ludicrous association being pointed out to me, I instantly and thankfully struck out the line. And as to my obstinate tenacity, not only my old acquaintance, but (I dare boldly aver) both the Managers of Drury Lane Theatre, and every Actor and Actress, whom I have recently met in the Green Room, will repel the accusation: perhaps not without surprise.

I thought it right to record these circumstances; but I turn gladly and with sincere gratitude to the converse. In the close of last year I was advised to present the Tragedy once more to the Theatre. Accordingly having altered the names, I ventured to address a letter to Mr. Whitbread, requesting information as to whom I was to present my Tragedy. My Letter was instantly and most kindly answered, and I have now nothing to tell but a Tale of Thanks. I should scarce know where to begin, if the goodness of the Manager, Mr. Arnold, had not called for my first acknowledgements. Not merely as an acting Play, but as a dramatic Poem, the ‘Remorse’ has been importantly and manifoldly benefited by his suggestions. I can with severest truth say, that every hint he gave me was the ground of some improvement. In the next place it is my duty to mention Mr. Raymond, the Stage Manager. Had the ‘Remorse’ been his own Play—nay, that is saying too little—had I been his brother, or his dearest friend, he could not have felt or exerted himself more zealously.

As the Piece is now acting, it may be thought presumptuous in me to speak of the Actors; yet how can I abstain, feeling, as I do, Mrs. Glover's powerful assistance, and knowing the circumstances under which she consented to act Alhadra? A time will come, when without painfully oppressing her feelings, I may speak of this more fully. To Miss Smith I have an equal,

though different acknowledgement to make, namely, for her acceptance of a character not fully developed, and quite inadequate to her extraordinary powers. She enlivened and supported many passages, which (though not perhaps wholly uninteresting in the closet) would but for her have hung heavy on the ears of a Theatrical Audience. And in speaking the Epilogue, a composition which (I fear) my hurry will hardly excuse, and which, as unworthy of her name, is here omitted, she made a sacrifice, which only her established character with all judges of Tragic action, could have rendered compatible with her duty to herself. To Mr. De Camp's judgement and full conception of Isidore; to Mr. Pope's accurate representation of the partial, yet honourable Father; to Mr. Elliston's energy in the character of Alvar, and who in more than one instance gave it beauties and striking points, which not only delighted but surprised me; and to Mr. Rae, to whose zeal, and unwearied study of his part, I am not less indebted as a Man, than to his impassioned realization of Ordonio, as an Author;—to these, and to all concerned with the bringing out of the Play, I can address but one word— Thanks!—but that word is uttered sincerely! and to persons constantly before the eye of the Public, a public acknowledgement becomes appropriate, and a duty.

I defer all answers to the different criticisms on the Piece to an Essay, which I am about to publish immediately, on Dramatic Poetry, relatively to the present State of the Metropolitan Theatres.

From the necessity of hastening the Publication I was obliged to send the Manuscript intended for the Stage: which is the sole cause of the number of directions printed in italics.

PROLOGUE

There are, I am told, who sharply criticise
Our modern theatres' unwieldy size.
We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,
Who think a house can never be too large:
Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,
Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;
And pleased to mark the grin from space to space
Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.—
O might old Betterton or Booth return
To view our structures from their silent urn,
Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,
Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades—
Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,
He imitates the ways of men above,
And apes the actions of our upper coast,
As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:—
How might they bless our ampler scope to please,
And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.—
Their houses yet were palaces to those,
Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose.
Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage,
Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage,
Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage.
He who could tame his vast ambition down
To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,
And, if some hundred auditors supplied
Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,
How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's
Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands
Return'd the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lack'd the balm of labour, female praise.
Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,
Or came to see a youth with awkward art
And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.
The very use, since so essential grown,
Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,
The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest—
The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,
Where Jaques fed his solitary vein—
No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,
Seen only by the intellectual eye.
Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,
Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,
That (be the laurel granted or denied)
He first essay'd in this distinguished fane,
Severer muses and a tragic strain.

EPILOGUE

[Poring over the manuscript.
An heiress, and with sighing swains in plenty
From blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,
Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,
‘A six years' absence was a heavy thing!’
Heavy!—nay, let's describe things as they are,
With sense and nature 'twas at open war—
Mere affectation to be singular.
Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,
Think first of poor Teresa's education;
'Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,
Where sea-gales play'd with her dishevel'd locks,
Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,
With no Academies for ladies young—
Academies—(sweet phrase!) that well may claim
From Plato's sacred grove th' appropriate name!
No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances—
And then for reading—what but huge romances,
With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind 'em,
As the brass-clasp'd, brass-corner'd boards that bind 'em.
Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,
And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;
Or saintly hermits' wonder-raising acts,
Instead of—novels founded upon facts!
Which, decently immoral, have the art
To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!
Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,
Dire disimproving disadvantages,
And grounds for pity, not for blame, you'll see,
E'en in Teresa's six years' constancy.
[Looking at the manuscript.
But stop! what's this?—Our Poet bids me say,
That he has woo'd your feelings in this Play
By no too real woes, that make you groan,
Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,
Yet with no image compensate the mind,
Nor leave one joy for memory behind.
He'd wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,
To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tear
That Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.
Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss),
By no loud plaudits saved, damn'd by no factious hiss.

REMORSE

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE 1813–1834.

• Marquis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, and Doña Teresa's
• Guardian.
• Don Alvar, the eldest son.
• Don Ordonio, the youngest son.
• Monviedro, a Dominican and Inquisitor.
• Zulimez, the faithful attendant on Alvar.
• Isidore, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian.
• Familiars of the Inquisition.
• Naomi.
• Moors, Servants, &c.
• Doña Teresa, an Orphan Heiress.
• Alhadra, Wife of Isidore.
• Familiars of the Inquisition.
• Moors, Servants, &c.

Time. The reign of Philip II., just at the close of the civil wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged against them, shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing of Moresco apparel under pain of death.

ACT I

Scene I

The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada.
Don Alvar, wrapt in a Boat cloak, and Zulimez (a Moresco), both as just landed.
Zulimez.
No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!

Alvar.
My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment
Let me forget my anguish and their crimes.
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,
'Tis surely this—after long years of exile,
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,
To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.
Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I press
Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!

Zulimez.
Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar,
Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.
It is too hazardous! reveal yourself,
And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!

Alvar.
Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother,
Injured indeed! O deeply injured! yet
Ordonio's brother.

Zulimez.
Nobly-minded Alvar!
This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.

Alvar.
The more behoves it I should rouse within him
Remorse! that I should save him from himself.

Zulimez.
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows:
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost
Weeps only tears of poison!

Alvar.
And of a brother,
Dare I hold this, unproved? nor make one effort
To save him?—Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee,
That this same life, which he conspired to take,
Himself once rescued from the angry flood,
And at the imminent hazard of his own.
Add too my oath—

Zulimez.
You have thrice told already
The years of absence and of secrecy,
To which a forced oath bound you; if in truth
A suborned murderer have the power to dictate
A binding oath—

Alvar.
My long captivity
Left me no choice: the very wish too languished
With the fond hope that nursed it; the sick babe
Drooped at the bosom of its famished mother.
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,
No motive could have tempted him to falsehood:
In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience,
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose
The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,
Fell from his palsied hand—

Zulimez.
Heavy presumption!

Alvar.
It weighed not with me—Hark! I will tell thee all;
As we passed by, I bade thee mark the base
Of yonder cliff—

Zulimez.
That rocky seat you mean,
Shaped by the billows?—

Alvar.

Zulimez.
Proceed, my lord!

Alvar.
A portrait which she had procured by stealth,
(For even then it seems her heart foreboded
Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry)
A portrait of herself with thrilling hand
She tied around my neck, conjuring me,
With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred
To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,
Till she had won a solemn promise from me,
That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it
Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew,
Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.

Zulimez.
A damning proof!

Alvar.
My own life wearied me!
And but for the imperative voice within,
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.
That voice, which quelled me, calmed me: and I sought
The Belgic states: there joined the better cause;
And there too fought as one that courted death!
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,
In death-like trance: a long imprisonment followed.
The fulness of my anguish by degrees
Waned to a meditative melancholy;
And still the more I mused, my soul became
More doubtful, more perplexed; and still Teresa,
Night after night, she visited my sleep,
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!
Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason,
I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!
Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.—
The Moorish robes?—

Zulimez.
All, all are in the sea-cave,
Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners
Secrete the boat there.

Alvar.
Above all, the picture
Of the assassination—

Zulimez.
Be assured
That it remains uninjured.

Alvar.
Thus disguised
I will first seek to meet Ordonio's—wife!
If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,
And this the hour; her words, her very looks
Will acquit her or convict.

Zulimez.
Will they not know you?

Alvar.
With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly
Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion,
My long imprisonment, the scanty food,
This scar—and toil beneath a burning sun,
Have done already half the business for us.
Add too my youth, since last we saw each other.
Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice
A hoarser note—Besides, they think me dead:
And what the mind believes impossible,
The bodily sense is slow to recognize.

Zulimez.
'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey.
Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock,
Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,
I'll seek our mariners; and in the dusk
Transport whate'er we need to the small dell
In the Alpujarras—there where Zagri lived.

Alvar.
[Both stand listening.
[Exeunt.

Scene II

Enter Teresa and Valdez.
Teresa.
I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son
And Alvar's brother.

Valdez.
Love him for himself,
Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

Teresa.
I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez,
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

Valdez.
Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
Thy dying father comes upon my soul
With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
The victim of a useless constancy.
I must not see thee wretched.

Teresa.
There are woes
Ill bartered for the garishness of joy!
If it be wretched with an untired eye
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,
My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze,
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
All past hours of delight! If it be wretched
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune
He used to play, and listened to the shadow
Herself had made)—if this be wretchedness,
And if indeed it be a wretched thing
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
That I had died, died just ere his return!
Then see him listening to my constancy,
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;
Or haply in some more fantastic mood,
To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers
Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,
And there to wait his coming! O my sire!
My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness
That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
If in a most assured reality
He should return, and see a brother's infant
Smile at him from my arms?
Oh what a thought!

Valdez.
A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.
The very week he promised his return—

Teresa.
Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,
After those three years' travels! we had no fears—
The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter.
Almost endeared his absence! Yet the gladness,
The tumult of our joy! What then if now—

Valdez.
O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,
Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!
Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant fancies—
Hectic and unrefreshed with rest—

Teresa.
My father!

Valdez.
The sober truth is all too much for me!
I see no sail which brings not to my mind
The home-bound bark in which my son was captured
By the Algerine—to perish with his captors!

Teresa.
Oh no! he did not!

Valdez.
Captured in sight of land!
From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower
We might have seen—

Teresa.
His capture, not his death.

Valdez.
Alas! how aptly thou forget'st a tale
Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio
Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,
In the same storm that baffled his own valour,
And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes:
Gallant Ordonio! O beloved Teresa,
Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou
His brother happy, make his aged father
Sink to the grave in joy.

Teresa.
For mercy's sake
Press me no more! I have no power to love him.
His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,
Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night:
My love, a timorous and tender flower,
Closes beneath his touch.

Valdez.
You wrong him, maiden!
You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well
To character by such unkindly phrases
The stir and workings of that love for you
Which he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well,
Nor is it grateful in you to forget
His wounds and perilous voyages, and how
With an heroic fearlessness of danger
He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.
It was not well—You have moved me even to tears.

Teresa.
Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,
A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried
Beyond myself, if I but hear of one
Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not
Born in one day, like twins of the same parent?
Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
A six years' absence is a heavy thing,
Yet still the hope survives—

Valdez
(looking forward).
Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

Teresa.
The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood?

Enter Monviedro with Alhadra.
Monviedro.
Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord,
My present need is with your son.
We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he.
Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio.
My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

Ordonio.
Hail, reverend father! what may be the business?

Monviedro.
My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse
To his false creed, so recently abjured,
The secret servants of the Inquisition
Have seized her husband, and at my command
To the supreme tribunal would have led him,
But that he made appeal to you, my lord,
As surety for his soundness in the faith.
Though lessoned by experience what small trust
The asseverations of these Moors deserve,
Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,
Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour
The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,
Thus far prevailed with me that—

Ordonio.
Reverend father,
I am much beholden to your high opinion,
Which so o'erprizes my light services.
[Then to Alhadra.
I would that I could serve you; but in truth
Your face is new to me.

Monviedro.
My mind foretold me
That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez,
'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio,
That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely
Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,
Should prove the patron of this infidel!
The warranter of a Moresco's faith!
Now I return.

Alhadra.
My Lord, my husband's name
Is Isidore. (Ordonio starts.)
You may remember it:
Three years ago, three years this very week,
You left him at Almeria.

Monviedro.
Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my lord,
(You needs must recollect it by your wound)
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!
What, is he ill, my Lord? how strange he looks!

Valdez.
You pressed upon him too abruptly, father!
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.

Ordonio.
O Heavens! I?—I doted?
Yes! I doted on him.

[Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, Valdez follows.
Teresa.
I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard?
Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me?—Yet I feel it!

Monviedro.
The drops did start and stand upon his forehead!
I will return. In very truth, I grieve
To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman!

Alhadra
(to Teresa).
O gentle lady! make the father stay,
Until my lord recover. I am sure,
That he will say he is my husband's friend.

Teresa.
Stay, father! stay! my lord will soon recover.

Ordonio
(as they return, to Valdez).
Strange, that this Monviedro
Should have the power so to distemper me!

Valdez.
Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!

Monviedro.
My lord, I truly grieve—

Ordonio.
Tut! name it not.
A sudden seizure, father! think not of it.
As to this woman's husband, I do know him.
I know him well, and that he is a Christian.

Monviedro.
I hope, my lord, your merely human pity
Doth not prevail—

Ordonio.
'Tis certain that he was a catholic;
What changes may have happened in three years.
I can not say; but grant me this, good father:
Myself I'll sift him: if I find him sound,
You'll grant me your authority and name
To liberate his house.

Monviedro.
Your zeal, my lord,
And your late merits in this holy warfare
Would authorize an ampler trust—you have it.

Ordonio.
I will attend you home within an hour.

Valdez.
Meantime return with us and take refreshment.

Alhadra.
Not till my husband's free! I may not do it.
I will stay here.

Teresa
(aside).
Who is this Isidore?

Valdez.
Daughter!

Teresa.
With your permission, my dear lord,
I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze.

[Exeunt Valdez, Monviedro and Ordonio.
Alhadra.
Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him,
A scathing curse!
You hate him, don't you, lady?

Teresa.
Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you.

Alhadra.
These fell inquisitors! these sons of blood!
As I came on, his face so maddened me,
That ever and anon I clutched my dagger
And half unsheathed it—

Teresa.
Be more calm, I pray you.

Alhadra.
And as he walked along the narrow path
Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager;
'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
That his Familiars held my babes and husband.
To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge,
And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice,
O, it had been most sweet!

Teresa.
Hush! hush for shame!
Where is your woman's heart?

Alhadra.
O gentle lady!
You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,
Many and strange! Besides, I am a Christian,
And Christians never pardon—'tis their faith!

Teresa.
Shame fall on those who so have shewn it to thee!

Alhadra.
I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me.
Five years ago (and he was the prime agent),
Five years ago the holy brethren seized me.

Teresa.
What might your crime be?

Alhadra.
I was a Moresco!
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison house,
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
It was a toil to breathe it! when the door,
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down.
Oh miserable! by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
Brought daily; for the little wretch was sickly—
My rage had dried away its natural food.
In darkness I remained—the dull bell counting,
Which haply told me, that the all-cheering sun
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed,
My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers
And waked me.—If you were a mother, lady,
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.

Teresa.
O Heaven! it is too horrible to hear.

Alhadra.
What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
That such as you should hear it.—Know you not,
What nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal?
Great evils ask great passions to redress them,
And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

Teresa.
You were at length released?

Alhadra.
Yes, at length
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven!
'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more—
For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady,
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again
All I then was—my knees hang loose and drag,
And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh,
That you would start and shudder!

Teresa.
But your husband—

Alhadra.
A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady.

Teresa.
Alas, poor man!

Alhadra.
He hath a lion's courage,
Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance;
Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart
He worships nature in the hill and valley,
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all—

Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments.
Teresa.
Know you that stately Moor?

Alhadra.
I know him not:
But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain,
Who hides himself among the Alpujarras.

Teresa.
The Alpujarras? Does he know his danger,
So near this seat?

Alhadra.
He wears the Moorish robes too,
As in defiance of the royal edict.

[Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has walked to the back of the stage, near the rocks. Teresa drops her veil.
Alhadra.
Gallant Moresco! An inquisitor,
Monviedro, of known hatred to our race—

Alvar.
You have mistaken me. I am a Christian.

Alhadra.
He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him:
Speak to him, Lady—none can hear you speak,
And not believe you innocent of guile.

Teresa.
If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir—

Alhadra.
He trembles strangely.

[Alvar sinks down and hides his face in his robe.
Teresa.
See, we have disturbed him.
[Approaches nearer to him.
I pray you, think us friends—uncowl your face,
For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing.
I pray you, think us friends!

Alvar
(raising his head).
Calm, very calm!
'Tis all too tranquil for reality!
And she spoke to me with her innocent voice,
That voice, that innocent voice! She is no traitress!

Teresa.
Let us retire

(haughtily to Alhadra).
Alhadra.
He is indeed a Christian.

Alvar
(aside).
She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment!
Why should my brother's—wife—wear mourning garments?
[To Teresa.
Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturbed you:
I had just started from a frightful dream.

Teresa.
Dreams tell but of the past, and yet, 'tis said,
They prophesy—

Alvar.
The Past lives o'er again
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit
The ever-frowning Present is its image.

Teresa.
Traitress!
(Then aside.)
What sudden spell o'ermasters me?
Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman?

Alvar.
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant
With blindest trust, and a betrothéd maid,
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me:
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her.
This maid so idolized, that trusted friend
Dishonoured in my absence, soul and body!
Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt,
And murderers were suborned against my life.
But by my looks, and most impassioned words,
I roused the virtues that are dead in no man,
Even in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms,
And thanked me for redeeming them from murder.

Alhadra.
You are lost in thought: hear him no more, sweet Lady!

Teresa.
From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
And slight things bring on me the idle mood!
Well sir, what happened then?

Alvar.
On a rude rock,
A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs,
Whose thready leaves to the low-breathing gale
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
I stayed, as though the hour of death were passed,
And I were sitting in the world of spirits—
For all things seemed unreal! There I sate—
The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,
Black, sultry, close! and ere the midnight hour
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear,
That woods, and sky, and mountains, seemed one havock.
The second flash of lightning shewed a tree
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous:
My soul worked high, I bared my head to the storm,
And with loud voice and clamorous agony,
Kneeling I prayed to the great Spirit that made me,
Prayed, that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable
As the gored lion's bite!

Teresa.
A fearful curse!

Alhadra.
But dreamt you not that you returned and killed them?
Dreamt you of no revenge?

Alvar.
She would have died
Died in her guilt—perchance by her own hands!
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds,
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy,
And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
I prayed for the punishment that cleanses hearts:
For still I loved her!

Alhadra.
And you dreamt all this?

Teresa.
My soul is full of visions all as wild!

Alhadra.
There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales.

Teresa
(lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvar).
Stranger, farewell! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so addressed your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplexed me,
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escaped my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pampered with long wishing.
If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling,
Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream,
Drove you to this, your not ungentle, wildness—
You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
But if some undiscovered wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio,
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.

[Exeunt Teresa and Alhadra.
Alvar
(alone).
'Tis strange! It cannot be! my Lord Ordonio!
Her Lord Ordonio! Nay, I will not do it!
I cursed him once—and one curse is enough!
How sad she looked, and pale! but not like guilt—
And her calm tones—sweet as a song of mercy!
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent?
Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her?
But ere she married him, he had stained her honour;
Ah! there I am hampered. What if this were a lie
Framed by the assassin? Who should tell it him,
If it were truth? Ordonio would not tell him.
Yet why one lie? all else, I know, was truth.
No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience!
And she referred to me—fondly, methought!
Could she walk here if she had been a traitress?
Here where we played together in our childhood?
Here where we plighted vows? where her cold cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppressed feelings
She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
'Tis not in nature! I will die believing,
That I shall meet her where no evil is,
No treachery, no cup dashed from the lips.
I'll haunt this scene no more! live she in peace!
Her husband—aye her husband! May this angel
New mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, heaven,
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!

[Exit.

ACT II

Scene I

A wild and mountainous country. Ordonio and Isidore are discovered, supposed at a little distance from Isidore's house.
Ordonio.
Here we may stop: your house distinct in view,
Yet we secured from listeners.

Isidore.
Now indeed
My house! and it looks cheerful as the clusters
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock,
That over-brows it! Patron! Friend! Preserver!
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle
You gave it me: next rescued me from suicide
When for my follies I was made to wander,
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them:
Now but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones
Had been my bed and pillow.

Ordonio.
Good Isidore!
Why this to me? It is enough, you know it.

Isidore.
A common trick of gratitude, my lord,
Seeking to ease her own full heart—

Ordonio.
Enough!
A debt repaid ceases to be a debt.
You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

Isidore.
And how, my lord? I pray you to name the thing.
I would climb up an ice-glazed precipice
To pluck a weed you fancied!

Ordonio.
Why—that—Lady—

Isidore.
'Tis now three years, my lord, since last I saw you:
Have you a son, my lord?

Ordonio.
O miserable—
[Aside.
Isidore! you are a man, and know mankind.
I told you what I wished—now for the truth—
She loved the man you kill'd.

Isidore.
You jest, my lord?

Ordonio.
And till his death is proved she will not wed me.

Isidore.
You sport with me, my lord?

Ordonio.
Come, come! this foolery
Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it!

Isidore.
I can bear this, and any thing more grievous
From you, my lord—but how can I serve you here?

Ordonio.
Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture
Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning,
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics—

Isidore.
I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

Ordonio.
In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer.
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true:
Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense!
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her.
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye:
And such do love the marvellous too well
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
With a strange music, that she knows not of—
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery,
Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

Isidore.
Will that be a sure sign?

Ordonio.
Beyond suspicion.
Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover,
(By some base spell he had bewitched her senses)
She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth,
As made this heart pour gall into my veins.
And as she coyly bound it round his neck
She made him promise silence; and now holds
The secret of the existence of this portrait
Known only to her lover and herself.
But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them,
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.

Isidore.
But now I should have cursed the man who told me
You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse—
But this I can not do.

Ordonio.
Where lies your scruple?

Isidore.
Why—why, my lord!
You know you told me that the lady lov'd you,
Had loved you with incautious tenderness;
That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,
Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both
Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples
Than those which being native to the heart,
Than those, my lord, which merely being a man—

Ordonio.
This fellow is a Man—he killed for hire
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples!
[Then turning to Isidore.
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering—
Pish, fool! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt,
Spelling thy villainy.

Isidorc.
My lord—my lord,
I can bear much—yes, very much from you!
But there's a point where sufferance is meanness:
I am no villain—never kill'd for hire—
My gratitude—

Ordonio.
O aye—your gratitude!
'Twas a well-sounding word—what have you done with it?

Isidore.
Who proffers his past favours for my virtue—

Ordonio.
Virtue—

Isidore.
Tries to o'erreach me—is a very sharper,
And should not speak of gratitude, my lord.
I knew not 'twas your brother!

Ordonio.
And who told you?

Isidore.
He himself told me.

Ordonio.
Ha! you talk'd with him!
And those, the two Morescoes who were with you?

Isidore.
Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga.

Ordonio
(in a low voice).
My brother—

Isidore.
Yes, my lord, I could not tell you!
I thrust away the thought—it drove me wild.
But listen to me now—I pray you listen—

Ordonio.
Villain! no more. I'll hear no more of it.

Isidore.
My lord, it much imports your future safety
That you should hear it.

Ordonio
(turning off from Isidore).
Am not I a man!
'Tis as it should be! tut—the deed itself
Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler!

Isidore.
We met him in the very place you mentioned.
Hard by a grove of firs—

Ordonio.
Enough—enough—

Isidore.
He fought us valiantly, and wounded all;
In fine, compelled a parley.

Ordonio.
Alvar! brother!

Isidore.
He offered me his purse—

Ordonio.
Yes?

Isidore.
Yes—I spurned it.—
He promised us I know not what—in vain!
Then with a look and voice that overawed me,
He said, What mean you, friends? My life is dear:
I have a brother and a promised wife,
Who make life dear to me—and if I fall,
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
There was a likeness in his face to yours;
I asked his brother's name: he said—Ordonio,
Son of Lord Valdez! I had well nigh fainted.
At length I said (if that indeed I said it,
And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ,)
That woman is dishonoured by that brother,
And he the man who sent us to destroy you.
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him
He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd
As he had been made of the rock that propt his back—
Aye, just as you look now—only less ghastly!
At length recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life,
It was not worth his keeping.

Ordonio.
And you kill'd him?
Oh blood hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
He was his Maker's Image undefac'd!
It seizes me—by Hell I will go on!
What—would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't save thee!
Oh cold—cold—cold! shot through with icy cold!

Isidore
(aside).
Were he alive he had returned ere now.
The consequence the same—dead through his plotting!

Ordonio.

Isidore.
You are disturbed, my lord!

Ordonio
(starts).
A gust of the soul! i'faith it overset me.
O 'twas all folly—all! idle as laughter!
Now, Isidore! I swear that thou shalt aid me.

Isidore
(in a low voice).
I'll perish first!

Ordonio.
What dost thou mutter of?

Isidore.
Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

Ordonio.
There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.

Isidore.
They'll know my gait: but stay! last night I watched
A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild flowers.
I had followed him at distance, seen him scale
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
Stole after him unnoticed. There I marked,
That mid the chequer work of light and shade
With curious choice he plucked no other flowers,
But those on which the moonlight fell: and once
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard—
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.

Ordonio.
Doubtless you question'd him?

Isidore.
'Twas my intention,
Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies
Lurk every where, already (as it seemed)
Had given commission to his apt familiar
To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning,
Was by this trusty agent stopped midway.
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
In that lone place, again concealed myself:
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,
And in your name, as lord of this domain,
Proudly he answered, ‘Say to the Lord Ordonio,
He that can bring the dead to life again!’

Ordonio.
A strange reply!

Isidore.
Aye, all of him is strange.
He called himself a Christian, yet he wears
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death.

Ordonio.
Where does this wizard live?

Isidore
(pointing to the distance).
You see that brooklet?
Trace its course backward: through a narrow opening
It leads you to the place.

Ordonio.
How shall I know it?

Isidore.
You cannot err. It is a small green dell
Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
And round its banks tall wood that branches over,
And makes a kind of faery forest grow
Down in the water. At the further end
A puny cataract falls on the lake;
And there, a curious sight! you see its shadow
For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke,
Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it.

Ordonio
(in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and then turning round to Isidore).
Ha!—Who lurks there! Have we been overheard?
There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters—

Isidore.
'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the other,
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch?
Pardon my smiles! 'Tis a poor idiot boy,
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears.
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head,
And staring at his bough from morn to sun-set,
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises.

Ordonio.
'Tis well, and now for this same wizard's lair.

Isidore.
Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
O'er the old thatch.

Ordonio.
I shall not fail to find it.

[Exeunt Ordonio and Isidore.

Scene II

The inside of a Cottage, around which flowers and plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Alvar, Zulimez and Alhadra, as on the point of leaving.
Alhadra
(addressing Alvar).
Farewell then! and though many thoughts perplex me,
Aught evil or ignoble never can I
Suspect of thee! If what thou seem'st thou art,
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need
Of such a leader.

Alvar.
[Exit Alhadra.

Zulimez.
And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours,
You let a murderer hold?

Alvar.
O faithful Zulimez!
That my return involved Ordonio's death,
I trust, would give me an unmingled pang,
Yet bearable:—but when I see my father
Strewing his scant grey hairs, e'en on the ground,
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa—
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants
His infants—poor Teresa!—all would perish,
All perish—all! and I (nay bear with me)
Could not survive the complicated ruin!

Zulimez.

Alvar.
What if it were my brother coming onwards?
I sent a most mysterious message to him.

Enter Ordonio
Alvar.
It is he!

Ordonio
(to himself as he enters).
If I distinguish'd right her gait and stature,
It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife,
That passed me as I entered. A lit taper,
In the night air, doth not more naturally
Attract the night-flies round it, than a conjuror
Draws round him the whole female neighbourhood.
[Addressing Alvar.
You know my name, I guess, if not my person.
I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez.

Alvar.
The Son of Valdez!

[Ordonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks attentively at the plants.
Zulimez
(to Alvar).
Why, what ails you now?
How your hand trembles! Alvar, speak! what wish you?

Alvar.
To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness!

Ordonio
(returning, and aloud).

Alvar.
I am he.

Ordonio.
With you, then, I am to speak:
[Haughtily waving his hand to Zulimez.
And mark you, alone.
[Exit Zulimez.
‘He that can bring the dead to life again!’—
Such was your message, Sir! You are no dullard,
But one that strips the outward rind of things!

Alvar.
'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds,
That are all dust and rottenness within.
Would'st thou I should strip such?

Ordonio.
Thou quibbling fool,
What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journeyed hither
To sport with thee?

Alvar.
O no, my lord! to sport
Best suits the gaiety of innocence.

Ordonio
(aside).
[Looks round the cottage.

Alvar.
What follows thence?

Ordonio.
That you would fain be richer.
The inquisition, too—You comprehend me?
You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power,
Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty:
And for the boon I ask of you but this,
That you should serve me—once—for a few hours.

Alvar.
Thou art the son of Valdez! would to Heaven
That I could truly and for ever serve thee.

Ordonio.
[Aside.

Alvar
(aside).
Alas! this hollow mirth—Declare your business.

Ordonio.
I love a lady, and she would love me
But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
Have you no servants here, no listeners?

[Ordonio steps to the door.
Alvar.
What, faithless too? False to his angel wife?
To such a wife? Well might'st thou look so wan,
Ill-starr'd Teresa!—Wretch! my softer soul
Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience!

Ordonio.
In truth this lady lov'd another man,
But he has perish'd.

Alvar.
What! you kill'd him? hey?

Ordonio.
[Turns abruptly from Alvar, and then to himself.

Alvar.
Fare thee well—
I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.

[Alvar is retiring.
Ordonio.
Ho!

[Calling to Alvar.
Alvar.
Be brief, what wish you?

Ordonio.
You are deep at bartering—You charge yourself
At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

Alvar.
I listen to you.

Ordonio.
In a sudden tempest
Did Alvar perish—he, I mean—the lover—
The fellow—

Alvar.
Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart
To call him villain!—Why stand'st thou aghast?
Men think it natural to hate their rivals.

Ordonio.
Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me.

Alvar.
Are you not wedded, then? Merciful Heaven!
Not wedded to Teresa?

Ordonio.
Why, what ails thee?
What, art thou mad? why look'st thou upward so?
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air?

Alvar.
Proceed. I shall be silent.

Ordonio.
To Teresa?
Politic wizard! ere you sent that message,
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
In all my fortunes. Hah! you prophesied
A golden crop! Well, you have not mistaken—
Be faithful to me and I'll pay thee nobly.

Alvar.
Well! and this lady!

Ordonio.
If we could make her certain of his death,
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,
She tied a little portrait round his neck,
Entreating him to wear it.

Alvar.
Yes! he did so!

Ordonio.
Why no: he was afraid of accidents,
Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like.
In secrecy he gave it me to keep,
Till his return.

Alvar.
What! he was your friend then?

Ordonio.

Alvar.
Ordonio, I will do it.

Ordonio.
We'll hazard no delay. Be it to-night,
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez.
I will prepare him. Music too, and incense,
(For I have arranged it—music, altar, incense)
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture,
And here, what you will value more, a purse.
Come early for your magic ceremonies.

Alvar.
I will not fail to meet you.

Ordonio.
Till next we meet, farewell!

[Exit Ordonio.
Alvar
(alone, indignantly flings the purse away and gazes passionately at the portrait).

ACT III

Scene I

A Hall of Armory, with an Altar at the back of the Stage. Soft Music from an instrument of Glass or Steel.

Valdez, Ordonio, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered.
Ordonio.
This was too melancholy, Father.

Valdez.
Nay,
My Alvar lov'd sad music from a child.
Once he was lost; and after weary search
We found him in an open place in the wood.
To which spot he had followed a blind boy,
Who breath'd into a pipe of sycamore
Some strangely moving notes: and these, he said,
Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank:
And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,
His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleas'd me
To mark how he had fasten'd round the pipe
A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
Methinks I see him now as he then look'd—
Even so!—He had outgrown his infant dress,
Yet still he wore it.

Alvar
(aside).
My tears must not flow!
I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father!

Enter Teresa and Attendants.
Teresa.
Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here,
And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me)
My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery.

Ordonio.
Believe you then no preternatural influence:
Believe you not that spirits throng around us?

Teresa.
Say rather that I have imagined it
A possible thing: and it has sooth'd my soul
As other fancies have; but ne'er seduced me
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard.
[To Alvar.
Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here,
On such employment! With far other thoughts
I left you.

Ordonio
(aside).
Ha! he has been tampering with her?

Alvar.

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the scene.
Alvar.
[Music.
[Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three words, ‘Hear, Sweet Spirit.’

Behind the Scenes, accompanied by the same Instrument as before.
[A long pause.
Ordonio.
The innocent obey nor charm nor spell!
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit,
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant!
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,
O 'twere a joy to me!

Alvar.
A joy to thee!
What if thou heard'st him now? What if his spirit
Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard?
What (if his stedfast eye still beaming pity
And brother's love) he turn'd his head aside,
Lest he should look at thee, and with one look
Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?

Valdez.
These are unholy fancies!

Ordonio.
Yes, my father,
He is in Heaven!

Alvar
(still to Ordonio).
But what if he had a brother,
Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour,
The name of Heaven would have convulsed his face,
More than the death-pang?

Valdez.
Idly prating man!
Thou hast guess'd ill: Don Alvar's only brother
Stands here before thee—a father's blessing on him!
He is most virtuous.

Alvar
(still to Ordonio).
What, if his very virtues
Had pampered his swoln heart and made him proud?
And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
Yet still he stalked a self-created god,
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning;
And one that at his mother's looking-glass
Would force his features to a frowning sternness?
Young Lord! I tell thee, that there are such beings—
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd,
To see these most proud men, that loath mankind,
At every stir and buzz of coward conscience,
Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites!
Away, away! Now let me hear more music.

[Music again.
Teresa.
'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures!
But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer
Be present at these lawless mysteries,
This dark provoking of the hidden Powers!
Already I affront—if not high Heaven—
Yet Alvar's memory!—Hark! I make appeal
Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence
To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek
That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens,
Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.

Alvar
(to Teresa).
O full of faith and guileless love, thy Spirit
Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt
Surprise the guilty: thou art innocent!
[Exeunt Teresa and Attendant. Music as before.
The spell is mutter'd—Come, thou wandering shape,
Who own'st no master in a human eye,
Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul,
If he be dead, O come! and bring with thee
That which he grasp'd in death! But if he live,
Some token of his obscure perilous life.

[The whole Music clashes into a Chorus.
CHORUS
Wandering demons, hear the spell!
Lest a blacker charm compel—

[The incense on the altar takes fire suddenly, and an illuminated picture of Alvar's assassination is discovered, and having remained a few seconds is then hidden by ascending flames.
Ordonio
(starting).
Duped! duped! duped!—the traitor Isidore!

[At this instant the doors are forced open, Monviedro and the Familiars of the Inquisition, Servants, &c., enter and fill the stage.
Monviedro.
First seize the sorcerer! suffer him not to speak!
The holy judges of the Inquisition
Shall hear his first words.—Look you pale, Lord Valdez?
Plain evidence have we here of most foul sorcery.
There is a dungeon underneath this castle,
And as you hope for mild interpretation,
Surrender instantly the keys and charge of it.

Ordonio
(recovering himself as from stupor, to Servants).
Why haste you not? Off with him to the dungeon!

[All rush out in tumult.

Scene II

Interior of a Chapel, with painted Windows.
Enter Teresa.
Teresa.
When first I entered this pure spot, forebodings
Press'd heavy on my heart: but as I knelt,
Such calm unwonted bliss possess'd my spirit,
A trance so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by,
Of trampling uproar fell upon mine ear
As alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm
Beats on the roof of some fair banquet-room,
While sweetest melodies are warbling—

Enter Valdez.
Valdez.
Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness,
And extricate us from this net of peril!

Teresa.
Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril?

Valdez.
O best Teresa, wisely wert thou prompted!
This was no feat of mortal agency!
That picture—Oh, that picture tells me all!
With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanished,
Self-kindled, self-consum'd: bright as thy life,
Sudden and unexpected as thy fate,
Alvar! My son! My son!—The Inquisitor—

Teresa.
Torture me not! But Alvar—Oh of Alvar?

Valdez.
How often would he plead for these Morescoes!
The brood accurst! remorseless, coward murderers!

Teresa.
So? so?—I comprehend you—He is—

Valdez.
He is no more!

Teresa.
O sorrow! that a father's voice should say this,
A Father's Heart believe it!

Valdez.
A worse sorrow
Are fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairing!

Teresa.
These rays that slant in through those gorgeous windows,
From yon bright orb—though coloured as they pass,
Are they not light?—Even so that voice, Lord Valdez!
Which whispers to my soul, though haply varied
By many a fancy, many a wishful hope,
Speaks yet the truth: and Alvar lives for me!

Valdez.
Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no other,
He has lived for thee—a spirit for thy spirit!
My child, we must not give religious faith
To every voice which makes the heart a listener
To its own wish.

Teresa.
I breath'd to the Unerring
Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd,
Yet impious sorcery, that holds no commune
Save with the lying spirit, claim belief?

Valdez.

Teresa.
Off, false demon,
That beat'st thy black wings close above my head!
[Ordonio enters with the keys of the dungeon in his hand.
Hush! who comes here? The wizard Moor's employer!
Moors were his murderers, you say? Saints shield us
From wicked thoughts—
[Valdez moves towards the back of the stage to meet Ordonio, and during the concluding lines of Teresa's speech appears as eagerly conversing with him.

[Retires out of sight.
Ordonio
(as he advances with Valdez).
These are the dungeon keys. Monviedro knew not,
That I too had received the wizard's message,
‘He that can bring the dead to life again.’
But now he is satisfied, I plann'd this scheme
To work a full conviction on the culprit,
And he entrusts him wholly to my keeping.

Valdez.
'Tis well, my son! But have you yet discovered
(Where is Teresa?) what those speeches meant—
Pride, and hypocrisy, and guilt, and cunning?
Then when the wizard fix'd his eye on you,
And you, I know not why, look'd pale and trembled—
Why—why, what ails you now?—

Ordonio.
Me? what ails me?
A pricking of the blood—It might have happen'd
At any other time.—Why scan you me?

Valdez.
His speech about the corse, and stabs and murderers,
Bore reference to the assassins—

Ordonio.
[A pause, then wildly.

Valdez.
True—sorcery
Merits its doom; and this perchance may guide us
To the discovery of the murderers.
I have their statures and their several faces
So present to me, that but once to meet them
Would be to recognize.

Ordonio.
Yes! yes! we recognize them.
I was benumb'd, and staggered up and down
Through darkness without light—dark—dark—dark!
My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled
As had a snake coil'd round them!—Now 'tis sunshine,
And the blood dances freely through its channels!
[Then to himself.
This is my virtuous, grateful Isidore!
[Then mimicking Isidore's manner and voice.
‘A common trick of gratitude, my lord!’
Old Gratitude! a dagger would dissect
His ‘own full heart’—'twere good to see its colour.

Valdez.
These magic sights! O that I ne'er had yielded
To your entreaties! Neither had I yielded,
But that in spite of your own seeming faith
I held it for some innocent stratagem,
Which love had prompted, to remove the doubts
Of wild Teresa—by fancies quelling fancies!

Ordonio.
Love! love! and then we hate! and what? and wherefore?
Hatred and love! fancies opposed by fancies!
What? if one reptile sting another reptile?
Where is the crime? The goodly face of nature
Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon it.
Are we not all predestined transiency,
And cold dishonour? Grant it, that this hand
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms
Somewhat too early—Where's the crime of this?
That this must needs bring on the idiotcy
Of moist-eyed penitence—'tis like a dream!

Valdez.
Wild talk, my son! But thy excess of feeling—
Almost I fear it hath unhinged his brain.

Ordonio
(Teresa reappears and advances slowly).
Say, I had laid a body in the sun!
Well! in a month there swarm forth from the corse
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings
In place of that one man.—Say, I had kill'd him!
[Teresa stops listening.
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all
Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy,
As that one life, which being push'd aside,
Made room for these unnumbered—

Valdez.
O mere madness!

[Teresa moves hastily forwards, and places herself directly before Ordonio.
Ordonio.
Teresa? or the phantom of Teresa?

Teresa.
[A pause.

Ordonio.

[Strides off towards the altar, but returns as Valdez is speaking.
Teresa.
[To Valdez.

Valdez.
Urge him not—not now!
This we beheld. Nor he nor I know more,
Than what the magic imagery revealed.
The assassin, who pressed foremost of the three—

Ordonio.
A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain,
Whom I will strangle!

Valdez.
While his two companions—

Ordonio.
Dead! dead already! what care we for the dead?

Valdez
(to Teresa).
Pity him! soothe him! disenchant his spirit!
These supernatural shews, this strange disclosure,
And this too fond affection, which still broods
O'er Alvar's fate, and still burns to avenge it—
These, struggling with his hopeless love for you,
Distemper him, and give reality
To the creatures of his fancy.

Ordonio.

Valdez.
Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors,—say rather,
He was their advocate; but you had march'd
With fire and desolation through their villages.—
Yet he by chance was captured.

Ordonio.
Unknown, perhaps,
Captured, yet as the son of Valdez, murdered.
Leave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle lady?

Valdez.
What seek you now?

Teresa.
A better, surer light
To guide me—

Both Valdez and Ordonio.
Whither?

Teresa.
To the only place
Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart.
These walls seem threatening to fall in upon me!
Detain me not! a dim power drives me hence,
And that will be my guide.

Valdez.
To find a lover!
Suits that a high-born maiden's modesty?
O folly and shame! Tempt not my rage, Teresa!

Teresa.
Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage.
And am I hastening to the arms—O Heaven!
I haste but to the grave of my belov'd!

[Exit, Valdez following after her.
Ordonio.
This, then, is my reward! and I must love her?
Scorn'd! shudder'd at! yet love her still? yes! yes!
By the deep feelings of revenge and hate
I will still love her—woo her—win her too!
[A pause.
Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait
Found on the wizard—he, belike, self-poison'd
To escape the crueller flames—My soul shouts triumph!
The mine is undermined! blood! blood! blood!
They thirst for thy blood! thy blood, Ordonio!
[A pause.
The hunt is up! and in the midnight wood
With lights to dazzle and with nets they seek
A timid prey: and lo! the tiger's eye
Glares in the red flame of his hunter's torch!
To Isidore I will dispatch a message,
And lure him to the cavern! aye, that cavern!
He cannot fail to find it. Thither I'll lure him,
Whence he shall never, never more return!
[Looks through the side window.
A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea,
And now 'tis gone! All shall be done to-night.
[Exit.

ACT IV

Scene I

A cavern, dark, except where a gleam of moonlight is seen on one side at the further end of it; supposed to be cast on it from a crevice in a part of the cavern out of sight. Isidore alone, an extinguished torch in his hand.
Isidore.
Thanks to that little crevice,
Which lets the moonlight in! I'll go and sit by it.
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard,
Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep—
Any thing but this crash of water drops!
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence
With puny thwartings and mock opposition!
So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear.
[He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of moonlight: and returns.
A hellish pit! The very same I dreamt of!
I was just in—and those damn'd fingers of ice
Which clutch'd my hair up! Ha!—what's that—it mov'd.

[Isidore stands staring at another recess in the cavern. In the mean time Ordonio enters with a torch, and halloes to Isidore.
Isidore.
I swear that I saw something moving there!
The moonshine came and went like a flash of lightning—
I swear, I saw it move.

Ordonio
(goes into the recess, then returns).
A jutting clay stone
Drops on the long lank weed, that grows beneath:
And the weed nods and drips.

Isidore.
A jest to laugh at!
It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord.

Ordonio.
What scar'd you, then?

Isidore.
[Lights his torch at Ordonio's, and while lighting it.

Ordonio.
It must have shot some pleasant feelings through you.

Isidore.
If every atom of a dead man's flesh
Should creep, each one with a particular life,
Yet all as cold as ever—'twas just so!
Or had it drizzled needle-points of frost
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald—

Ordonio.
Why, Isidore,
I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled,
I grant you, even a brave man for a moment—
But such a panic—

Isidore.
When a boy, my lord!
I could have sate whole hours beside that chasm,
Push'd in huge stones and heard them strike and rattle
Against its horrid sides: then hung my head
Low down, and listened till the heavy fragments
Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well,
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never
A living thing came near—unless, perchance,
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould
Close at its edge.

Ordonio.
Art thou more coward now?

Isidore.
Call him, that fears his fellow-man, a coward!
I fear not man—but this inhuman cavern,
It were too bad a prison-house for goblins.
Beside, (you'll smile, my lord) but true it is,
My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted
By what had passed between us in the morning.
O sleep of horrors! Now run down and stared at
By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance—
Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing,
But only being afraid—stifled with fear!
While every goodly or familiar form
Had a strange power of breathing terror round me!
I saw you in a thousand fearful shapes;
And, I entreat your lordship to believe me,
In my last dream—

Ordonio.
Well?

Isidore.
I was in the act
Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
Wak'd me: she heard my heart beat.

Ordonio.
Strange enough!
Had you been here before?

Isidore.
Never, my lord!
But mine eyes do not see it now more clearly,
Than in my dream I saw—that very chasm.

Ordonio
(after a pause).
I know not why it should be! yet it is—

Isidore.
What is, my lord?

Ordonio.
Abhorrent from our nature
To kill a man.—

Isidore.
Except in self-defence.

Ordonio.
Why that's my case; and yet the soul recoils from it—
'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps,
Have sterner feelings?

Isidore.
Something troubles you.
How shall I serve you? By the life you gave me,
By all that makes that life of value to me,
My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you,
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
If it be innocent! But this, my lord!
Is not a place where you could perpetrate,
No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness,
When ten strides off we know 'tis cheerful moonlight,
Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart.
It must be innocent.

Ordonio.
Thyself be judge.
One of our family knew this place well.

Isidore.
Who? when? my lord?

Ordonio.
What boots it, who or when?
Hang up thy torch—I'll tell his tale to thee.
[They hang up their torches on some ridge in the cavern.
He was a man different from other men,
And he despised them, yet revered himself.

Isidore
(aside).
He? He despised? Thou'rt speaking of thyself!
I am on my guard, however: no surprise.
[Then to Ordonio.
What, he was mad?

Ordonio.
All men seemed mad to him!
Nature had made him for some other planet,
And pressed his soul into a human shape
By accident or malice. In this world
He found no fit companion.

Isidore.
[Aside.

Ordonio.

Isidore.
I have a prattler three years old, my lord!
In truth he is my darling. As I went
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep—
But I am talking idly—pray proceed!
And what did this man?

Ordonio.

Isidore.
I would, my lord, you were by my fire-side,
I'd listen to you with an eager eye,
Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight,
But I do listen—pray proceed, my lord.

Ordonio.
Where was I?

Isidore.
He of whom you tell the tale—

Ordonio.
Surveying all things with a quiet scorn,
Tamed himself down to living purposes,
The occupations and the semblances
Of ordinary men—and such he seemed!
But that same over ready agent—he—

Isidore.
Ah! what of him, my lord?

Ordonio.
[Ordonio grasps his sword, and turns off from Isidore, then after a pause returns.

Isidore.
A dark tale darkly finished! Nay, my lord!
Tell what he did.

Ordonio.
That which his wisdom prompted—
He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,
And here he kill'd the traitor.

Isidore.
No! the fool!
He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen
That he who gulled thee with a whimpered lie
To murder his own brother, would not scruple
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous,
And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

Ordonio.
Thou would'st not then have come, if—

Isidore.
Oh yes, my lord!
I would have met him arm'd, and scar'd the coward.

[Isidore throws off his robe; shews himself armed, and draws his sword.
Ordonio.
Now this is excellent and warms the blood!
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
With weak and womanish scruples. Now my vengeance
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,
And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of—
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

Isidore.

[They fight, Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in disarming him throws his sword up that recess opposite to which they were standing. Isidore hurries into the recess with his torch, Ordonio follows him; a loud cry of ‘Traitor! Monster!’ is heard from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns alone.
Ordonio.
I have hurl'd him down the chasm! treason for treason.
He dreamt of it: henceforward let him sleep,
A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him.
His dream too is made out—Now for his friend.

[Exit Ordonio.

Scene II

The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle, with the Iron Gate of a Dungeon visible.
Teresa.
Heart-chilling superstition! thou canst glaze
Ev'n pity's eye with her own frozen tear.
In vain I urge the tortures that await him;
Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood,
My second mother, shuts her heart against me!
Well, I have won from her what most imports
The present need, this secret of the dungeon
Known only to herself.—A Moor! a Sorcerer!
No, I have faith, that Nature ne'er permitted
Baseness to wear a form so noble. True,
I doubt not that Ordonio had suborned him
To act some part in some unholy fraud;
As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose
He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him,
And that Ordonio meditates revenge!
But my resolve is fixed! myself will rescue him,
And learn if haply he knew aught of Alvar.

Enter Valdez.
Valdez.
Still sad?—and gazing at the massive door
Of that fell dungeon which thou ne'er had'st sight of,
Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shap'd it
When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats.
Now by my faith, girl! this same wizard haunts thee!
A stately man, and eloquent and tender—
Who then need wonder if a lady sighs
Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans—

Teresa.
The horror of their ghastly punishments
Doth so o'ertop the height of all compassion,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy,
If it were possible I could feel more,
Even though the dearest inmates of our household
Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things are—

Valdez.
Hush, thoughtless woman!

Teresa.
Nay, it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.

Valdez.
No more of this—
What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us!
I dare not listen to you.

Teresa.
My honoured lord,
These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
As if to give a voice to the mute image.

Valdez.
—We have mourned for Alvar.
Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt.
Have I no other son?

Teresa.
Speak not of him!
That low imposture! That mysterious picture!
If this be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it.

Valdez.
Is this well?

Teresa.

Valdez.
Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion! was it not enough,
That thou hast made my son a restless man,
Banish'd his health, and half unhing'd his reason;
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion?
And toil to blast his honour? I am old,
A comfortless old man!

Teresa.
O grief! to hear
Hateful entreaties from a voice we love!

Enter a Peasant and presents a letter to Valdez.
Valdez
(reading it).
‘He dares not venture hither!’ Why, what can this mean?
‘Lest the Familiars of the Inquisition,
That watch around my gates, should intercept him;
But he conjures me, that without delay
I hasten to him—for my own sake entreats me
To guard from danger him I hold imprison'd—
He will reveal a secret, the joy of which
Will even outweigh the sorrow.’—Why what can this be?
Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem,
To have in me a hostage for his safety.
Nay, that they dare not! Ho! collect my servants!
I will go thither—let them arm themselves.

[Exit Valdez.
Teresa
(alone).
The moon is high in heaven, and all is hush'd,
Yet anxious listener! I have seem'd to hear
A low dead thunder mutter thro' the night,
As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep.
O Alvar! Alvar! that they could return,
Those blessed days that imitated heaven,
When we two wont to walk at eventide;
When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard
The voice of that Almighty One who loved us
In every gale that breathed, and wave that murmur'd!
O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half assumed the countenance of grief,
And the deep sigh seemed to heave up a weight
Of bliss, that pressed too heavy on the heart.
[A pause.
And this majestic Moor, seems he not one
Who oft and long communing with my Alvar
Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his presence,
And guides me to him with reflected light?
What if in yon dark dungeon coward treachery
Be groping for him with envenomed poniard—
Hence, womanish fears, traitors to love and duty—
I'll free him.

[Exit Teresa.

Scene III

The mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a Moorish dress.
Alhadra.

[She fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at a distance round Alhadra, and remain silent till Naomi enters.
Naomi.
Woman! May Alla and the Prophet bless thee!
We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments?

Alhadra
(raising her eyes, and looking round on the circle).
Warriors of Mahomet! faithful in the battle!
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted: and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften.

Naomi.
Where is Isidore?

Alhadra.
This night I went from forth my house, and left
His children all asleep: and he was living!
And I return'd and found them still asleep,
But he had perished—

All Morescoes.
Perished?

Alhadra.
He had perished!
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless—a desolate orphan!
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
Revenge his murder?

One Moresco
(to another).
Did she say his murder?

Naomi.
Murder? Not murdered?

Alhadra.
Murdered by a Christian!

[They all at once draw their sabres.
Alhadra
(to Naomi, who advances from the circle).
[He steps forward to take it.
Dost thou dare receive it?
For I have sworn by Alla and the Prophet,
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez!
[A pause.
Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer!

Naomi.
He dies, by Alla!

All
(kneeling).
By Alla!

Alhadra.
This night your chieftain armed himself,
And hurried from me. But I followed him
At distance, till I saw him enter—there!

Naomi.
The cavern?

Alhadra.
Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern
After a while I saw the son of Valdez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise entered.
There was another and a longer pause;
And once, methought I heard the clash of swords!
And soon the son of Valdez re-appeared:
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seemed as he were mirthful! I stood listening,
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!

Naomi.
Thou called'st him?

Alhadra.

Naomi.
Comfort her, Alla!

Alhadra.
I stood in unimaginable trance
And agony that cannot be remembered,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
But I had heard his last: my husband's death-groan!

Naomi.
Haste! let us onward.

Alhadra.
I looked far down the pit—
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment:
And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked,
My eye-balls burnt, my brain grew hot as fire,
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turned into blood—I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm,
When on the farther brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance!—Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in Heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Isidore!
Spirit of Isidore! thy murderer lives!
Away! away!

All.
Away! away!

[She rushes off, all following her.

ACT V

Scene I

A Dungeon.
Alvar (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds.
Alvar.

[Retires out of sight.
Enter Teresa with a taper.
Teresa.
It has chilled my very life—my own voice scares me;
Yet when I hear it not I seem to lose
The substance of my being—my strongest grasp
Sends inwards but weak witness that I am.
I seek to cheat the echo.—How the half sounds
Blend with this strangled light! Is he not here—
[Looking round.
O for one human face here—but to see
One human face here to sustain me.—Courage!
It is but my own fear! The life within me,
It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame,
Beyond which I scarce dare look onward! Oh!
If I faint? If this inhuman den should be
At once my death-bed and my burial vault?

[Faintly screams as Alvar emerges from the recess.
Alvar
(rushes towards her, and catches her as she is falling).
O gracious heaven! it is, it is Teresa!
Shall I reveal myself? The sudden shock
Of rapture will blow out this spark of life,
And joy complete what terror has begun.
O ye impetuous beatings here, be still!
Teresa, best beloved! pale, pale, and cold!
Her pulse doth flutter! Teresa! my Teresa!

Teresa
(recovering).
I heard a voice; but often in my dreams
I hear that voice! and wake and try—and try—
To hear it waking! but I never could—
And 'tis so now—even so! Well! he is dead—
Murdered perhaps! and I am faint, and feel
As if it were no painful thing to die!

Alvar.
Believe it not, sweet maid! Believe it not,
Belovéd woman! 'Twas a low imposture
Framed by a guilty wretch.

Teresa.
Ha! Who art thou?

Alvar.
Suborned by his brother—

Teresa.
Didst thou murder him?
And dost thou now repent? Poor troubled man,
I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee!

Alvar.
Ordonio—he—

Teresa.
If thou didst murder him—
His spirit ever at the throne of God
Asks mercy for thee: prays for mercy for thee,
With tears in Heaven!

Alvar.
Alvar was not murdered.
Be calm! Be calm, sweet maid!

Teresa.
[A pause.
[A pause.

Alvar.
I can endure no more. The Moorish sorcerer
Exists but in the stain upon his face.
That picture—

Teresa.
Ha! speak on!

Alvar.
Beloved Teresa!
It told but half the truth. O let this portrait
Tell all—that Alvar lives—that he is here!
Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar.

[Takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her.
Teresa
(receiving the portrait).
The same—it is the same! Ah! Who art thou?
Nay, I will call thee, Alvar!

[She falls on his neck.
Alvar.
O joy unutterable!
But hark! a sound as of removing bars
At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while
Conceal thyself, my love! It is Ordonio.
For the honour of our race, for our dear father;
O for himself too (he is still my brother)
Let me recall him to his nobler nature,
That he may wake as from a dream of murder!
O let me reconcile him to himself,
Open the sacred source of penitent tears,
And be once more his own beloved Alvar.

Teresa.
O my all virtuous love! I fear to leave thee
With that obdurate man.

Alvar.
Thou dost not leave me!
But a brief while retire into the darkness:
O that my joy could spread its sunshine round thee!

Teresa.
The sound of thy voice shall be my music!
Alvar! my Alvar! am I sure I hold thee?
Is it no dream? thee in my arms, my Alvar!

[Exit.
[A noise at the Dungeon door. It opens, and Ordonio enters, with a goblet in his hand.
Ordonio.
Hail, potent wizard! in my gayer mood
I poured forth a libation to old Pluto,
And as I brimmed the bowl, I thought on thee.
Thou hast conspired against my life and honour,
Hast tricked me foully; yet I hate thee not.
Why should I hate thee? this same world of ours,
'Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain,
And we the air-bladders that course up and down,
And joust and tilt in merry tournament;
And when one bubble runs foul of another,
The weaker needs must break.

Alvar.
I see thy heart!
There is a frightful glitter in thine eye
Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man,
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish,
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,
And quell each human feeling.

Ordonio.
Feeling! feeling!
The death of a man—the breaking of a bubble—
'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes;
But faintness, cold and hunger—curses on me
If willingly I e'er inflicted them!
Come, take the beverage; this chill place demands it.

[Ordonio proffers the goblet.
Alvar.
Yon insect on the wall,
Which moves this way and that its hundred limbs,
Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,
It were an infinitely curious thing!
But it has life, Ordonio! life, enjoyment!
And by the power of its miraculous will
Wields all the complex movements of its frame
Unerringly to pleasurable ends!
Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim
I would remove it with an anxious pity!

Ordonio.
What meanest thou?

Alvar.
There's poison in the wine.

Ordonio.
Thou hast guessed right; there's poison in the wine.
There's poison in't—which of us two shall drink it?
For one of us must die!

Alvar.
Whom dost thou think me?

Ordonio.
The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore.

Alvar.
I know him not.
And yet methinks, I have heard the name but lately.
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman?
Isidore? Isidore?

Ordonio.
Good! good! that lie! by heaven it has restored me.
Now I am thy master!—Villain! thou shalt drink it,
Or die a bitterer death.

Alvar.
[Alvar takes the goblet, and throws it to the ground.

Ordonio.
Thou mountebank!

Alvar.
Mountebank and villain!
What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
What boots a weapon in a withered arm?
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage,
And turn it to a motionless distraction!
Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
Thy faith in universal villainy,
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
For all thy human brethren—out upon them!
What have they done for thee? have they given thee peace?
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made
The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight?
Art happy when alone? Can'st walk by thyself
With even step and quiet cheerfulness?
Yet, yet thou may'st be saved—

Ordonio.
Saved? saved?

Alvar.
One pang!
Could I call up one pang of true remorse!

Ordonio.
He told me of the babes that prattled to him,
His fatherless little ones! remorse! remorse!
Where got'st thou that fool's word? Curse on remorse!
Can it give up the dead, or recompact
A mangled body? mangled—dashed to atoms!
Not all the blessings of a host of angels
Can blow away a desolate widow's curse!
And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,
It will not weigh against an orphan's tear!

Alvar.
But Alvar—

Ordonio.
Ha! it chokes thee in the throat,
Even thee; and yet I pray thee speak it out.
Still Alvar!—Alvar!—howl it in mine ear!
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart,
And shoot it hissing through my brain!

Alvar.
Alas!
That day when thou didst leap from off the rock
Into the waves, and grasped thy sinking brother,
And bore him to the strand; then, son of Valdez,
How sweet and musical the name of Alvar!
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee,
And thou wert dear to him: heaven only knows
How very dear thou wert! Why did'st thou hate him!
O heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck,
And weep forgiveness!

Ordonio.
Spirit of the dead!
Methinks I know thee! ha! my brain turns wild
At its own dreams!—off—off, fantastic shadow!

Alvar.
I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare not!

Ordonio.
Cheat! villain! traitor! whatsoever thou be—
I fear thee, man!

Teresa
(rushing out and falling on Alvar's neck).
[Ordonio runs upon Alvar with his sword. Teresa flings herself on Ordonio and arrests his arm.

Alvar.

Ordonio
(drawing back, and gazing at Alvar).
Touch me not!
Touch not pollution, Alvar! I will die.

[He attempts to fall on his sword, Alvar and Teresa prevent him.
Alvar.
We will find means to save your honour. Live,
Oh live, Ordonio! for our father's sake!
Spare his grey hairs!

Teresa.
And you may yet be happy.

Ordonio.
O horror! not a thousand years in heaven
Could recompose this miserable heart,
Or make it capable of one brief joy!
Live! live! Why yes! 'Twere well to live with you:
For is it fit a villain should be proud?
My brother! I will kneel to you, my brother!
[Kneeling.
Forgive me, Alvar!—Curse me with forgiveness!

Alvar.
Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee!
Now is the time for greatness! Think that heaven—

Teresa.
O mark his eye! he hears not what you say.

Ordonio.
Yes, mark his eye! there's fascination in it!
Thou said'st thou did'st not know him—That is he!
He comes upon me!

Alvar.
Heal, O heal him, heaven!

Ordonio.
Nearer and nearer! and I can not stir!
Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?
He would have died to save me, and I killed him—
A husband and a father!—

Teresa.
Some secret poison
Drinks up his spirits!

Ordonio.
Let the eternal justice
Prepare my punishment in the obscure world—
I will not bear to live—to live—O agony!
And be myself alone my own sore torment!

[The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in rush Alhadra, and the band of Morescoes.
Alhadra.
Seize first that man!

[Alvar. presses onward to defend Ordonio.
Ordonio.
Off, ruffians! I have flung away my sword.
Woman, my life is thine! to thee I give it!
Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh,
I'll rend his limbs asunder! I have strength
With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes.

Alhadra.
My husband—

Ordonio.
Yes, I murdered him most foully.

Alvar and Teresa.
O horrible!

Alhadra.
Why did'st thou leave his children?
Demon, thou should'st have sent thy dogs of hell
To lap their blood. Then, then I might have hardened
My soul in misery, and have had comfort.
I would have stood far off, quiet though dark,
And bade the race of men raise up a mourning
For a deep horror of desolation,
Too great to be one soul's particular lot!
Brother of Zagri! let me lean upon thee.
The time is not yet come for woman's anguish,
I have not seen his blood—Within an hour
Those little ones will crowd around and ask me,
Where is our father? I shall curse thee then!
Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence!

Teresa.
He doth repent! See, see, I kneel to thee!
O let him live! That agéd man, his father—

Alhadra.
Why had he such a son?
[Shouts from the distance of Rescue! Rescue! Alvar! Alvar! and the voice of Valdez heard.
Rescue?—and Isidore's spirit unavenged?—
The deed be mine!
[Suddenly stabs Ordonio.

Ordonio
(staggering from the wound).
Atonement!

Alvar
(while with Teresa supporting Ordonio).
Arm of avenging Heaven
Thou hast snatched from me my most cherished hope—
But go! my word was pledged to thee.

Ordonio.
Away!
Brave not my Father's rage! I thank thee! Thou—
[Then turning his eyes languidly to Alvar.
She hath avenged the blood of Isidore!
I stood in silence like a slave before her
That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,
And satiate this self-accusing heart
With bitterer agonies than death can give.
Forgive me, Alvar!
[Dies.

[Alvar and Teresa bend over the body of Ordonio.
Alhadra
(to the Moors).
I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordained it wisely,
That still extremes bring their own cure. That point
In misery, which makes the oppressed Man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the Oppressor's—Knew I a hundred men
Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world;
The deep foundations of iniquity
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them;
The strongholds of the cruel men should fall,
Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall;
Till desolation seemed a beautiful thing,
And all that were and had the spirit of life,
Sang a new song to her who had gone forth,
Conquering and still to conquer!

[Alhadra hurries off with the Moors; the stage fills with armed Peasants, and Servants, Zulimez and Valdez at their head. Valdez rushes into Alvar's arms.
Alvar.
Turn not thy face that way, my father! hide,
Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy
Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing.

[Both kneel to Valdez.
Valdez.
My Son! My Alvar! bless, Oh bless him, heaven!

Teresa.
Me too, my Father?

Valdez.
Bless, Oh bless my children!

[Both rise.
Alvar.
Delights so full, if unalloyed with grief,
Were ominous. In these strange dread events
Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice,
That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice.
Our inward Monitress to guide or warn,
If listened to; but if repelled with scorn,
At length as dire Remorse, she reappears,
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears!
Still bids, Remember! and still cries, Too late!
And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.

APPENDIX

Enter Teresa and Selma.
Teresa.
'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly,
As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

Selma.
Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be
That joined your names with mine! O my sweet Lady,
As often as I think of those dear times,
When you two little ones would stand, at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase; then bid me sing to you—
'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been!

Teresa.
But that entrance, Selma?

Selma.
Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Teresa.
No one.

Selma.
My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina—angels rest his soul;
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a rare and learned youth:
But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turned; and ere his twentieth year
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;
A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized,
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobbed like a child—it almost broke his heart:
And once he was working near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.

Teresa.
'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?

Selma.
He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.

ZAPOLYA

A CHRISTMAS TALE IN TWO PARTS

ADVERTISEMENT

The form of the following dramatic poem is in humble imitation of the Winter's Tale of Shakspeare, except that I have called the first part a Prelude instead of a first Act, as a somewhat nearer resemblance to the plan of the ancients, of which one specimen is left us in the Æschylean Trilogy of the Agamemnon, the Orestes, and the Eumenides. Though a matter of form merely, yet two plays, on different periods of the same tale, might seem less bold, than an interval of twenty years between a first and second act. This is, however, in mere obedience to custom. The effect does not, in reality, at all depend on the Time of the interval; but on a very different principle. There are cases in which an interval of twenty hours between the acts would have a worse effect (i. e. render the imagination less disposed to take the position required) than twenty years in other cases. For the rest, I shall be well content if my readers will take it up, read and judge it, as a Christmas tale.

I. Part I THE PRELUDE, ENTITLED ‘THE USURPER'S FORTUNE’

CHARACTERS

• Emerick, Usurping King of Illyria.
• Raab Kiuprili, an Illyrian Chieftain.
• Casimir, Son of Kiuprili.
• Chef Ragozzi, a Military Commander.
• Zapolya, Queen of Illyria.

Scene I

Front of the Palace with a magnificent Colonnade. On one side a military Guard-house. Sentries pacing backward and forward before the Palace. Chef Ragozzi, at the door of the Guard-house, as looking forwards at some object in the distance.
Chef Ragozzi.
My eyes deceive me not, it must be he,
Who but our chief, my more than father, who
But Raab Kiuprili moves with such a gait?
Lo! e'en this eager and unwonted haste
But agitates, not quells, its majesty.
My patron! my commander! yes, 'tis he!
Call out the guards. The Lord Kiuprili comes.

[Drums beat, &c., the Guard turns out.
Enter Raab Kiuprili.
Raab Kiuprili
(making a signal to stop the drums, &c.).
Silence! enough! This is no time, young friend,
For ceremonious dues. The summoning drum,
Th' air-shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter,
Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear.
Soldiers, 'tis well! Retire! your General greets you,
His loyal fellow-warriors.

[Guards retire.
Chef Ragozzi.
Pardon my surprise.
Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended!
What may these wonders prophesy?

Raab Kiuprili.
Tell me first,
How fares the king? His majesty still lives?

Chef Ragozzi.
We know no otherwise; but Emerick's friends
(And none but they approach him) scoff at hope.

Raab Kiuprili.
Ragozzi! I have reared thee from a child,
And as a child I have reared thee. Whence this air
Of mystery? That face was wont to open
Clear as the morning to me, shewing all things.
Hide nothing from me.

Chef Ragozzi.
O most loved, most honoured,
The mystery that struggles in my looks
Betrayed my whole tale to thee, if it told thee
That I am ignorant; but fear the worst.
And mystery is contagious. All things here
Are full of motion: and yet all is silent:
And bad men's hopes infect the good with fears.

Raab Kiuprili.
I have trembling proof within how true thou speakest.

Chef Ragozzi.
That the prince Emerick feasts the soldiery,
Gives splendid arms, pays the commanders' debts,
And (it is whispered) by sworn promises
Makes himself debtor—hearing this, thou hast heard
All—
But what my lord will learn too soon himself.

Raab Kiuprili.
Ha!—Well then, let it come! Worse scarce can come.
This letter written by the trembling hand
Of royal Andreas calls me from the camp
To his immediate presence. It appoints me,
The Queen, and Emerick, guardians of the realm,
And of the royal infant. Day by day,
Robbed of Zapolya's soothing cares, the king
Yearns only to behold one precious boon,
And with his life breathe forth a father's blessing.

Chef Ragozzi.
Remember you, my lord! that Hebrew leech
Whose face so much distempered you?

Raab Kiuprili.
Barzoni?
I held him for a spy; but the proof failing
(More courteously, I own, than pleased myself),
I sent him from the camp.

Chef Ragozzi.
To him, in chief,
Prince Emerick trusts his royal brother's health.

Raab Kiuprili.
Hide nothing, I conjure you! What of him?

Chef Ragozzi.
With pomp of words beyond a soldier's cunning,
And shrugs and wrinkled brow, he smiles and whispers!
Talks in dark words of women's fancies; hints
That 'twere a useless and a cruel zeal
To rob a dying man of any hope,
However vain, that soothes him: and, in fine,
Denies all chance of offspring from the Queen.

Raab Kiuprili.
The venomous snake! My heel was on its head,
And (fool!) I did not crush it!

Chef Ragozzi.
Nay, he fears
Zapolya will not long survive her husband.

Raab Kiuprili.
Manifest treason! Even this brief delay
Half makes me an accomplice—(If he live,)
[Is moving toward the palace.
If he but live and know me, all may—

Chef Ragozzi.
Halt!
[Stops him.
On pain of death, my Lord! am I commanded
To stop all ingress to the palace.

Raab Kiuprili.
Thou!

Chef Ragozzi.
No place, no name, no rank excepted—

Raab Kiuprili.
Thou!

Chef Ragozzi.
This life of mine, O take it, Lord Kiuprili!
I give it as a weapon to thy hands,
Mine own no longer. Guardian of Illyria,
Useless to thee, 'tis worthless to myself.
Thou art the framer of my nobler being;
Nor does there live one virtue in my soul,
One honourable hope, but calls thee father.
Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace
Is guarded from within, that each access
Is thronged by armed conspirators, watched by ruffians
Pampered with gifts, and hot upon the spoil
Which that false promiser still trails before them.
I ask but this one boon—reserve my life
Till I can lose it for the realm and thee!

Raab Kiuprili.
My heart is rent asunder. O my country,
O fallen Illyria, stand I here spell-bound?
Did my King love me? Did I earn his love?
Have we embraced as brothers would embrace?
Was I his arm, his thunder-bolt? And now
Must I, hag-ridden, pant as in a dream?
Or, like an eagle, whose strong wings press up
Against a coiling serpent's folds, can I
Strike but for mockery, and with restless beak
Gore my own breast?—Ragozzi, thou art faithful?

Chef Ragozzi.
Here before Heaven I dedicate my faith
To the royal line of Andreas.

Raab Kiuprili.
[Black flag displayed from the Tower of the Palace: a deathbell tolls, &c.

Chef Ragozzi.
At length then 'tis announced. Alas! I fear,
That these black death-flags are but treason's signals.

Raab Kiuprili.
A prophecy too soon fulfilled! See yonder!
O rank and ravenous wolves! the death-bell echoes
Still in the doleful air—and see! they come.

Chef Ragozzi.
Precise and faithful in their villainy
Even to the moment, that the master traitor
Had pre-ordained them.

Raab Kiuprili.
Was it over-haste,
Or is it scorn, that in this race of treason
Their guilt thus drops its mask, and blazons forth
Their infamous plot even to an idiot's sense?

Chef Ragozzi.

Raab Kiuprili.

[Enter a procession of Emerick's Adherents, Nobles, Chieftains, and Soldiers, with Music. They advance toward the front of the stage. Kiuprili makes the signal for them to stop.—The Music ceases.
Leader of the Procession.
The Lord Kiuprili!—Welcome from the camp.

Raab Kiuprili.
Grave magistrates and chieftains of Illyria,
In good time come ye hither, if ye come
As loyal men with honourable purpose
To mourn what can alone be mourned; but chiefly
To enforce the last commands of royal Andreas
And shield the Queen, Zapolya: haply making
The mother's joy light up the widow's tears.

Leader.
Our purpose demands speed. Grace our procession;
A warrior best will greet a warlike king.

Raab Kiuprili.
This patent written by your lawful king,
(Lo! his own seal and signature attesting)
Appoints as guardians of his realm and offspring,
The Queen, and the Prince Emerick, and myself.
[Voices of Live King Emerick! an Emerick! an Emerick!
What means this clamour? Are these madmen's voices?
Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued
To infamize the name of the king's brother
With a lie black as Hell? unmanly cruelty,
Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason?
[Murmurs.
What mean these murmurs? Dare then any here
Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor?
One that has taken from you your sworn faith,
And given you in return a Judas' bribe,
Infamy now, oppression in reversion,
And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter?
[Loud murmurs, followed by cries—Emerick! No Baby Prince! No Changelings!
Yet bear with me awhile! Have I for this
Bled for your safety, conquered for your honour?
Was it for this, Illyrians! that I forded
Your thaw-swoln torrents, when the shouldering ice
Fought with the foe, and stained its jagged points
With gore from wounds I felt not? Did the blast
Beat on this body, frost-and-famine-numbed,
Till my hard flesh distinguished not itself
From the insensate mail, its fellow warrior?
And have I brought home with me Victory,
And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace,
Her countenance twice lighted up with glory,
As if I had charmed a goddess down from Heaven?
But these will flee abhorrent from the throne
Of usurpation!
[Murmurs increase—and cries of Onward! Onward!
[Enter Lord Casimir.

Casimir.
Who is this factious insolent, that dares brand
The elected King, our chosen Emerick?
My father!

Raab Kiuprili.
Casimir! He, he a traitor!
Too soon indeed, Ragozzi! have I learnt it.

[Aside.
Casimir.
My father and my lord!

Raab Kiuprili.
I know thee not!

Leader.
Yet the remembrancing did sound right filial.

Raab Kiuprili.
A holy name and words of natural duty
Are blasted by a thankless traitor's utterance.

Casimir.
O hear me, Sire! not lightly have I sworn
Homage to Emerick. Illyria's sceptre
Demands a manly hand, a warrior's grasp.
The queen Zapolya's self-expected offspring
At least is doubtful: and of all our nobles,
The king, inheriting his brother's heart,
Hath honoured us the most. Your rank, my lord!
Already eminent, is—all it can be—
Confirmed: and me the king's grace hath appointed
Chief of his council and the lord high steward.

Raab Kiuprili.
(Bought by a bribe!) I know thee now still less.

Casimir.
So much of Raab Kiuprili's blood flows here,
That no power, save that holy name of father,
Could shield the man who so dishonoured me.

Raab Kiuprili.
The son of Raab Kiuprili a bought bondslave,
Guilt's pander, treason's mouth-piece, a gay parrot,
School'd to shrill forth his feeder's usurp'd titles.
And scream, Long live King Emerick!

Leaders.
Aye, King Emerick!
Stand back, my lord! Lead us, or let us pass.

Soldier.
Nay, let the general speak!

Soldiers.
Hear him! hear him!

Raab Kiuprili.
Hear me,
Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria,
Hear, and avenge me! Twice ten years have I
Stood in your presence, honoured by the king:
Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you
Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe?
Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear?
Who here dares charge me with an orphan's rights
Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended?
And shall I now be branded by a traitor,
A bought, bribed wretch, who, being called my son,
Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant
Hensbane and aconite on a mother's grave?
The underling accomplice of a robber,
That from a widow and a widow's offspring
Would steal their heritage? To God a rebel,
And to the common father of his country
A recreant ingrate!

Casimir.
Sire! your words grow dangerous.
High-flown romantic fancies ill-beseem
Your age and wisdom. 'Tis a statesman's virtue,
To guard his country's safety by what means
It best may be protected—come what will
Of these monk's morals!

Raab Kiuprili
(aside).
[Draws his sword.

[Chiefs, &c., rush to interpose; during the tumult enter Emerick, alarmed.
Emerick.
[Making signs to the guard to retire.

[Music recommences.—The Procession passes into the Palace.
Emerick.
What? Raab Kiuprili? What? a father's sword
Against his own son's breast?

Raab Kiuprili.
'Twould best excuse him,
Were he thy son, Prince Emerick. I abjure him.

Emerick.
This is my thanks, then, that I have commenced
A reign to which the free voice of the nobles
Hath called me, and the people, by regards
Of love and grace to Raab Kiuprili's house?

Raab Kiuprili.
What right hadst thou, Prince Emerick, to bestow them?

Emerick.
By what right dares Kiuprili question me?

Raab Kiuprili.
By a right common to all loyal subjects—
To me a duty! As the realm's co-regent,
Appointed by our sovereign's last free act,
Writ by himself.—

[Grasping the Patent.
Emerick.
Aye!—Writ in a delirium!

Raab Kiuprili.
I likewise ask, by whose authority
The access to the sovereign was refused me?

Emerick.
By whose authority dared the general leave
His camp and army, like a fugitive?

Raab Kiuprili.
A fugitive, who, with victory for his comrade,
Ran, open-eyed, upon the face of death!
A fugitive, with no other fear, than bodements
To be belated in a loyal purpose—
At the command, Prince! of my king and thine,
Hither I came; and now again require
Audience of Queen Zapolya; and (the States
Forthwith convened) that thou dost shew at large,
On what ground of defect thou'st dared annul
This thy King's last and solemn act—hast dared
Ascend the throne, of which the law had named,
And conscience should have made thee, a protector.

Emerick.
A sovereign's ear ill brooks a subject's questioning!
Yet for thy past well-doing—and because
'Tis hard to erase at once the fond belief
Long cherished, that Illyria had in thee
No dreaming priest's slave, but a Roman lover
Of her true weal and freedom—and for this, too,
That, hoping to call forth to the broad day-light
And fostering breeze of glory all deservings,
I still had placed thee foremost.

Raab Kiuprili.
Prince! I listen.

Emerick.
Unwillingly I tell thee, that Zapolya,
Maddened with grief, her erring hopes proved idle—

Casimir.
Sire! speak the whole truth! Say, her fraud detected!

Emerick.
According to the sworn attests in council
Of her physician—

Raab Kiuprili
(aside).
Yes! the Jew, Barzoni!

Emerick.
Under the imminent risk of death she lies,
Or irrecoverable loss of reason,
If known friend's face or voice renew the frenzy.

Casimir
(to Kiuprili).
Trust me, my lord! a woman's trick has duped you—
Us too—but most of all, the sainted Andreas.
Even for his own fair fame, his grace prays hourly
For her recovery, that (the States convened)
She may take counsel of her friends.

Emerick.
Right, Casimir!
Receive my pledge, lord general. It shall stand
In her own will to appear and voice her claims;
Or (which in truth I hold the wiser course)
With all the past passed by, as family quarrels,
Let the Queen Dowager, with unblenched honours,
Resume her state, our first Illyrian matron.

Raab Kiuprili.
Prince Emerick! you speak fairly, and your pledge too
Is such, as well would suit an honest meaning.

Casimir.
My lord! you scarce know half his grace's goodness.
The wealthy heiress, high-born fair Sarolta,
Bred in the convent of our noble ladies,
Her relative, the venerable abbess,
Hath, at his grace's urgence, wooed and won for me.

Emerick.
Long may the race, and long may that name flourish,
Which your heroic deeds, brave chief, have rendered
Dear and illustrious to all true Illyrians.

Raab Kiuprili.
The longest line that ever tracing herald
Or found or feigned, placed by a beggar's soul
Hath but a mushroom's date in the comparison:
And with the soul, the conscience is coeval,
Yea, the soul's essence.

Emerick.
Conscience, good my lord.
Is but the pulse of reason. Is it conscience,
That a free nation should be handed down,
Like the dull clods beneath our feet, by chance
And the blind law of lineage? That whether infant,
Or man matured, a wise man or an idiot,
Hero or natural coward, shall have guidance
Of a free people's destiny, should fall out
In the mere lottery of a reckless nature,
Where few the prizes and the blanks are countless?
Or haply that a nation's fate should hang
On the bald accident of a midwife's handling
The unclosed sutures of an infant's skull?

Casimir.
What better claim can sovereign wish or need
Than the free voice of men who love their country?
Those chiefly who have fought for't? Who by right,
Claim for their monarch one, who having obeyed,
So hath best learnt to govern; who, having suffered,
Can feel for each brave sufferer and reward him?
Whence sprang the name of Emperor? Was it not
By Nature's fiat? In the storm of triumph,
'Mid warriors' shouts, did her oracular voice
Make itself heard: Let the commanding spirit
Possess the station of command!

Raab Kiuprili.
Prince Emerick,
Your cause will prosper best in your own pleading.

Emerick
(aside to Casimir).
Ragozzi was thy school-mate—a bold spirit!
Bind him to us!—Thy father thaws apace!
[Then aloud.
Leave us awhile, my lord!—Your friend, Ragozzi,
Whom you have not yet seen since his return,
Commands the guard to-day.
[Casimir retires to the Guard-house; and after a time appears before it with Chef Ragozzi.

Raab Kiuprili.
Mistake not for assent
The unquiet silence of a stern resolve
Throttling the impatient voice. I have heard thee, Prince!
And I have watched thee, too; but have small faith in
A plausible tale told with a flitting eye.
[Emerick turns as about to call for the Guard.
In the next moment I am in thy power,
In this thou art in mine. Stir but a step,
Or make one sign—I swear by this good sword,
Thou diest that instant.

Emerick.
Ha, ha!—Well, Sir!—Conclude your homily.

Raab Kiuprili.
A tale which, whether true or false, comes guarded
Against all means of proof, detects itself.
The Queen mew'd up—this too from anxious care
And love brought forth of a sudden, a twin birth
With thy discovery of her plot to rob thee
Of a rightful throne!—Mark how the scorpion, falsehood,
Coils round in its own perplexity, and fixes
Its sting in its own head!

Emerick.
Aye! to the mark!

Raab Kiuprili.
Had'st thou believed thine own tale, had'st thou fancied
Thyself the rightful successor of Andreas,
Would'st thou have pilfered from our school-boys' themes
These shallow sophisms of a popular choice?
What people? How convened? or, if convened,
Must not the magic power that charms together
Millions of men in council, needs have power
To win or wield them? Better, O far better
Shout forth thy titles to yon circling mountains,
And with a thousand-fold reverberation
Make the rocks flatter thee, and the volleying air,
Unbribed, shout back to thee, King Emerick!
By wholesome laws to embank the sovereign power,
To deepen by restraint, and by prevention
Of lawless will to amass and guide the flood
In its majestic channel, is man's task
And the true patriot's glory! In all else
Men safelier trust to Heaven, than to themselves
When least themselves in the mad whirl of crowds
Where folly is contagious, and too oft
Even wise men leave their better sense at home
To chide and wonder at them when returned.

Emerick
(aloud).
Is't thus thou scoff'st the people? most of all,
The soldiers, the defenders of the people?

Raab Kiuprili.
O most of all, most miserable nation,
For whom the imperial power, enormous bubble!
Is blown and kept aloft, or burst and shattered
By the bribed breath of a lewd soldiery!
Chiefly of such, as from the frontiers far,
(Which is the noblest station of true warriors)
In rank licentious idleness beleaguer
City and Court, a venomed thorn i' the side
Of virtuous kings, the tyrant's slave and tyrant,
Still ravening for fresh largess! But with such
What title claim'st thou, save thy birth? What merits
Which many a liegeman may not plead as well,
Brave though I grant thee? If a life outlaboured
Head, heart, and fortunate arm, in watch and war,
For the land's fame and weal; if large acquests.
Made honest by the aggression of the foe,
And whose best praise is, that they bring us safety;
If victory, doubly-wreathed, whose under-garland
Of laurel-leaves looks greener and more sparkling
Thro' the grey olive-branch; if these, Prince Emerick!
Give the true title to the throne, not thou—
No! (let Illyria, let the infidel enemy
Be judge and arbiter between us!) I,
I were the rightful sovereign!

Emerick.
I have faith
That thou both think'st and hop'st it. Fair Zapolya,
A provident lady—

Raab Kiuprili.
Wretch beneath all answer!

Emerick.
Offers at once the royal bed and throne!

Raab Kiuprili.
To be a kingdom's bulwark, a king's glory,
Yet loved by both, and trusted, and trust-worthy,
Is more than to be king; but see! thy rage
Fights with thy fear. I will relieve thee! Ho!

[To the Guard.
Emerick.
Not for thy sword, but to entrap thee, ruffian!
Thus long I have listened—Guard—ho! from the Palace.

[The Guard post from the Guard-house with Chef Ragozzi at their head, and then a number from the Palace— Chef Ragozzi demands Kiuprili's sword, and apprehends him.
Casimir.
[To Emerick.
[To Kiuprili, who turns from him.

Emerick.
Take in arrest that traitor and assassin!
Who pleads for his life, strikes at mine, his sovereign's.

Raab Kiuprili.
As the Co-regent of the Realm, I stand
Amenable to none save to the States
Met in due course of law. But ye are bond-slaves,
Yet witness ye that before God and man
I here impeach Lord Emerick of foul treason,
And on strong grounds attaint him with suspicion
Of murder—

Emerick.
Hence with the madman!

Raab Kiuprili.
Your Queen's murder,
The royal orphan's murder: and to the death
Defy him, as a tyrant and usurper.

[Hurried off by Ragozzi and the Guard.
Emerick.
Ere twice the sun hath risen, by my sceptre
This insolence shall be avenged.

Casimir.
O banish him!
This infamy will crush me. O for my sake,
Banish him, my liege lord!

Emerick.
What? to the army?
Be calm, young friend! Nought shall be done in anger.
The child o'erpowers the man. In this emergence
I must take counsel for us both. Retire.

[Exit Casimir.
Emerick
(alone, looks at a Calendar).
The changeful planet, now in her decay,
Dips down at midnight, to be seen no more.
With her shall sink the enemies of Emerick,
Cursed by the last look of the waning moon:
And my bright destiny, with sharpened horns,
Shall greet me fearless in the new-born crescent.

[Exit.

Scene changes to the back of the Palace—a Wooded Park, and Mountains. Enter Zapolya, with an infant in arms.

Zapolya.
Hush, dear one! hush! My trembling arm disturbs thee!
Thou, the protector of the helpless! Thou,
The widow's husband and the orphan's father,
Direct my steps! Ah whither? O send down
Thy angel to a houseless babe and mother,
Driven forth into the cruel wilderness!
Hush, sweet one! Thou art no Hagar's offspring: thou art
The rightful heir of an anointed king!
What sounds are those? It is the vesper chaunt
Of labouring men returning to their home!
Their queen has no home! Hear me, heavenly Father!
And let this darkness—
Be as the shadow of thy outspread wings
To hide and shield us! Start'st thou in thy slumbers?
Thou canst not dream of savage Emerick. Hush!
Betray not thy poor mother! For if they seize thee
I shall grow mad indeed, and they'll believe
Thy wicked uncle's lie. Ha! what? A soldier?

[Enter Chef Ragozzi.
Chef Ragozzi.
Sure Heaven befriends us. Well! he hath escaped!
O rare tune of a tyrant's promises
That can enchant the serpent treachery
From forth its lurking hole in the heart. ‘Ragozzi!
O brave Ragozzi! Count! Commander! What not?’
And all this too for nothing! a poor nothing!
Merely to play the underling in the murder
Of my best friend Kiuprili! His own son—monstrous!
Tyrant! I owe thee thanks, and in good hour
Will I repay thee, for that thou thought'st me too
A serviceable villain. Could I now
But gain some sure intelligence of the queen:
Heaven bless and guard her!

Zapolya
(coming forward).
Art thou not Ragozzi?

Chef Ragozzi.
The Queen! Now then the miracle is full!
I see heaven's wisdom is an over-match
For the devil's cunning. This way, madam, haste!

Zapolya.
Stay! Oh, no! Forgive me if I wrong thee!
This is thy sovereign's child: Oh, pity us,
And be not treacherous!

[Kneeling.
Chef Ragozzi
(raising her).
Madam! For mercy's sake!

Zapolya.
But tyrants have a hundred eyes and arms!

Chef Ragozzi.
Take courage, madam! 'Twere too horrible,
(I can not do't) to swear I'm not a monster!—
Scarce had I barr'd the door on Raab Kiuprili—

Zapolya.
Kiuprili! How?

Chef Ragozzi.
There is not time to tell it,—
The tyrant called me to him, praised my zeal—
(And be assured I overtopt his cunning
And seemed right zealous.) But time wastes: In fine,
Bids me dispatch my trustiest friends, as couriers
With letters to the army. The thought at once
Flashed on me. I disguised my prisoner—

Zapolya.
What, Raab Kiuprili?

Chef Ragozzi.
Yes! my noble general!
I sent him off, with Emerick's own pacquet,
Haste, and post haste—Prepared to follow him—

Zapolya.
Ah, how? Is it joy or fear? My limbs seem sinking!—

Chef Ragozzi
(supporting her).
Heaven still befriends us. I have left my charger,
A gentle beast and fleet, and my boy's mule,
One that can shoot a precipice like a bird,
Just where the wood begins to climb the mountains.
The course we'll thread will mock the tyrant's guesses,
Or scare the followers. Ere we reach the main road
The Lord Kiuprili will have sent a troop
To escort me. Oh, thrice happy when he finds
The treasure which I convoy!

Zapolya.
One brief moment,
That praying for strength I may have strength. This babe,
Heaven's eye is on it, and its innocence
Is, as a prophet's prayer, strong and prevailing!
Through thee, dear babe, the inspiring thought possessed me,
When the loud clamor rose, and all the palace
Emptied itself—(They sought my life, Ragozzi!)
Like a swift shadow gliding, I made way
To the deserted chamber of my lord.—
[Then to the infant.
And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips,
And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer!
Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty.
As I removed the seal, the heavy arm
Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stiff finger
Seemed pointing at my feet. Provident Heaven!
Lo, I was standing on the secret door,
Which, through a long descent where all sound perishes,
Led out beyond the palace. Well I knew it—
But Andreas framed it not! He was no tyrant!

Chef Ragozzi.
Haste, madam! let me take this precious burden!

[He kneels as he takes the child.
Zapolya.
Take him! And if we be pursued, I charge thee,
Flee thou and leave me! Flee and save thy king!
[Then as going off, she looks back on the palace.
Thou tyrant's den, be called no more a palace!
The orphan's angel at the throne of heaven
Stands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee
A Queen's, a Mother's, and a Widow's curse.
Henceforth a dragon's haunt, fear and suspicion
Stand sentry at thy portals! Faith and honour,
Driven from the throne, shall leave the attainted nation:
And, for the iniquity that houses in thee,
False glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine,
(Fateful conjunction of malignant planets)
Shall shoot their blastments on the land. The fathers
Henceforth shall have no joy in their young men,
And when they cry: Lo! a male child is born!
The mother shall make answer with a groan.
For bloody usurpation, like a vulture,
Shall clog its beak within Illyria's heart.
Remorseless slaves of a remorseless tyrant,
They shall be mocked with sounds of liberty,
And liberty shall be proclaimed alone
To thee, O Fire! O Pestilence! O Sword!
Till Vengeance hath her fill.—And thou, snatched hence,
Poor friendless fugitive! with mother's wailing,
Offspring of Royal Andreas, shalt return,
With trump and timbrel-clang, and popular shout,
In triumph to the palace of thy fathers!

[Exeunt.

II. Part II THE SEQUEL, ENTITLED ‘THE USURPER'S FATE’ USURPATION ENDED; OR, SHE COMES AGAIN

ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS

• Old Bathory, a Mountaineer.
• Bethlen Bathory, the young Prince Andreas, supposed son of Old Bathory.
• Lord Rudolph, a Courtier, but friend to the Queen's party.
• Laska, Steward to Casimir, betrothed to Glycine.
• Pestalutz, an Assassin, in Emerick's employ.
• Lady Sarolta, Wife of Lord Casimir.
• Glycine, Orphan Daughter of Chef Ragozzi.

Between the flight of the Queen, and the civil war which immediately followed, and in which Emerick remained the victor, a space of twenty years is supposed to have elapsed.

ACT I

Scene I

A Mountainous Country. Bathory's Dwelling at the end of the Stage. Enter Lady Sarolta and Glycine.
Glycine.
Well then! our round of charity is finished.
Rest, Madam! You breathe quick.

Sarolta.
What, tired, Glycine?
No delicate court-dame, but a mountaineer
By choice no less than birth, I gladly use
The good strength Nature gave me.

Glycine.
That last cottage
Is built as if an eagle or a raven
Had chosen it for her nest.

Sarolta.
So many are
The sufferings which no human aid can reach,
It needs must be a duty doubly sweet
To heal the few we can. Well! let us rest.

Glycine.
There?

[Pointing to Bathory's dwelling.
Sarolta.
Here! For on this spot Lord Casimir
Took his last leave. On yonder mountain-ridge
I lost the misty image which so long
Lingered, or seemed at least to linger on it.

Glycine.
And what if even now, on that same ridge,
A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengthening,
As it clomb downwards, shape itself at last
To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost,
Who but Sarolta's own dear lord returned
From his high embassy?

Sarolta.
Thou hast hit my thought!
All the long day, from yester-morn to evening,
The restless hope fluttered about my heart.
Oh we are querulous creatures! Little less
Than all things can suffice to make us happy;
And little more than nothing is enough
To discontent us.—Were he come, then should I
Repine he had not arrived just one day earlier
To keep his birth-day here, in his own birth-place.

Glycine.
But our best sports belike, and gay processions
Would to my lord have seemed but work-day sights
Compared with those the royal court affords.

Sarolta.
I have small wish to see them. A spring morning
With its wild gladsome minstrelsy of birds
And its bright jewelry of flowers and dew-drops
(Each orbéd drop an orb of glory in it)
Would put them all in eclipse. This sweet retirement
Lord Casimir's wish alone would have made sacred:
But, in good truth, his loving jealousy
Did but command, what I had else entreated.

Glycine.
And yet had I been born Lady Sarolta,
Been wedded to the noblest of the realm,
So beautiful besides, and yet so stately—

Sarolta.
Hush! Innocent flatterer!

Glycine.
Nay! to my poor fancy
The royal court would seem an earthly heaven,
Made for such stars to shine in, and be gracious.

Sarolta.
So doth the ignorant distance still delude us!
Thy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above thee,
In its mere self a cold, drear, colourless void,
Seen from below and in the large, becomes
The bright blue ether, and the seat of gods!
Well! but this broil that scared you from the dance?
And was not Laska there: he, your betrothed?

Glycine.
Yes, madam! he was there. So was the maypole,
For we danced round it.

Sarolta.
Ah, Glycine! why,
Why did you then betroth yourself?

Glycine.
Because
My own dear lady wished it! 'twas you asked me!

Sarolta.
Yes, at my lord's request, but never wished,
My poor affectionate girl, to see thee wretched.
Thou knowest not yet the duties of a wife.

Glycine.
Oh, yes! It is a wife's chief duty, madam!
To stand in awe of her husband, and obey him,
And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska
But I shall tremble.

Sarolta.
Not with fear, I think,
For you still mock him. Bring a seat from the cottage.
[Exit Glycine into the cottage, Sarolta continues her speech looking after her.
Something above thy rank there hangs about thee,
And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion,
Yea, e'en in thy simplicity, Glycine,
A fine and feminine grace, that makes me feel
More as a mother than a mistress to thee!
Thou art a soldier's orphan! that—the courage,
Which rising in thine eye, seems oft to give
A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove thee!
Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood,
Or there's no faith in instinct!

[Angry voices and clamour within.
Re-enter Glycine.
Glycine.
Oh, madam! there's a party of your servants,
And my lord's steward, Laska, at their head,
Have come to search for old Bathory's son,
Bethlen, that brave young man! 'twas he, my lady,
That took our parts, and beat off the intruders,
And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him
With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king.
Pray don't believe them, madam! This way! This way!
Lady Sarolta's here.—

[Calling without.
Sarolta.
Be calm, Glycine.

Enter Laska and Servants with Old Bathory.
Laska
(to Bathory).
We have no concern with you! What needs your presence?

Old Bathory.
What! Do you think I'll suffer my brave boy
To be slandered by a set of coward-ruffians,
And leave it to their malice,—yes, mere malice!—
To tell its own tale?

[Laska and Servants bow to Lady Sarolta.
Sarolta.
Laska! What may this mean?

Laska.
Madam! and may it please your ladyship!
This old man's son, by name Bethlen Bathory,
Stands charged, on weighty evidence, that he,
On yester-eve, being his lordship's birth-day,
Did traitorously defame Lord Casimir:
The lord high steward of the realm, moreover—

Sarolta.
Be brief! We know his titles!

Laska.
And moreover
Raved like a traitor at our liege King Emerick.
And furthermore, said witnesses make oath,
Led on the assault upon his lordship's servants;
Yea, insolently tore, from this, your huntsman,
His badge of livery of your noble house,
And trampled it in scorn.

Sarolta
(to the Servants who offer to speak).
You have had your spokesman!
Where is the young man thus accused?

Old Bathory.
I know not:
But if no ill betide him on the mountains,
He will not long be absent!

Sarolta.
Thou art his father?

Old Bathory.
None ever with more reason prized a son;
Yet I hate falsehood more than I love him.
But more than one, now in my lady's presence,
Witnessed the affray, besides these men of malice;
And if I swerve from truth—

Glycine.
Yes! good old man!
My lady! pray believe him!

Sarolta.
[Then to Bathory.

Old Bathory.
My tale is brief. During our festive dance,
Your servants, the accusers of my son,
Offered gross insults, in unmanly sort,
To our village maidens. He (could he do less?)
Rose in defence of outraged modesty,
And so persuasive did his cudgel prove,
(Your hectoring sparks so over-brave to women
Are always cowards) that they soon took flight,
And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters,
Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words
Which their own threats provoked.

Sarolta.
Old man! you talk
Too bluntly! Did your son owe no respect
To the livery of our house?

Old Bathory.
Even such respect
As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf
That hath begun to worry the poor lambs!

Laska.
Old insolent ruffian!

Glycine.
Pardon! pardon, madam!
I saw the whole affray. The good old man
Means no offence, sweet lady!—You, yourself,
Laska! know well, that these men were the ruffians!
Shame on you!

Sarolta.
What! Glycine? Go, retire!
[Exit Glycine.
Be it then that these men faulted. Yet yourself,
Or better still belike the maidens' parents,
Might have complained to us. Was ever access
Denied you? Or free audience? Or are we
Weak and unfit to punish our own servants?

Old Bathory.
So then! So then! Heaven grant an old man patience!
And must the gardener leave his seedling plants,
Leave his young roses to the rooting swine
While he goes ask their master, if perchance
His leisure serve to scourge them from their ravage?

Laska.
Ho! Take the rude clown from your lady's presence!
I will report her further will!

Sarolta.
Wait then,
Till thou hast learnt it! Fervent good old man!
Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on
A face of sternness, alien to my meaning!
[Then speaks to the Servants.
Hence! leave my presence! and you, Laska! mark me!
Those rioters are no longer of my household!
If we but shake a dewdrop from a rose
In vain would we replace it, and as vainly
Restore the tear of wounded modesty
To a maiden's eye familiarized to licence.—
But these men, Laska—

Laska
(aside).
Yes, now 'tis coming.

Sarolta.
Brutal aggressors first, then baffled dastards,
That they have sought to piece out their revenge
With a tale of words lured from the lips of anger
Stamps them most dangerous; and till I want
Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need
Their services. Discharge them! You, Bathory!
Are henceforth of my household! I shall place you
Near my own person. When your son returns.
Present him to us!

Old Bathory.
[Then to Sarolta aside.

Sarolta.
I oft have passed your cottage, and still praised
Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose blossoms
The gusts of April showered aslant its thatch.
Come, you shall show it me! And, while you bid it
Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness
The oil of gladness glittering on the water
Of an ebbing grief.

[Bathory shows her into his cottage.
Laska
(alone).
Vexation! baffled! school'd!
Ho! Laska! wake! why? what can all this mean?
She sent away that cockatrice in anger!
Oh the false witch! It is too plain, she loves him.
And now, the old man near my lady's person.
She'll see this Bethlen hourly!

[Laska flings himself into the seat. Glycine peeps in.
Glycine.
Laska! Laska!
my lady gone?

Laska.
Gone.

Glycine.
Have you yet seen him?
Is he returned?
[Laska starts up.
Has the seat stung you, Laska?

Laska.
No, serpent! no; 'tis you that sting me; you!
What! you would cling to him again?

Glycine.
Whom?

Laska.
Bethlen! Bethlen!
Yes; gaze as if your very eyes embraced him!
Ha! you forget the scene of yesterday!
Mute ere he came, but then—Out on your screams,
And your pretended fears!

Glycine.
Your fears, at least,
Were real, Laska! or your trembling limbs
And white cheeks played the hypocrites most vilely!

Laska.
I fear! whom? what?

Glycine.
I know what I should fear,
Were I in Laska's place.

Laska.
What?

Glycine.
My own conscience,
For having fed my jealousy and envy
With a plot, made out of other men's revenges,
Against a brave and innocent young man's life!
Yet, yet, pray tell me!

Laska.
You will know too soon.

Glycine.
Would I could find my lady! though she chid me—
Yet this suspense—

[Going.
Laska.
Stop! stop! one question only—
I am quite calm—

Glycine.
Ay, as the old song says,
Calm as a tiger, valiant as a dove.
Nay now, I have marred the verse: well! this one question—

Laska.
Are you not bound to me by your own promise?
And is it not as plain—

Glycine.
Halt! that's two questions.

Laska.
Pshaw! Is it not as plain as impudence,
That you're in love with this young swaggering beggar,
Bethlen Bathory? When he was accused,
Why pressed you forward? Why did you defend him?

Glycine.
Question meet question: that's a woman's privilege,
Why, Laska, did you urge Lord Casimir
To make my lady force that promise from me?

Laska.
So then, you say, Lady Sarolta forced you?

Glycine.
Could I look up to her dear countenance,
And say her nay? As far back as I wot of
All her commands were gracious, sweet requests.
How could it be then, but that her requests
Must needs have sounded to me as commands?
And as for love, had I a score of loves,
I'd keep them all for my dear, kind, good mistress.

Laska.
Not one for Bethlen?

Glycine.
Oh! that's a different thing.
To be sure he's brave, and handsome, and so pious
To his good old father. But for loving him—
Nay, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska!
Poor youth! I rather think I grieve for him;
For I sigh so deeply when I think of him!
And if I see him, the tears come in my eyes,
And my heart beats; and all because I dreamt
That the war-wolf had gored him as he hunted
In the haunted forest!

Laska.
You dare own all this?
Your lady will not warrant promise-breach.
Mine, pampered Miss! you shall be; and I'll make you
Grieve for him with a vengeance. Odd's, my fingers
Tingle already!

[Makes threatening sings.
Glycine
(aside).
Ha! Bethlen coming this way!
[Glycine then cries out.
Oh, save me! save me! Pray don't kill me, Laska!

Enter Bethlen in a Hunting Dress.
Bethlen.
What, beat a woman!

Laska
(to Glycine).
O you cockatrice!

Bethlen.
Unmanly dastard, hold!

Laska.
Do you chance to know
Who—I—am, Sir?—('Sdeath! how black he looks!)

Bethlen.
I have started many strange beasts in my time,
But none less like a man, than this before me
That lifts his hand against a timid female.

Laska.
Bold youth! she's mine.

Glycine.
No, not my master yet,
But only is to be; and all, because
Two years ago my lady asked me, and
I promised her, not him; and if she'll let me,
I'll hate you, my lord's steward.

Bethlen.
Hush, Glycine!

Glycine.
Yes, I do, Bethlen; for he just now brought
False witnesses to swear away your life:
Your life, and old Bathory's too.

Bethlen.
Bathory's!
Where is my father? Answer, or—Ha! gone!

[Laska during this time retires from the Stage.
Glycine.
Oh, heed not him! I saw you pressing onward,
And did but feign alarm. Dear gallant youth,
It is your life they seek!

Bethlen.
My life?

Glycine.
Alas,
Lady Sarolta even—

Bethlen.
She does not know me!

Glycine.
Oh that she did! she could not then have spoken
With such stern countenance. But though she spurn me,
I will kneel, Bethlen—

Bethlen.
Not for me, Glycine!
What have I done? or whom have I offended?

Glycine.
Rash words, 'tis said, and treasonous of the king.

[Bethlen mutters to himself.
Glycine
(aside).
So looks the statue, in our hall, o' the god,
The shaft just flown that killed the serpent!

Bethlen.
King!

Glycine.
Ah, often have I wished you were a king.
You would protect the helpless every where,
As you did us. And I, too, should not then
Grieve for you, Bethlen, as I do; nor have
The tears come in my eyes; nor dream bad dreams
That you were killed in the forest; and then Laska
Would have no right to rail at me, nor say
(Yes, the base man, he says,) that I—I love you.

Bethlen.
Pretty Glycine! wert thou not betrothed—
But in good truth I know not what I speak.
This luckless morning I have been so haunted
With my own fancies, starting up like omens,
That I feel like one, who waking from a dream
Both asks and answers wildly.—But Bathory?

Glycine.
Hist! 'tis my lady's step! She must not see you!

[Bethlen retires.
Enter from the Cottage Sarolta and Bathory.
Sarolta.
Go, seek your son! I need not add, be speedy—
You here, Glycine?

[Exit Bathory.
Glycine.
Pardon, pardon, Madam!
If you but saw the old man's son, you would not,
You could not have him harmed.

Sarolta.
Be calm, Glycine!

Glycine.
No, I shall break my heart.

Sarolta.
Ha! is it so?
O strange and hidden power of sympathy,
That of like fates, though all unknown to each,
Dost make blind instincts, orphan's heart to orphan's
Drawing by dim disquiet!

Glycine.
Old Bathory—

Sarolta.
Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy tears.
Yes, in good truth, Glycine, this same Bethlen
Seems a most noble and deserving youth.

Glycine.
My lady does not mock me?

Sarolta.
Where is Laska?
Has he not told thee?

Glycine.
Nothing. In his fear—
Anger, I mean—stole off—I am so fluttered—
Left me abruptly—

Sarolta.
His shame excuses him!
He is somewhat hardly tasked; and in discharging
His own tools, cons a lesson for himself.
Bathory and the youth henceforward live
Safe in my lord's protection.

Glycine.
The saints bless you!
Shame on my graceless heart! How dared I fear,
Lady Sarolta could be cruel?

Sarolta.
Come,
Be yourself, girl!

Glycine.
O, 'tis so full here!
And now it can not harm him if I tell you,
That the old man's son—

Sarolta.
Is not that old man's son!
A destiny, not unlike thine own, is his.
For all I know of thee is, that thou art
A soldier's orphan: left when rage intestine
Shook and engulphed the pillars of Illyria.
This other fragment, thrown back by that same earthquake,
This, so mysteriously inscribed by nature,
Perchance may piece out and interpret thine.
Command thyself! Be secret! His true father—
Hear'st thou?

Glycine.
O tell—

Bethlen
(rushing out).
Yes, tell me, Shape from heaven!
Who is my father?

Sarolta
(gazing with surprise).
Thine? Thy father? Rise!

Glycine.
Alas! He hath alarmed you, my dear lady!

Sarolta.
His countenance, not his act!

Glycine.
Rise, Bethlen! Rise!

Bethlen.
No; kneel thou too! and with thy orphan's tongue
Plead for me! I am rooted to the earth
And have no power to rise! Give me a father!
There is a prayer in those uplifted eyes
That seeks high Heaven! But I will overtake it,
And bring it back, and make it plead for me
In thine own heart! Speak! Speak! Restore to me
A name in the world!

Sarolta.
By that blest Heaven I gazed at,
I know not who thou art. And if I knew,
Dared I—But rise!

Bethlen.
Blest spirits of my parents,
Ye hover o'er me now! Ye shine upon me!
And like a flower that coils forth from a ruin,
I feel and seek the light I can not see!

Sarolta.
Thou see'st yon dim spot on the mountain's ridge,
But what it is thou know'st not. Even such
Is all I know of thee—haply, brave youth,
Is all Fate makes it safe for thee to know!

Bethlen.
Safe? Safe? O let me then inherit danger,
And it shall be my birth-right!

Sarolta
(aside).
That look again!—
The wood which first incloses, and then skirts
The highest track that leads across the mountains—
Thou know'st it, Bethlen?

Bethlen.
Lady, 'twas my wont
To roam there in my childhood oft alone
And mutter to myself the name of father.
For still Bathory (why, till now I guessed not)
Would never hear it from my lips, but sighing
Gazed upward. Yet of late an idle terror—

Glycine.
Madam, that wood is haunted by the war-wolves,
Vampires, and monstrous—

Sarolta.
Moon-calves, credulous girl!
Haply some o'ergrown savage of the forest
Hath his lair there, and fear hath framed the rest.
After that last great battle, (O young man!
Thou wakest anew my life's sole anguish) that
Which fixed Lord Emerick on his throne, Bathory
Led by a cry, far inward from the track,
In the hollow of an oak, as in a nest,
Did find thee, Bethlen, then a helpless babe.
The robe that wrapt thee was a widow's mantle.

Bethlen.
An infant's weakness doth relax my frame.
O say—I fear to ask—

Sarolta.
And I to tell thee.

Bethlen.
Strike! O strike quickly! See, I do not shrink.
I am stone, cold stone.

Sarolta.
Hid in a brake hard by,
Scarce by both palms supported from the earth,
A wounded lady lay, whose life fast waning
Seemed to survive itself in her fixt eyes,
That strained towards the babe. At length one arm
Painfully from her own weight disengaging,
She pointed first to heaven, then from her bosom
Drew forth a golden casket. Thus entreated
Thy foster-father took thee in his arms,
And kneeling spake: ‘If aught of this world's comfort
Can reach thy heart, receive a poor man's troth,
That at my life's risk I will save thy child!’
Her countenance worked, as one that seemed preparing
A loud voice, but it died upon her lips
In a faint whisper, ‘Fly! Save him! Hide—hide all!’

Bethlen.
And did he leave her? What! had I a mother?
And left her bleeding, dying? Bought I vile life
With the desertion of a dying mother?
Oh agony!

Glycine.
Alas! thou art bewildered,
And dost forget thou wert a helpless infant!

Bethlen.
What else can I remember, but a mother
Mangled and left to perish?

Sarolta.
Hush, Glycine!
It is the ground-swell of a teeming instinct:
Let it but lift itself to air and sunshine,
And it will find a mirror in the waters
It now makes boil above it. Check him not!

Bethlen.
O that I were diffused among the waters
That pierce into the secret depths of earth,
And find their way in darkness! Would that I
Could spread myself upon the homeless winds!
And I would seek her! for she is not dead!
She can not die! O pardon, gracious lady!
You were about to say, that he returned—

Sarolta.
Deep Love, the godlike in us, still believes
Its objects as immortal as itself!

Bethlen.
And found her still—

Sarolta.
Alas! he did return,
He left no spot unsearched in all the forest,
But she (I trust me by some friendly hand)
Had been borne off.

Bethlen.
O whither?

Glycine.
Dearest Bethlen!
I would that you could weep like me! O do not
Gaze so upon the air!

Sarolta.
While he was absent,
A friendly troop, 'tis certain, scoured the wood,
Hotly pursued indeed by Emerick.

Bethlen.
Emerick.
Oh hell!

Glycine.
Bethlen!

Bethlen.
Hist! I'll curse him in a whisper!
This gracious lady must hear blessings only.
She hath not yet the glory round her head,
Nor those strong eagle wings, which make swift way
To that appointed place, which I must seek;
Or else she were my mother!

Sarolta.
Noble youth!
From me fear nothing! Long time have I owed
Offerings of expiation for misdeeds
Long past that weigh me down, though innocent!
Thy foster-father hid the secret from thee,
For he perceived thy thoughts as they expanded,
Proud, restless, and ill-sorting with thy state!
Vain was his care! Thou'st made thyself suspected
E'en where suspicion reigns, and asks no proof
But its own fears! Great Nature hath endowed thee
With her best gifts! From me thou shalt receive
All honourable aidance! But haste hence!
Travel will ripen thee, and enterprise
Beseems thy years! Be thou henceforth my soldier!
And whatsoe'er betide thee, still believe
That in each noble deed, achieved or suffered,
Thou solvest best the riddle of thy birth!
And may the light that streams from thine own honour
Guide thee to that thou seekest!

Glycine.
Must he leave us?

Bethlen.
And for such goodness can I return nothing
But some hot tears that sting mine eyes? Some sighs
That if not breathed would swell my heart to stifling?
May heaven and thine own virtues, high-born lady,
Be as a shield of fire, far, far aloof
To scare all evil from thee! Yet, if fate
Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger,
From the uttermost region of the earth, methinks,
Swift as a spirit invoked, I should be with thee!
And then, perchance, I might have power to unbosom
These thanks that struggle here. Eyes fair as thine
Have gazed on me with tears of love and anguish,
Which these eyes saw not, or beheld unconscious;
And tones of anxious fondness, passionate prayers,
Have been talked to me! But this tongue ne'er soothed
A mother's ear, lisping a mother's name!
O, at how dear a price have I been loved
And no love could return! One boon then, lady!
Where'er thou bidd'st, I go thy faithful soldier,
But first must trace the spot, where she lay bleeding
Who gave me life. No more shall beast of ravine
Affront with baser spoil that sacred forest!
Or if avengers more than human haunt there,
Take they what shape they list, savage or heavenly,
They shall make answer to me, though my heart's blood
Should be the spell to bind them. Blood calls for blood!

[Exit Bethlen.
Sarolta.
Ah! it was this I feared. To ward off this
Did I withhold from him that old Bathory
Returning hid beneath the self-same oak,
Where the babe lay, the mantle, and some jewel
Bound on his infant arm.

Glycine.
Oh, let me fly
And stop him! Mangled limbs do there lie scattered
Till the lured eagle bears them to her nest.
And voices have been heard! And there the plant grows
That being eaten gives the inhuman wizard
Power to put on the fell hyæna's shape.

Sarolta.
What idle tongue hath bewitched thee, Glycine?
I hoped that thou had'st learnt a nobler faith.

Glycine.
O chide me not, dear lady; question Laska,
Or the old man.

Sarolta.
Forgive me, I spake harshly.
It is indeed a mighty sorcery
That doth enthral thy young heart, my poor girl,
And what hath Laska told thee?

Glycine.
Three days past
A courier from the king did cross that wood;
A wilful man, that armed himself on purpose:
And never hath been heard of from that time!

[Sound of horns without.
Sarolta.
Hark! dost thou hear it!

Glycine.
'Tis the sound of horns!
Our huntsmen are not out!

Sarolta.
Lord Casimir
Would not come thus!

[Horns again.
Glycine.
Still louder!

Sarolta.
Haste we hence!
For I believe in part thy tale of terror!
But, trust me, 'tis the inner man transformed:
Beasts in the shape of men are worse than war-wolves.

[Sarolta and Glycine exeunt. Trumpets, &c. louder. Enter Emerick, Lord Rudolph, Laska, and Huntsmen and Attendants.
Rudolph.
A gallant chase, sire.

Emerick.
Aye, but this new quarry
That we last started seems worth all the rest.
[then to Laska.
And you—excuse me—what's your name?

Laska.
Whatever
Your majesty may please.

Emerick.
Nay, that's too late, man.
Say, what thy mother and thy godfather
Were pleased to call thee.

Laska.
Laska, my liege sovereign.

Emerick.
Well, my liege subject, Laska! And you are
Lord Casimir's steward?

Laska.
And your majesty's creature.

Emerick.
Two gentle dames made off at our approach.
Which was your lady?

Laska
My liege lord, the taller.
The other, please your grace, is her poor handmaid,
Long since betrothed to me. But the maid's froward—
Yet would your grace but speak—

Emerick.
[to Laska, then to Rudolph.

Lord Rudolph
(aside).
Lewd, ingrate tyrant! Yes, I will announce thee.

Emerick.
[Exeunt attendants.
[Exit.

ACT II

Scene I

A savage wood. At one side a cavern, overhung with ivy. Zapolya and Raab Kiuprili discovered: both, but especially the latter, in rude and savage garments.
Raab Kiuprili.
Heard you then aught while I was slumbering?

Zapolya.
Nothing.
Only your face became convulsed. We miserable!
Is heaven's last mercy fled? Is sleep grown treacherous?

Raab Kiuprili.
O for a sleep, for sleep itself to rest in!
I dream'd I had met with food beneath a tree,
And I was seeking you, when all at once
My feet became entangled in a net:
Still more entangled as in rage I tore it.
At length I freed myself, had sight of you,
But as I hastened eagerly, again
I found my frame encumbered: a huge serpent
Twined round my chest, but tightest round my throat.

Zapolya.
Alas! 'twas lack of food: for hunger chokes!

Raab Kiuprili.
And now I saw you by a shrivelled child
Strangely pursued. You did not fly, yet neither
Touched you the ground, methought, but close above it
Did seem to shoot yourself along the air,
And as you passed me, turned your face and shrieked.

Zapolya.
I did in truth send forth a feeble shriek,
Scarce knowing why. Perhaps the mock'd sense craved
To hear the scream, which you but seemed to utter.
For your whole face looked like a mask of torture!
Yet a child's image doth indeed pursue me
Shrivelled with toil and penury!

Raab Kiuprili.
Nay! what ails you?

Zapolya.
A wondrous faintness there comes stealing o'er me.
Is it Death's lengthening shadow, who comes onward,
Life's setting sun behind him?

Raab Kiuprili.
Cheerly! The dusk
Will quickly shroud us. Ere the moon be up,
Trust me I'll bring thee food!

Zapolya.
Hunger's tooth has
Gnawn itself blunt. O, I could queen it well
O'er my own sorrows as my rightful subjects.
But wherefore, O revered Kiuprili! wherefore
Did my importunate prayers, my hopes and fancies,
Force thee from thy secure though sad retreat?
Would that my tongue had then cloven to my mouth!
But Heaven is just! With tears I conquered thee,
And not a tear is left me to repent with!
Had'st thou not done already—had'st thou not
Suffered—oh, more than e'er man feigned of friendship?

Raab Kiuprili.
Yet be thou comforted! What! had'st thou faith
When I turned back incredulous? 'Twas thy light
That kindled mine. And shall it now go out,
And leave thy soul in darkness? Yet look up,
And think thou see'st thy sainted lord commissioned
And on his way to aid us! Whence those late dreams,
Which after such long interval of hopeless
And silent resignation all at once
Night after night commanded thy return
Hither? and still presented in clear vision
This wood as in a scene? this very cavern?
Thou darest not doubt that Heaven's especial hand
Worked in those signs. The hour of thy deliverance
Is on the stroke:—for misery can not add
Grief to thy griefs, or patience to thy sufferance!

Zapolya.
Can not! Oh, what if thou wert taken from me?
Nay, thou said'st well: for that and death were one.
Life's grief is at its height indeed; the hard
Necessity of this inhuman state
Hath made our deeds inhuman as our vestments.
Housed in this wild wood, with wild usages,
Danger our guest, and famine at our portal—
Wolf-like to prowl in the shepherd's fold by night!
At once for food and safety to affrighten
The traveller from his road—

[Glycine is heard singing without.
Raab Kiuprili.
Hark! heard you not
A distant chaunt?

Zapolya.
Sure 'tis some blest spirit!
For since thou slew'st the usurper's emissary
That plunged upon us, a more than mortal fear
Is as a wall, that wards off the beleaguerer
And starves the poor besieged.

[Song again.
Raab Kiuprili.
It is a maiden's voice! quick to the cave!

Zapolya.
Hark! her voice falters!

[Exit Zapolya.
Raab Kiuprili.
She must not enter
The cavern, else I will remain unseen!

[Kiuprili retires to one side of the stage. Glycine enters singing.
Glycine.
A savage place! saints shield me! Bethlen! Bethlen!
Not here?—There's no one here! I'll sing again!
[Sings again.
If I do not hear my own voice, I shall fancy
Voices in all chance sounds!
[Starts.

Raab Kiuprili
(unseen).
Leave them and flee!

Glycine
(shrieks, then recovering).
Where are you?

Raab Kiuprili
(still unseen).
Leave them!

Glycine.
'Tis Glycine!
Speak to me, Bethlen! speak in your own voice!
All silent!—If this were the war-wolf's den!
'Twas not his voice!—

[Glycine leaves the provisions, and exit. Kiuprili comes forward, seizes them and carries them into the cavern. Glycine returns.
Glycine.
Shame! Nothing hurt me!
If some fierce beast have gored him, he must needs
Speak with a strange voice. Wounds cause thirst and hoarseness!
Speak, Bethlen! or but moan. St—St—No—Bethlen!
If I turn back and he should be found dead here,
[She creeps nearer and nearer to the cavern.
I should go mad!—Again!—'Twas my own heart!
Hush, coward heart! better beat loud with fear,
Than break with shame and anguish!
[As she approaches to enter the cavern, Kiuprili stops her. Glycine shrieks.

Raab Kiuprili.
Swear then by all thy hopes, by all thy fears—

Glycine.
Save me!

Raab Kiuprili.
Swear secrecy and silence!

Glycine.
I swear!

Raab Kiuprili.
Tell what thou art, and what thou seekest?

Glycine.
Only
A harmless orphan youth, to bring him food—

Raab Kiuprili.
Wherefore in this wood?

Glycine.
Alas! it was his purpose—

Raab Kiuprili.
With what intention came he? Would'st thou save him,
Hide nothing!

Glycine.
Save him! O forgive his rashness!
He is good, and did not know that thou wert human!

Raab Kiuprili.

Glycine.
To kill thee, or
If that thou wert a spirit, to compel thee
By prayers, and with the shedding of his blood,
To make disclosure of his parentage.
But most of all—

Zapolya
(rushing out from the cavern).
Heaven's blessing on thee! Speak!

Glycine.
Whether his mother live, or perished here!

Zapolya.
Angel of mercy, I was perishing
And thou did'st bring me food: and now thou bring'st
The sweet, sweet food of hope and consolation
To a mother's famished heart! His name, sweet maiden!

Glycine.
E'en till this morning we were wont to name him
Bethlen Bathory!

Zapolya.
Even till this morning?
This morning? when my weak faith failed me wholly!
Pardon, O thou that portion'st out our sufferance,
And fill'st again the widow's empty cruse!
Say on!

Glycine.
The false ones charged the valiant youth
With treasonous words of Emerick—

Zapolya.
Ha! my son!

Glycine.
And of Lord Casimir—

Raab Kiuprili
(aside).
O agony! my son!

Glycine.
But my dear lady—

Zapolya and Raab Kiuprili.
Who?

Glycine.
Lady Sarolta
Frowned and discharged these bad men.

Raab Kiuprili
(to himself).
Righteous Heaven
Sent me a daughter once, and I repined
That it was not a son. A son was given me.
My daughter died, and I scarce shed a tear:
And lo! that son became my curse and infamy.

Zapolya
(embraces Glycine).
Sweet innocent! and you came here to seek him,
And bring him food. Alas! thou fear'st?

Glycine.
Not much!
My own dear lady, when I was a child,
Embraced me oft, but her heart never beat so.
For I too am an orphan, motherless!

Raab Kiuprili
(to Zapolya).
[Then to Glycine again.

Glycine.
She is always gracious, and so praised the old man
That his heart o'erflowed, and made discovery
That in this wood—

Zapolya.
O speak!

Glycine.
A wounded lady—

[Zapolya faints—they both support her.
Glycine.
Is this his mother?

Raab Kiuprili.
[Horn heard without.

Glycine.
Perchance some huntsmen of the king's.

Raab Kiuprili.
Emerick?

Glycine.
He came this morning—

[They retire to the cavern, bearing Zapolya. Then enter Bethlen, armed with a boar-spear.
Bethlen.
I had a glimpse
Of some fierce shape; and but that Fancy often
Is Nature's intermeddler, and cries halves
With the outward sight, I should believe I saw it
Bear off some human prey. O my preserver!
Bathory! Father! Yes, thou deserv'st that name!
Thou did'st not mock me! These are blessed findings!
The secret cypher of my destiny
[Looking at his signet.
Stands here inscribed: it is the seal of fate!
Ha!—Had ever monster fitting lair, 'tis yonder!
Thou yawning den, I well remember thee!
Mine eyes deceived me not. Heaven leads me on!
Now for a blast, loud as a king's defiance,
To rouse the monster couchant o'er his ravine!
[Blows the horn—then a pause.
Another blast! and with another swell
To you, ye charméd watchers of this wood!
If haply I have come, the rightful heir
Of vengeance: if in me survive the spirits
Of those, whose guiltless blood flowed streaming here!
[Blows again louder.
Still silent? Is the monster gorged? Heaven shield me!
Thou, faithful spear! be both my torch and guide.

[As Bethlen is about to enter, Kiuprili speaks from the cavern unseen.
Raab Kiuprili.
Withdraw thy foot! Retract thine idle spear,
And wait obedient!

Bethlen.
Ha! What art thou? speak!

Raab Kiuprili
(still unseen).
Avengers!

Bethlen.
By a dying mother's pangs
E'en such am I. Receive me!

Raab Kiuprili
(still unseen).
Wait! Beware!
At thy first step, thou treadest upon the light,
Thenceforth must darkling flow, and sink in darkness!

Bethlen.
Ha! see my boar-spear trembles like a reed!—
Oh, fool! mine eyes are duped by my own shuddering.—
Those piléd thoughts, built up in solitude,
Year following year, that pressed upon my heart
As on the altar of some unknown God,
Then, as if touched by fire from heaven descending,
Blazed up within me at a father's name—
Do they desert me now?—at my last trial?
Voice of command! and thou, O hidden Light!
I have obeyed! Declare ye by what name
I dare invoke you! Tell what sacrifice
Will make you gracious.

Raab Kiuprili
(still unseen).
Patience! Truth! Obedience!
Be thy whole soul transparent! so the Light,
Thou seekest, may enshrine itself within thee!
Thy name?

Bethlen.
Ask rather the poor roaming savage,
Whose infancy no holy rite had blest,
To him, perchance, rude spoil or ghastly trophy,
In chase or battle won, have given a name.
I have none—but like a dog have answered
To the chance sound which he that fed me, called me.

Raab Kiuprili
(still unseen).
Thy birth-place?

Bethlen.
Deluding spirits! Do ye mock me?
Question the Night! Bid Darkness tell its birth-place?
Yet hear! Within yon old oak's hollow trunk,
Where the bats cling, have I surveyed my cradle!
The mother-falcon hath her nest above it,
And in it the wolf litters!—I invoke you,
Tell me, ye secret ones! if ye beheld me
As I stood there, like one who having delved
For hidden gold hath found a talisman.
O tell! what rights, what offices of duty
This signet doth command? What rebel spirits
Owe homage to its Lord?

Raab Kiuprili
(still unseen).
More, guiltier, mightier,
Than thou mayest summon! Wait the destined hour!

Bethlen.
O yet again, and with more clamorous prayer,
I importune ye! Mock me no more with shadows!
This sable mantle—tell, dread voice! did this
Enwrap one fatherless!

Zapolya
(unseen).
One fatherless!

Bethlen.
[Zapolya rushes out to embrace him.

Zapolya.
My son! my son!
A wretched—Oh no, no! a blest—a happy mother!

[They embrace. Kiuprili and Glycine come forward and the curtain drops.

ACT III

Scene I

A stately room in Lord Casimir's castle. Enter Emerick and Laska.
Emerick.
I do perceive thou hast a tender conscience,
Laska, in all things that concern thine own
Interest or safety.

Laska.
In this sovereign presence
I can fear nothing, but your dread displeasure.

Emerick.
Perchance, thou think'st it strange, that I of all men
Should covet thus the love of fair Sarolta,
Dishonouring Casimir?

Laska.
Far be it from me!
Your Majesty's love and choice bring honour with them.

Emerick.
Perchance, thou hast heard that Casimir is my friend,
Fought for me, yea, for my sake, set at nought
A parent's blessing; braved a father's curse?

Laska
(aside).
Would I but knew now, what his Majesty meant!
Oh yes, Sire! 'tis our common talk, how Lord
Kiuprili, my Lord's father—

Emerick.
'Tis your talk,
Is it, good statesman Laska?

Laska.
No, not mine,
Not mine, an please your Majesty! There are
Some insolent malcontents indeed that talk thus—
Nay worse, mere treason. As Bathory's son,
The fool that ran into the monster's jaws.

Emerick.
Well, 'tis a loyal monster if he rids us
Of traitors! But art sure the youth's devoured?

Laska.
Not a limb left, an please your Majesty!
And that unhappy girl—

Emerick.
[Laska bows assent.

Laska.
Scarce had I got the first glimpse of her veil,
When, with a horrid roar that made the leaves
Of the wood shake—

Emerick.
Made thee shake like a leaf!

Laska.
The war-wolf leapt; at the first plunge he seized her;
Forward I rushed!

Emerick.
Most marvellous!

Laska.
Hurled my javelin;
Which from his dragon-scales recoiling—

Emerick.
Enough!
And take, friend, this advice. When next thou tonguest it,
Hold constant to thy exploit with this monster,
And leave untouched your common talk aforesaid,
What your Lord did, or should have done.

Laska.
My talk?
The saints forbid! I always said, for my part,
‘Was not the king Lord Casimir's dearest friend?
Was not that friend a king? Whate'er he did
'Twas all from pure love to his Majesty.’

Emerick.
And this then was thy talk? While knave and coward,
Both strong within thee, wrestle for the uppermost,
In slips the fool and takes the place of both.
Babbler! Lord Casimir did, as thou and all men.
He loved himself, loved honours, wealth, dominion.
All these were set upon a father's head:
Good truth! a most unlucky accident!
For he but wished to hit the prize; not graze
The head that bore it: so with steady eye
Off flew the parricidal arrow.—Even
As Casimir loved Emerick, Emerick
Loves Casimir, intends him no dishonour.
He winked not then, for love of me forsooth!
For love of me now let him wink! Or if
The dame prove half as wise as she is fair,
He may still pass his hand, and find all smooth.

[Passing his hand across his brow.
Laska.
Your Majesty's reasoning has convinced me.

Emerick.
Thee!
'Tis well! and more than meant. For by my faith
I had half forgotten thee.—Thou hast the key?
[Laska bows.
And in your lady's chamber there's full space?

Laska.
Between the wall and arras to conceal you.

Emerick.
Here! This purse is but an earnest of thy fortune,
If thou prov'st faithful. But if thou betrayest me,
Hark you!—the wolf that shall drag thee to his den
Shall be no fiction.

[Exit Emerick. Laska manet with a key in one hand, and a purse in the other.
Laska.
Well then! here I stand,
Like Hercules, on either side a goddess.
Call this
(looking at the purse)
Preferment; this (holding up the key)
Fidelity!
And first my golden goddess: what bids she?
Only:—‘This way, your Majesty! hush! The household
Are all safe lodged.’—Then, put Fidelity
Within her proper wards, just turn her round—
So—the door opens—and for all the rest,
'Tis the king's deed, not Laska's. Do but this
And—‘I'm the mere earnest of your future fortunes.’
But what says the other?—Whisper on! I hear you!
[Putting the key to his ear.
All very true!—but, good Fidelity!
If I refuse King Emerick, will you promise,
And swear now, to unlock the dungeon door,
And save me from the hangman? Aye! you're silent!
What, not a word in answer? A clear nonsuit!
Now for one look to see that all are lodged
At the due distance—then—yonder lies the road
For Laska and his royal friend, King Emerick!

[Exit Laska. Then enter Bathory and Bethlen.
Bethlen.
He looked as if he were some God disguised
In an old warrior's venerable shape
To guard and guide my mother. Is there not
Chapel or oratory in this mansion?

Old Bathory.
Even so.

Bethlen.
From that place then am I to take
A helm and breast-plate, both inlaid with gold,
And the good sword that once was Raab Kiuprili's.

Old Bathory.
Those very arms this day Sarolta show'd me—
With wistful look. I'm lost in wild conjectures!

Bethlen.
O tempt me not, e'en with a wandering guess,
To break the first command a mother's will
Imposed, a mother's voice made known to me!
‘Ask not, my son,’ said she, ‘our names or thine.
The shadow of the eclipse is passing off
The full orb of thy destiny! Already
The victor Crescent glitters forth and sheds
O'er the yet lingering haze a phantom light.
Thou canst not hasten it! Leave then to Heaven
The work of Heaven: and with a silent spirit
Sympathize with the powers that work in silence!’
Thus spake she, and she looked as she were then
Fresh from some heavenly vision!

[Re-enter Laska, not perceiving them.
Laska.
All asleep!
[Then observing Bethlen, stands in idiot-affright.
I must speak to it first—Put—put the question!
I'll confess all!

[Stammering with fear.
Old Bathory.
Laska! what ails thee, man?

Laska
(pointing to Bethlen.)
There!

Old Bathory.
I see nothing! where?

Laska.
He does not see it!
Bethlen, torment me not!

Bethlen.
Soft! Rouse him gently!
He hath outwatched his hour, and half asleep,
With eyes half open, mingles sight with dreams.

Old Bathory.
Ho! Laska! Don't you know us! 'tis Bathory
And Bethlen!

Laska.
Good now! Ha! ha! An excellent trick.
Afraid? Nay, no offence! But I must laugh.
But are you sure now, that 'tis you, yourself?

Bethlen.
Would'st be convinced?

Laska.
No nearer, pray! consider!
If it should prove his ghost, the touch would freeze me
To a tombstone. No nearer!

Bethlen.
The fool is drunk!

Laska.
Well now! I love a brave man to my heart.
I myself braved the monster, and would fain
Have saved the false one from the fate she tempted.

Old Bathory.
You, Laska?

Bethlen
(to Bathory).
Mark! Heaven grant it may be so!
Glycine?

Laska.
She! I traced her by the voice.
You'll scarce believe me, when I say I heard
The close of a song: the poor wretch had been singing:
As if she wished to compliment the war-wolf
At once with music and a meal!

Bethlen
(to Bathory).
Mark that!

Laska.
At the next moment I beheld her running,
Wringing her hands with, ‘Bethlen! O poor Bethlen!’
I almost fear, the sudden noise I made,
Rushing impetuous through the brake, alarmed her.
She stopt, then mad with fear, turned round and ran
Into the monster's gripe. One piteous scream
I heard. There was no second—I—

Bethlen.
Stop there!
We'll spare your modesty! Who dares not honour
Laska's brave tongue, and high heroic fancy?

Laska.
You too, Sir Knight, have come back safe and sound!
You played the hero at a cautious distance!
Or was it that you sent the poor girl forward
To stay the monster's stomach? Dainties quickly
Pall on the taste and cloy the appetite!

Old Bathory.
Laska, beware! Forget not what thou art!
Should'st thou but dream thou'rt valiant, cross thyself!
And ache all over at the dangerous fancy!

Laska.
What then! you swell upon my lady's favour,
High Lords and perilous of one day's growth!
But other judges now sit on the bench!
And haply, Laska hath found audience there,
Where to defend the treason of a son
Might end in lifting up both son and father
Still higher; to a height from which indeed
You both may drop, but, spite of fate and fortune,
Will be secured from falling to the ground.
'Tis possible too, young man! that royal Emerick,
At Laska's rightful suit, may make inquiry
By whom seduced, the maid so strangely missing—

Bethlen.
Soft! my good Laska! might it not suffice,
If to yourself, being Lord Casimir's steward,
I should make record of Glycine's fate?

Laska.
'Tis well! it shall content me! though your fear
Has all the credit of these lowered tones.
First we demand the manner of her death?

Bethlen.
Nay! that's superfluous! Have you not just told us,
That you yourself, led by impetuous valour,
Witnessed the whole? My tale's of later date.
After the fate, from which your valour strove
In vain to rescue the rash maid, I saw her!

Laska.
Glycine?

Bethlen.
Nay! Dare I accuse wise Laska,
Whose words find access to a monarch's ear,
Of a base, braggart lie? It must have been
Her spirit that appeared to me. But haply
I come too late? It has itself delivered
Its own commission to you?

Old Bathory.
'Tis most likely!
And the ghost doubtless vanished, when we entered
And found brave Laska staring wide—at nothing!

Laska.
'Tis well! You've ready wits! I shall report them,
With all due honour, to his Majesty!
Treasure them up, I pray! A certain person,
Whom the king flatters with his confidence,
Tells you, his royal friend asks startling questions!
'Tis but a hint! And now what says the ghost!

Bethlen.
[Beats him off.

[Laska runs away.
Old Bathory.
The sudden swelling of this shallow dastard
Tells of a recent storm: the first disruption
Of the black cloud that hangs and threatens o'er us.

Bethlen.
E'en this reproves my loitering. Say where lies
The oratory?

Old Bathory.
Ascend yon flight of stairs!
Midway the corridor a silver lamp
Hangs o'er the entrance of Sarolta's chamber,
And facing it, the low arched oratory!
Me thou'lt find watching at the outward gate:
For a petard might burst the bars, unheard
By the drenched porter, and Sarolta hourly
Expects Lord Casimir, spite of Emerick's message!

Bethlen.
There I will meet you! And till then good-night!
Dear good old man, good-night!

Old Bathory.
O yet one moment!
What I repelled, when it did seem my own,
I cling to, now 'tis parting—call me father!
It can not now mislead thee. O my son,
Ere yet our tongues have learnt another name,
Bethlen!—say ‘Father’ to me!

Bethlen.
Now, and for ever
My father! other sire than thou, on earth
I never had, a dearer could not have!
From the base earth you raised me to your arms,
And I would leap from off a throne, and kneeling,
Ask Heaven's blessing from thy lips. My father!

Bathory.
[Exit Bethlen.
[Exit Bathory.

Scene changes to a splendid Bed-chamber, hung with tapestry. Sarolta and an Attendant.
Attendant.
We all did love her, madam!

Sarolta.
She deserved it!
Luckless Glycine! rash, unhappy girl!
'Twas the first time she e'er deceived me.

Attendant.
She was in love, and had she not died thus,
With grief for Bethlen's loss, and fear of Laska,
She would have pined herself to death at home.

Sarolta.
Has the youth's father come back from his search?

Attendant.
He never will, I fear me. O dear lady!
That Laska did so triumph o'er the old man—
It was quite cruel—‘You'll be sure,’ said he,
‘To meet with part at least of your son Bethlen,
Or the war-wolf must have a quick digestion!
Go! Search the wood by all means! Go! I pray you!’

Sarolta.
Inhuman wretch!

Attendant.
And old Bathory answered
With a sad smile, ‘It is a witch's prayer,
And may Heaven read it backwards.’ Though she was rash,
'Twas a small fault for such a punishment!

Sarolta.
Nay! 'twas my grief, and not my anger spoke.
Small fault indeed! but leave me, my poor girl!
I feel a weight that only prayer can lighten.
[Exit Attendant.
O they were innocent, and yet have perished
In their May of life; and Vice grows old in triumph.
Is it Mercy's hand, that for the bad man holds
Life's closing gate?—
Still passing thence petitionary Hours
To woo the obdurate spirit to repentance?
Or would this chillness tell me, that there is
Guilt too enormous to be duly punished,
Save by increase of guilt? The Powers of Evil
Are jealous claimants. Guilt too hath its ordeal,
And Hell its own probation!—Merciful Heaven,
Rather than this, pour down upon thy suppliant
Disease, and agony, and comfortless want!
O send us forth to wander on, unsheltered!
Make our food bitter with despiséd tears!
Let viperous scorn hiss at us as we pass!
Yea, let us sink down at our enemy's gate,
And beg forgiveness and a morsel of bread!
With all the heaviest worldly visitations
Let the dire father's curse that hovers o'er us
Work out its dread fulfilment, and the spirit
Of wronged Kiuprili be appeased. But only,
Only, O merciful in vengeance! let not
That plague turn inward on my Casimir's soul!
Scare thence the fiend Ambition, and restore him
To his own heart! O save him! Save my husband!
[During the latter part of this speech Emerick comes forward from his hiding-place. Sarolta seeing him, without recognizing him.
In such a shape a father's curse should come.

Emerick
(advancing).
Fear not.

Sarolta.
Who art thou? Robber? Traitor?

Emerick.
Friend!
Who in good hour hath startled these dark fancies,
Rapacious traitors, that would fain depose
Joy, love, and beauty, from their natural thrones:
Those lips, those angel eyes, that regal forehead.

Sarolta.
Strengthen me, Heaven! I must not seem afraid!
[Aside.
The king to-night then deigns to play the masker.
What seeks your Majesty?

Emerick.
Sarolta's love;
And Emerick's power lies prostrate at her feet.

Sarolta.
Heaven guard the sovereign's power from such debasement!
Far rather, Sire, let it descend in vengeance
On the base villain, on the faithless slave
Who dared unbar the doors of these retirements!
For whom? Has Casimir deserved this insult?
O my misgiving heart! If—if—from Heaven
Yet not from you, Lord Emerick!

Emerick.
Chiefly from me.
Has he not like an ingrate robbed my court
Of Beauty's star, and kept my heart in darkness?
First then on him I will administer justice—
If not in mercy, yet in love and rapture.

[Seizes her
Sarolta.
Help! Treason! Help!

Emerick.
Call louder! Scream again!
Here's none can hear you!

Sarolta.
Hear me, hear me, Heaven!

Emerick.
Nay, why this rage? Who best deserves you? Casimir,
Emerick's bought implement, the jealous slave
That mews you up with bolts and bars? or Emerick
Who proffers you a throne? Nay, mine you shall be.
Hence with this fond resistance! Yield; then live
This month a widow, and the next a queen!

Sarolta.
Yet, yet for one brief moment
[Struggling.
Unhand me, I conjure you.

[She throws him off, and rushes towards a toilet. Emerick follows, and as she takes a dagger, he grasps it in her hand.
Emerick.
Ha! Ha! a dagger;
A seemly ornament for a lady's casket!
'Tis held, devotion is akin to love,
But yours is tragic! Love in war! It charms me,
And makes your beauty worth a king's embraces!

[During this speech Bethlen enters armed.
Bethlen.
Ruffian, forbear! Turn, turn and front my sword!

Emerick.
Pish! who is this?

Sarolta.
O sleepless eye of Heaven!
A blest, a blessed spirit! Whence camest thou?
May I still call thee Bethlen?

Bethlen.
Ever, lady,
Your faithful soldier!

Emerick.
Insolent slave! Depart
Know'st thou not me?

Bethlen.
I know thou art a villain
And coward! That thy devilish purpose marks thee!
What else, this lady must instruct my sword!

Sarolta.
Monster, retire! O touch him not, thou blest one!
This is the hour that fiends and damnéd spirits
Do walk the earth, and take what form they list!
Yon devil hath assumed a king's!

Bethlen.
Usurped it!

Emerick.

Sarolta.
Thou art so fiendish wicked,
That in thy blasphemies I scarce hear thy threats!

Bethlen.
Lady, be calm! fear not this king of the buskin!
A king? Oh laughter! A king Bajazet!
That from some vagrant actor's tiring-room,
Hath stolen at once his speech and crown!

Emerick.
Ah! treason!
Thou hast been lessoned and tricked up for this!
As surely as the wax on thy death-warrant
Shall take the impression of this royal signet,
So plain thy face hath ta'en the mask of rebel!

[Bethlen seizes Emerick's hand and eagerly observes the signet.
Bethlen.
It must be so! 'Tis e'en the counterpart!
But with a foul usurping cypher on it!
The light hath flashed from Heaven, and I must follow it!
O curst usurper! O thou brother-murderer!
That mad'st a star-bright queen a fugitive widow!
Who fill'st the land with curses, being thyself
All curses in one tyrant! see and tremble!
This is Kiuprili's sword that now hangs o'er thee!
Kiuprili's blasting curse, that from its point
Shoots lightnings at thee. Hark! in Andreas' name,
Heir of his vengeance, hell-hound! I defy thee.

[They fight, and just as Emerick is disarmed, in rush Casimir, Old Bathory, and Attendants. Casimir runs in between the combatants, and parts them; in the struggle Bethlen's sword is thrown down.
Casimir.
The king! disarmed too by a stranger! Speak!
What may this mean?

Emerick.
Deceived, dishonored lord!
Ask thou yon fair adultress! She will tell thee
A tale, which would'st thou be both dupe and traitor,
Thou wilt believe against thy friend and sovereign!
Thou art present now, and a friend's duty ceases:
To thine own justice leave I thine own wrongs.
Of half thy vengeance I perforce must rob thee,
For that the sovereign claims. To thy allegiance
I now commit this traitor and assassin.
[Then to the Attendants.
Hence with him to the dungeon! and to-morrow,
Ere the sun rises,—Hark! your heads or his!

Bethlen.
Can Hell work miracles to mock Heaven's justice?

Emerick.
Who speaks to him dies! The traitor that has menaced
His king, must not pollute the breathing air,
Even with a word!

Casimir
(to Bathory).
Hence with him to the dungeon!

[Exit Bethlen, hurried off by Bathory and Attendants.
Emerick.
We hunt to-morrow in your upland forest:
Thou (to Casimir)
wilt attend us: and wilt then explain
This sudden and most fortunate arrival.

[Exit Emerick; Manent Casimir and Sarolta.
Sarolta.
My lord! my husband! look whose sword lies yonder!
It is Kiuprili's, Casimir; 'tis thy father's!
And wielded by a stripling's arm, it baffled,
Yea, fell like Heaven's own lightnings on that Tarquin.

Casimir.
Hush! hush!
I had detected ere I left the city
The tyrant's curst intent. Lewd, damnéd ingrate!
For him did I bring down a father's curse!
Swift, swift must be our means! To-morrow's sun
Sets on his fate or mine! O blest Sarolta!
No other prayer, late penitent, dare I offer,
But that thy spotless virtues may prevail
O'er Casimir's crimes, and dread Kiuprili's curse!

[Exeunt.

ACT IV

Scene I

A glade in a wood. Enter Casimir looking anxiously around.
Casimir.
This needs must be the spot! O, here he comes!
Enter Lord Rudolph.
Well met, Lord Rudolph!—
Your whisper was not lost upon my ear,
And I dare trust—

Lord Rudolph.
Enough! the time is precious!
You left Temeswar late on yester-eve?
And sojourned there some hours?

Casimir.
I did so!

Lord Rudolph.
Heard you
Aught of a hunt preparing?

Casimir.
Yes; and met
The assembled huntsmen!

Lord Rudolph.
Was there no word given?

Casimir.
The word for me was this:—The royal Leopard
Chases thy milk-white dedicated Hind.

Lord Rudolph.
Your answer?

Casimir.
As the word proves false or true
Will Casimir cross the hunt, or join the huntsmen!

Lord Rudolph.
The event redeemed their pledge?

Casimir.
It did, and therefore
Have I sent back both pledge and invitation.
The spotless Hind hath fled to them for shelter,
And bears with her my seal of fellowship!

[They take hands.
Lord Rudolph.
But Emerick! how when you reported to him
Sarolta's disappearance, and the flight
Of Bethlen with his guards?

Casimir.
O he received it
As evidence of their mutual guilt. In fine,
With cozening warmth condoled with, and dismissed me.

Lord Rudolph.
I entered as the door was closing on you:
His eye was fixed, yet seemed to follow you,—
With such a look of hate, and scorn and triumph,
As if he had you in the toils already,
And were then choosing where to stab you first.
But hush! draw back!

Casimir.
This nook is at the furthest
From any beaten track.

Lord Rudolph.
There! mark them!

[Points to where Laska and Pestalutz cross the Stage.
Casimir.
Laska!

Lord Rudolph.
One of the two I recognized this morning;
His name is Pestalutz: a trusty ruffian,
Whose face is prologue still to some dark murder.
Beware no stratagem, no trick of message,
Dispart you from your servants.

Casimir
(aside).
I deserve it.
The comrade of that ruffian is my servant:
The one I trusted most and most preferred.
But we must part. What makes the king so late?
It was his wont to be an early stirrer.

Lord Rudolph.
And his main policy.
To enthral the sluggard nature in ourselves
Is, in good truth, the better half of the secret
To enthral the world: for the will governs all.
See, the sky lowers! the cross-winds waywardly
Chase the fantastic masses of the clouds
With a wild mockery of the coming hunt!

Casimir.
Mark yonder mass! I make it wear the shape
Of a huge ram that butts with head depressed.

Lord Rudolph
(smiling).
Belike, some stray sheep of the oozy flock,
Which, if bards lie not, the Sea-shepherds tend,
Glaucus or Proteus. But my fancy shapes it
A monster couchant on a rocky shelf.

Casimir.
Mark too the edges of the lurid mass—
Restless, as if some idly-vexing Sprite,
On swift wing coasting by, with tetchy hand
Pluck'd at the ringlets of the vaporous Fleece.
These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand,
And elemental war!

[A single trumpet heard at some distance.
Lord Rudolph.
[Trumpets.

Casimir.
Oft as thou canst, essay to lead the hunt
Hard by the forest-skirts; and ere high noon
Expect our sworn confederates from Temeswar.
I trust, ere yet this clouded sun slopes westward.
That Emerick's death, or Casimir's, will appease
The manes of Zapolya and Kiuprili!
[Exit Rudolph.
The traitor, Laska!—
And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced,
Could see him as he was, and often warned me.
Whence learned she this?—O she was innocent!
And to be innocent is Nature's wisdom!
The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air,
Feared soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter.
And the young steed recoils upon his haunches,
The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard.
O surer than Suspicion's hundred eyes
Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart,
By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness,
Reveals the approach of evil. Casimir!
O fool! O parricide! through yon wood did'st thou,
With fire and sword, pursue a patriot father,
A widow and an orphan. Dar'st thou then
(Curse-laden wretch) put forth these hands to raise
The ark, all sacred, of thy country's cause?
Look down in pity on thy son, Kiuprili!
And let this deep abhorrence of his crime,
Unstained with selfish fears, be his atonement!
O strengthen him to nobler compensation
In the deliverance of his bleeding country!

[Exit Casimir.
Scene changes to the mouth of a Cavern, as in Act II. Zapolya and Glycine discovered.
Zapolya.
Our friend is gone to seek some safer cave:
Do not then leave me long alone, Glycine!
Having enjoyed thy commune, loneliness,
That but oppressed me hitherto, now scares.

Glycine.
I shall know Bethlen at the furthest distance,
And the same moment I descry him, lady,
I will return to you.

[Exit Glycine.
[Enter Old Bathory, speaking as he enters.
Old Bathory.
Who hears? A friend!
A messenger from him who bears the signet!

Zapolya.
He hath the watch-word!—Art thou not Bathory?

Old Bathory.
O noble lady! greetings from your son!

[Bathory kneels.
Zapolya.
Rise! rise! Or shall I rather kneel beside thee,
And call down blessings from the wealth of Heaven
Upon thy honoured head? When thou last saw'st me
I would full fain have knelt to thee, and could not,
Thou dear old man! How oft since then in dreams
Have I done worship to thee, as an angel
Bearing my helpless babe upon thy wings!

Old Bathory.
O he was born to honour! Gallant deeds
And perilous hath he wrought since yester-eve.
Now from Temeswar (for to him was trusted
A life, save thine, the dearest) he hastes hither—

Zapolya.
Lady Sarolta mean'st thou?

Old Bathory.
She is safe.
The royal brute hath overleapt his prey,
And when he turned, a sworded Virtue faced him.
My own brave boy—O pardon, noble lady!
Your son—

Zapolya.
Hark! Is it he?

Old Bathory.
I hear a voice
Too hoarse for Bethlen's! 'Twas his scheme and hope,
Long ere the hunters could approach the forest,
To have led you hence.—Retire.

Zapolya.
O life of terrors!

Old Bathory.
In the cave's mouth we have such 'vantage ground
That even this old arm—

[Exeunt Zapolya and Bathory into the cave.
Enter Laska and Pestalutz.
Laska.
Not a step further!

Pestalutz.
Dastard! was this your promise to the king?

Laska.
I have fulfilled his orders. Have walked with you
As with a friend: have pointed out Lord Casimir:
And now I leave you to take care of him.
For the king's purposes are doubtless friendly.

Pestalutz.
Be on your guard, man!

Laska.
Ha! what now?

Pestalutz.
Behind you!
'Twas one of Satan's imps, that grinned and threatened you
For your most impudent hope to cheat his master!

Laska.
Pshaw! What! you think 'tis fear that makes me leave you?

Pestalutz.
Is't not enough to play the knave to others,
But thou must lie to thine own heart?

Laska.
Friend! Laska will be found at his own post,
Watching elsewhere for the king's interest.
There's a rank plot that Laska must hunt down,
'Twixt Bethlen and Glycine!

Pestalutz.
What! the girl
Whom Laska saw the war-wolf tear in pieces?

Laska.
[Seeing Glycine without.

[They run out after Glycine. Enter Bathory from the cavern.
Old Bathory.
Rest, lady, rest! I feel in every sinew
A young man's strength returning! Which way went they?
The shriek came thence.

[Enter Glycine.
Glycine.
Ha! weapons here? Then, Bethlen, thy Glycine
Will die with thee or save thee!

[She seizes them and rushes out. Bathory following. Music, and Peasants with hunting spears cross the stage, singing chorally.
[Exeunt Huntsmen.
Re-enter Bathory, Bethlen, and Glycine.
Glycine.
And now once more a woman—

Bethlen.
Was it then
That timid eye, was it those maiden hands
That sped the shaft, which saved me and avenged me?

Old Bathory.
'Twas as a vision blazoned on a cloud
By lightning, shaped into a passionate scheme
Of life and death! I saw the traitor, Laska,
Stoop and snatch up the javelin of his comrade;
The point was at your back, when her shaft reached him.
The coward turned, and at the self-same instant
The braver villain fell beneath your sword.

Enter Zapolya.
Zapolya.
Bethlen! my child! and safe too!

Bethlen.
Mother! Queen.
Royal Zapolya! name me Andreas!
Nor blame thy son, if being a king, he yet
Hath made his own arm minister of his justice.
So do the gods who launch the thunderbolt!

Zapolya.
O Raab Kiuprili! Friend! Protector! Guide!
In vain we trenched the altar round with waters,
A flash from Heaven hath touched the hidden incense—

Bethlen.
And that majestic form that stood beside thee
Was Raab Kiuprili!

Zapolya.
It was Raab Kiuprili;
As sure as thou art Andreas, and the king.

Old Bathory.
Hail Andreas! hail my king!

Andreas.
Stop, thou revered one,
Lest we offend the jealous destinies
By shouts ere victory. Deem it then thy duty
To pay this homage, when 'tis mine to claim it.

Glycine.
Accept thine hand-maid's service!

[Kneeling.
Zapolya.
Raise her, son!
O raise her to thine arms! she saved thy life,
And through her love for thee, she saved thy mother's!
Hereafter thou shalt know, that this dear maid
Hath other and hereditary claims
Upon thy heart, and with Heaven-guarded instinct
But carried on the work her sire began!

Andreas.
Dear maid! more dear thou canst not be! the rest
Shall make my love religion. Haste we hence:
For as I reached the skirts of this high forest,
I heard the noise and uproar of the chase,
Doubling its echoes from the mountain foot.

Glycine.
Hark! sure the hunt approaches.

[Horn without, and afterwards distant thunder.
Zapolya.
O Kiuprili!

Old Bathory.
The demon-hunters of the middle air
Are in full cry, and scare with arrowy fire
The guilty! Hark! now here, now there, a horn
Swells singly with irregular blast! the tempest
Has scattered them!

[Horns at a distance.
Zapolya.
O Heavens! where stays Kiuprili?

Old Bathory.
The wood will be surrounded! leave me here.

Andreas.
My mother! let me see thee once in safety.
I too will hasten back, with lightning's speed,
To seek the hero!

Old Bathory.
Haste! my life upon it
I'll guide him safe.

Andreas
(thunder).
Ha! what a crash was there!
Heaven seems to claim a mightier criminal
Than yon vile subaltern.

Zapolya.
Your behest, High powers,
Lo, I obey! To the appointed spirit,
That hath so long kept watch round this drear cavern,
In fervent faith, Kiuprili, I entrust thee!

[Exeunt Zapolya, Andreas, and Glycine.
Old Bathory.
Yon bleeding corse may work us mischief still:
Once seen, 'twill rouse alarm and crowd the hunt
From all parts towards this spot. Stript of its armour,
I'll drag it hither.

[Exit Bathory. Several Hunters cross the Stage. Enter Kiuprili.
Raab Kiuprili
(throwing off his disguise).

Re-enter Bathory, with the dead body of Pestalutz.
Old Bathory.
Poor tool and victim of another's guilt!
Thou follow'st heavily: a reluctant weight!
Good truth, it is an undeservéd honour
That in Zapolya and Kiuprili's cave
A wretch like thee should find a burial-place.
'Tis he!—In Andreas' and Zapolya's name
Follow me, reverend form! Thou need'st not speak,
For thou canst be no other than Kiuprili.

Kiuprili.
And are they safe?

[Noise without.
Old Bathory.
Conceal yourself, my lord!
I will mislead them!

Kiuprili.
Is Zapolya safe?

Old Bathory.
I doubt it not; but haste, haste, I conjure you!

[Enter Casimir.
Casimir.
Monster!
Thou shalt not now escape me!

Old Bathory.
Stop, lord Casimir!
It is no monster.

Casimir.
Art thou too a traitor?
Is this the place where Emerick's murderers lurk?
Say where is he that, tricked in this disguise,
First lured me on, then scared my dastard followers?
Thou must have seen him. Say where is th' assassin?

Old Bathory.
There lies the assassin! slain by that same sword
That was descending on his curst employer,
When entering thou beheld'st Sarolta rescued!

Casimir.
Strange providence! what then was he who fled me?
Thy looks speak fearful things! Whither, old man!
Would thy hand point me?

Old Bathory.
Casimir, to thy father.

Casimir.
The curse! the curse! Open and swallow me,
Unsteady earth! Fall, dizzy rocks! and hide me!

Old Bathory.
Speak, speak, my lord!

Kiuprili.
Bid him fulfil his work!

Casimir.
Thou art Heaven's immediate minister, dread spirit!
O for sweet mercy, take some other form,
And save me from perdition and despair!

Old Bathory.
He lives!

Casimir.
Lives! A father's curse can never die!

Kiuprili.
O Casimir! Casimir!

Old Bathory.
Look! he doth forgive you!
Hark! 'tis the tyrant's voice.

[Emerick's voice without.
Casimir.
I kneel, I kneel!
Retract thy curse! O, by my mother's ashes,
Have pity on thy self-abhorring child!
If not for me, yet for my innocent wife,
Yet for my country's sake, give my arm strength,
Permitting me again to call thee father!

Kiuprili.
Son, I forgive thee! Take thy father's sword;
When thou shalt lift it in thy country's cause,
In that same instant doth thy father bless thee!

Enter Emerick.
Emerick.

Enter Casimir and Bathory.
Old Bathory
(aside).
This way they come!

Casimir
(aside).
Hold them in check awhile,
The path is narrow! Rudolph will assist thee.

Emerick
(aside).
And ere I ring the alarum of my sorrow,
I'll scan that face once more, and murmur—Here
Lies Casimir, the last of the Kiuprilis!
Hell! 'tis Pestalutz!

Casimir
(coming forward).
Yes, thou ingrate Emerick!
'Tis Pestalutz! 'tis thy trusty murderer!
To quell thee more, see Raab Kiuprili's sword!

Emerick.
Curses on it and thee! Think'st thou that petty omen
Dare whisper fear to Emerick's destiny?
Ho! Treason! Treason!

Casimir.
Then have at thee, tyrant!

[They fight. Emerick falls.
Emerick.
Betrayed and baffled
By mine own tool!—Oh!

[Dies.
Casimir.
Hear, hear, my Father!
Thou should'st have witnessed thine own deed. O Father,
Wake from that envious swoon! The tyrant's fallen!
Thy sword hath conquered! As I lifted it
Thy blessing did indeed descend upon me;
Dislodging the dread curse. It flew forth from me
And lighted on the tyrant!

Enter Rudolph, Bathory, and Attendants.
Rudolph and Bathory.
Friends! friends to Casimir!

Casimir.
Rejoice, Illyrians! the usurper's fallen.

Rudolph.
So perish tyrants! so end usurpation!

Casimir.
Bear hence the body, and move slowly on!
One moment—
Devoted to a joy, that bears no witness,
I follow you, and we will greet our countrymen
With the two best and fullest gifts of heaven—
A tyrant fallen, a patriot chief restored!

[Casimir enters the Cavern.
Scene.—Chamber in Casimir's Castle. Confederates discovered.
First Confederate.
It cannot but succeed, friends. From this palace
E'en to the wood, our messengers are posted
With such short interspace, that fast as sound
Can travel to us, we shall learn the event!
Enter another Confederate.
What tidings from Temeswar?

Second Confederate.
With one voice
Th' assembled chieftains have deposed the tyrant;
He is proclaimed the public enemy,
And the protection of the law withdrawn.

First Confederate.
Just doom for him, who governs without law!
Is it known on whom the sov'reignty will fall?

Second Confederate.
Enter Sarolta.

Sarolta.
Confederate friends! I bring to you a joy
Worthy your noble cause! Kiuprili lives,
And from his obscure exile, hath returned
To bless our country. More and greater tidings
Might I disclose; but that a woman's voice
Would mar the wondrous tale. Wait we for him,
The partner of the glory—Raab Kiuprili;
For he alone is worthy to announce it.

[Shouts of ‘Kiuprili, Kiuprili,’ and ‘The Tyrant's fallen,’ without. Enter Kiuprili, Casimir, Rudolph, Bathory, and Attendants.
Raab Kiuprili.
Spare yet your joy, my friends! A higher waits you:
Behold, your Queen!

[Enter Zapolya and Andreas royally attired, with Glycine.
Confederate.
Comes she from heaven to bless us?

Other Confederates.
It is! it is!

Zapolya.
Heaven's work of grace is full!
Kiuprili, thou art safe!

Raab Kiuprili.
Royal Zapolya!
To the heavenly powers, pay we our duty first;
Who not alone preserved thee, but for thee
And for our country, the one precious branch
Of Andreas' royal house. O countrymen,
Behold your King! And thank our country's genius,
That the same means which have preserved our sovereign,
Have likewise reared him worthier of the throne
By virtue than by birth. The undoubted proofs
Pledged by his royal mother, and this old man,
(Whose name henceforth be dear to all Illyrians)
We haste to lay before the assembled council.

All.
Hail, Andreas! Hail, Illyria's rightful king!

Andreas.
Supported thus, O friends! 'twere cowardice
Unworthy of a royal birth, to shrink
From the appointed charge. Yet, while we wait
The awful sanction of convened Illyria,
In this brief while, O let me feel myself
The child, the friend, the debtor!—Heroic mother!—
But what can breath add to that sacred name?
Kiuprili! gift of Providence, to teach us
That loyalty is but the public form
Of the sublimest friendship, let my youth
Climb round thee, as the vine around its elm:
Thou my support and I thy faithful fruitage.
My heart is full, and these poor words express not,
They are but an art to check its over-swelling.
Bathory! shrink not from my filial arms!
Now, and from henceforth thou shalt not forbid me
To call thee father! And dare I forget
The powerful intercession of thy virtue,
Lady Sarolta? Still acknowledge me
Thy faithful soldier!—But what invocation
Shall my full soul address to thee, Glycine?
Thou sword that leap'dst forth from a bed of roses:
Thou falcon-hearted dove?

Zapolya.
Hear that from me, son!
For ere she lived, her father saved thy life,
Thine, and thy fugitive mother's!

Casimir.
Chef Ragozzi!
O shame upon my head! I would have given her
To a base slave!

Zapolya.
Heaven overruled thy purpose,
And sent an angel to thy house to guard her!
Thou precious bark! freighted with all our treasures!
The sports of tempests, and yet ne'er the victim,
How many may claim salvage in thee! Take her, son!
A queen that brings with her a richer dowry
Than orient kings can give!

Sarolta.
A banquet waits!—
On this auspicious day, for some few hours
I claim to be your hostess. Scenes so awful
With flashing light, force wisdom on us all!
E'en women at the distaff hence may see,
That bad men may rebel, but ne'er be free;
May whisper, when the waves of faction foam,
None love their country, but who love their home;
For freedom can with those alone abide,
Who wear the golden chain, with honest pride,
Of love and duty, at their own fire-side:
While mad ambition ever doth caress
Its own sure fate, in its own restlessness!

EPIGRAMS

1 EPIGRAM AN APOLOGY FOR SPENCERS

Said William to Edmund I can't guess the reason
Why Spencers abound in this bleak wintry season.
Quoth Edmund to William, I perceive you're no Solon—
Men may purchase a half-coat when they cannot a whole-one.

2 EPIGRAM ON A LATE MARRIAGE BETWEEN AN OLD MAID AND FRENCH PETIT MAÎTRE

Tho' Miss —'s match is a subject of mirth,
She considered the matter full well,
And wisely preferred leading one ape on earth
To perhaps a whole dozen in hell.

3 EPIGRAM ON AN AMOROUS DOCTOR

From Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart
And left it sticking in Sangrado's heart.
No quiet from that moment has he known,
And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown.
And opium's force, and what is more, alack!
His own orations cannot bring it back.
In short, unless she pities his afflictions,
Despair will make him take his own prescriptions.

4 EPIGRAM

Of smart pretty Fellows in Bristol are numbers, some
Who so modish are grown, that they think plain sense cumbersome;
And lest they should seem to be queer or ridiculous,
They affect to believe neither God or old Nicholas!

5 ON DEPUTY---

By many a booby's vengeance bit
I leave your haunts, ye sons of wit!
And swear, by Heaven's blessed light,
That Epigrams no more I'll write.
Now hang that ***** for an ass,
Thus to thrust in his idiot face,
Which spite of oaths, if e'er I spy,
I'll write an Epigram—or die.

6 [EPIGRAM]

To be ruled like a Frenchman the Briton is loth,
Yet in truth a direct-tory governs them both.

7 ON MR. ROSS, USUALLY COGNOMINATED NOSY

I fancy whenever I spy Nosy
Ross,
More great than a Lion is Rhy nose
ros.

8 [EPIGRAM]

Bob now resolves on marriage schemes to trample,
And now he'll have a wife all in a trice.
Must I advise—Pursue thy dad's example
And marry not.—There, heed now my advice.

9 [EPIGRAM]

Say what you will, Ingenious Youth!
You'll find me neither Dupe nor Dunce:
Once you deceived me—only once,
'Twas then when you told me the Truth.

10 [ANOTHER VERSION]

If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit,
Lie on—'tis your duty, sweet youth!
For believe me, then only we find you a cheat
When you cunningly tell us the truth.

11 ON AN INSIGNIFICANT

No doleful faces here, no sighing—
Here rots a thing that won by dying:
'Tis Cypher lies beneath this crust—
Whom Death created into dust.

12 [EPIGRAM]

There comes from old Avaro's grave
A deadly stench—why, sure they have
Immured his soul within his grave?

13 ON A SLANDERER

From yonder tomb of recent date,
There comes a strange mephitic blast.
Here lies—Ha! Backbite, you at last—
'Tis he indeed: and sure as fate,
They buried him in overhaste—
Into the earth he has been cast,
And in this grave,
Before the man had breathed his last.

14 LINES IN A GERMAN STUDENT'S ALBUM

We both attended the same College,
Where sheets of paper we did blur many,
And now we're going to sport our knowledge,
In England I, and you in Germany.

15 [HIPPONA]

Hippona lets no silly flush
Disturb her cheek, nought makes her blush.
Whate'er obscenities you say,
She nods and titters frank and gay.
Oh Shame, awake one honest flush
For this,—that nothing makes her blush.

16 ON A READER OF HIS OWN VERSES

17 ON A REPORT OF A MINISTER'S DEATH WRITTEN IN GERMANY

18 [DEAR BROTHER JEM]

Jem writes his verses with more speed
Than the printer's boy can set 'em;
Quite as fast as we can read,
And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

19 JOB'S LUCK

20 ON THE SICKNESS OF A GREAT MINISTER

Pluto commanded death to take away
Billy—Death made pretences to obey,
And only made pretences, for he shot
A headless dart that struck nor wounded not.
The ghaunt Economist who (tho' my grandam
Thinks otherwise) ne'er shoots his darts at random
Mutter'd, ‘What? put my Billy in arrest?
Upon my life that were a pretty jest!
So flat a thing of Death shall ne'er be said or sung
No! Ministers and Quacks, them take I not so young.’

21 [TO A VIRTUOUS OECONOMIST] Wernicke

You're careful o'er your wealth 'tis true:
Yet so that of your plenteous store
The needy takes and blesses you,
For you hate Poverty, but not the Poor.

22 [L'ENFANT PRODIGUE]

Jack drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing,
But prithee where lies Jack's estate?
In Algebra for there I found of late
A quantity call'd less than nothing.

23 ON SIR RUBICUND NASO A COURT ALDERMAN AND WHISPERER OF SECRETS

Speak out, Sir! you're safe, for so ruddy your nose
That, talk where you will, 'tis all under the Rose.

24 TO MR. PYE

Your Poem must eternal be,
Eternal! it can't fail,
For 'tis incomprehensible,
And without head or tail!

25 [NINETY-EIGHT]

O would the Baptist come again
And preach aloud with might and main
Repentance to our viperous race!
But should this miracle take place,
I hope, ere Irish ground he treads,
He'll lay in a good stock of heads!

26 OCCASIONED BY THE FORMER

I hold of all our viperous race
The greedy creeping things in place
Most vile, most venomous; and then
The United Irishmen!
To come on earth should John determine,
Imprimis, we'll excuse his sermon.
Without a word the good old Dervis
Might work incalculable service,
At once from tyranny and riot
Save laws, lives, liberties and moneys,
If sticking to his ancient diet
He'd but eat up our locusts and wild honeys!

27 [A LIAR BY PROFESSION]

As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking,
Whom should we see on t'other side pass by
But Informator with a stranger talking,
So I exclaim'd, ‘Lord, what a lie!’
Quoth Dick—‘What, can you hear him?’
‘Hear him! stuff!
I saw him open his mouth—an't that enough?’

28 TO A PROUD PARENT

Thy babes ne'er greet thee with the father's name;
‘My Lud!’ they lisp. Now whence can this arise?
Perhaps their mother feels an honest shame
And will not teach her infant to tell lies.

29 RUFA

Thy lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast,
It don't surprise me in the least
To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast.
But that so dainty clean a beast licks thee,
Yes—that surprises me.

30 ON A VOLUNTEER SINGER

Swans sing before they die—'twere no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing.

31 OCCASIONED BY THE LAST

A joke (cries Jack) without a sting—
Post obitum can no man sing.
And true, if Jack don't mend his manners
And quit the atheistic banners,
Post obitum will Jack run foul
Of such folks as can only howl.

32 EPITAPH ON MAJOR DIEMAN

Know thou who walks't by, Man! that wrapp'd up in lead, man,
What once was a Dieman, now lies here a dead man.
Alive a proud Major! but ah me! of our poor all,
The soul having gone, he is now merely Corporal.

33 ON THE ABOVE

As long as ere the life-blood's running,
Say, what can stop a Punster's punning?
He dares bepun even thee, O Death!
To punish him, Stop thou his breath.

34 EPITAPH ON A BAD MAN

Of him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie,
This sad brief tale is all that Truth can give—
He lived like one who never thought to die,
He died like one who dared not hope to live!

ANOTHER VERSION

35 TO A CERTAIN MODERN NARCISSUS

Do call, dear Jess, whene'er my way you come;
My looking-glass will always be at home.

36 TO A CRITIC

WHO EXTRACTED A PASSAGE FROM A POEM WITHOUT ADDING A WORD RESPECTING THE CONTEXT, AND THEN DERIDED IT AS UNINTELLIGIBLE.

Most candid critic, what if I,
By way of joke, pull out your eye,
And holding up the fragment, cry,
‘Ha! ha! that men such fools should be!
Behold this shapeless Dab!—and he
Who own'd it, fancied it could see!’
The joke were mighty analytic,
But should you like it, candid critic?

37 ALWAYS AUDIBLE

Pass under Jack's window at twelve at night
You'll hear him still—he's roaring!
Pass under Jack's window at twelve at noon,
You'll hear him still—he's snoring!

38 PONDERE NON NUMBERO

Friends should be weigh'd, not told; who boasts to have won
A multitude of friends, he ne'er had one.

39 THE COMPLIMENT QUALIFIED

To wed a fool, I really cannot see
Why thou, Eliza, art so very loth;
Still on a par with other pairs you'd be,
Since thou hast wit and sense enough for both.

40

What is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole,
Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

41

Charles, grave or merry, at no lie would stick,
And taught at length his memory the same trick.
Believing thus what he so oft repeats,
He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth,
That now himself and no one else he cheats,
Save when unluckily he tells the truth.

42

An evil spirit's on thee, friend! of late!
Ev'n from the hour thou cam'st to thy Estate.
Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion,
Th' estate hath prov'd to thee a most complete possession.
Shame, shame, old friend! would'st thou be truly best,
Be thy wealth's Lord, not slave! possessor not possess'd.

43

Here lies the Devil—ask no other name.
Well—but you mean Lord—? Hush! we mean the same.

44 TO ONE WHO PUBLISHED IN PRINT

WHAT HAD BEEN ENTRUSTED TO HIM BY MY FIRESIDE

Two things hast thou made known to half the nation,
My secrets and my want of penetration:
For O! far more than all which thou hast penn'd
It shames me to have call'd a wretch, like thee, my friend!

45

Scarce any scandal, but has a handle;
In truth most falsehoods have their rise;
Truth first unlocks Pandora's box,
And out there fly a host of lies.
Malignant light, by cloudy night,
To precipices it decoys one!
One nectar-drop from Jove's own shop
Will flavour a whole cup of poison.

46

Old Harpy jeers at castles in the air,
And thanks his stars, whenever Edmund speaks,
That such a dupe as that is not his heir—
But know, old Harpy! that these fancy freaks,
Though vain and light, as floating gossamer,
Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart:
A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures,
And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart
Than all the unenjoying Miser's treasures.

47 TO A VAIN YOUNG LADY

Didst thou think less of thy dear self
Far more would others think of thee!
Sweet Anne! the knowledge of thy wealth
Reduces thee to poverty.
Boon Nature gave wit, beauty, health,
On thee as on her darling pitching;
Couldst thou forget thou'rt thus enrich'd
That moment would'st thou become rich in!
And wert thou not so self-bewitch'd,
Sweet Anne! thou wert, indeed, bewitching.

48 A HINT TO PREMIERS AND FIRST CONSULS

FROM AN OLD TRAGEDY, VIZ. AGATHA TO KING ARCHELAUS

Three truths should make thee often think and pause;
The first is, that thou govern'st over men;
The second, that thy power is from the laws;
And this the third, that thou must die!—and then?—

49

From me, Aurelia! you desired
Your proper praise to know;
Well! you're the Fair by all admired—
Some twenty years ago.

50 FOR A HOUSE-DOG'S COLLAR

When thieves come, I bark: when gallants, I am still—
So perform both my Master's and Mistress's will.

51

In vain I praise thee, Zoilus!
In vain thou rail'st at me!
Me no one credits, Zoilus!
And no one credits thee!

52 EPITAPH ON A MERCENARY MISER

A poor benighted Pedlar knock'd
One night at Sell-all's door,
The same who saved old Sell-all's life—
'Twas but the year before!
And Sell-all rose and let him in,
Not utterly unwilling,
But first he bargain'd with the man,
And took his only shilling!
That night he dreamt he'd given away his pelf,
Walk'd in his sleep, and sleeping hung himself!
And now his soul and body rest below;
And here they say his punishment and fate is
To lie awake and every hour to know
How many people read his tombstone gratis.

53 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN AUTHOR AND HIS FRIEND

Author.
Come; your opinion of my manuscript!

Friend.
Dear Joe! I would almost as soon be whipt.

Author.
But I will have it!

Friend.
If it must be had—
(hesitating)
You write so ill, I scarce could read the hand—

Author.
A mere evasion!

Friend.
And you spell so bad,
That what I read I could not understand.

54 Μωροσοφια OR WISDOM IN FOLLY

Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems,
What he shall shortly gain and what be doing,
Then drops asleep, and so prolongs his dreams
And thus enjoys at once what half the world are wooing.

55

Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf!
He shews his clothes! Alas! he shews himself.
O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers,
What hides the body oft the mind discovers.

56 FROM AN OLD GERMAN POET

That France has put us oft to rout
With powder, which ourselves found out;
And laughs at us for fools in print,
Of which our genius was the Mint;
All this I easily admit,
For we have genius, France has wit.
But 'tis too bad, that blind and mad
To Frenchmen's wives each travelling German goes,
Expands his manly vigour by their sides,
Becomes the father of his country's foes
And turns their warriors oft to parricides.

57 ON THE CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE,

THAT IN THE GERMAN LANGUAGE THE SUN IS FEMININE, AND THE MOON MASCULINE

Our English poets, bad and good, agree
To make the Sun a male, the Moon a she.
He drives his dazzling diligence on high.
In verse, as constantly as in the sky;
And cheap as blackberries our sonnets shew
The Moon, Heaven's huntress, with her silver bow;
By which they'd teach us, if I guess aright,
Man rules the day, and woman rules the night.
In Germany, they just reverse the thing;
The Sun becomes a queen, the Moon a king.
Now, that the Sun should represent the women,
The Moon the men, to me seem'd mighty humming;
And when I first read German, made me stare.
Surely it is not that the wives are there
As common as the Sun, to lord and loon,
And all their husbands hornéd as the Moon.

58 SPOTS IN THE SUN

My father confessor is strict and holy,
Mi Fili, still he cries, peccare noli.
And yet how oft I find the pious man
At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan!
Her soul's deformity the good man wins
And not her charms! he comes to hear her sins!
Good father! I would fain not do thee wrong;
But ah! I fear that they who oft and long
Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot,
Must sometimes find the sun itself too hot.

59

When Surface talks of other people's worth
He has the weakest memory on earth!
And when his own good deeds he deigns to mention,
His memory still is no whit better grown;
But then he makes up for it, all will own,
By a prodigious talent of invention.

60 TO MY CANDLE

THE FAREWELL EPIGRAM

Good Candle, thou that with thy brother, Fire,
Art my best friend and comforter at night,
Just snuff'd, thou look'st as if thou didst desire
That I on thee an epigram should write.
Dear Candle, burnt down to a finger-joint,
Thy own flame is an epigram of sight;
'Tis short, and pointed, and all over light,
Yet gives most light and burns the keenest at the point.

61 EPITAPH

ON HIMSELF

Here sleeps at length poor Col., and without screaming—
Who died as he had always lived, a-dreaming:
Shot dead, while sleeping, by the Gout within—
Alone, and all unknown, at E'nbro' in an Inn.

62 THE TASTE OF THE TIMES

Some whim or fancy pleases every eye;
For talents premature 'tis now the rage:
In Music how great Handel would have smil'd
T' have seen what crowds are raptur'd with a child!
A Garrick we have had in little Betty—
And now we're told we have a Pitt in Petty!
All must allow, since thus it is decreed,
He is a very petty Pitt indeed!

63 ON PITT AND FOX

Britannia's boast, her glory and her pride,
Pitt in his Country's service lived and died:
At length resolv'd, like Pitt had done, to do,
For once to serve his Country, Fox died too!

64

An excellent adage commands that we should
Relate of the dead that alone which is good;
But of the great Lord who here lies in lead
We know nothing good but that he is dead.

65 COMPARATIVE BREVITY OF GREEK AND ENGLISH

Jack finding gold left a rope on the ground:
Bill missing his gold used the rope which he found.

66 EPIGRAM ON THE SECRECY OF A CERTAIN LADY

‘She's secret as the grave, allow!’
‘I do; I cannot doubt it.
But 'tis a grave with tombstone on,
That tells you all about it.’

67 MOTTO

FOR A TRANSPARENCY DESIGNED BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON AND EXHIBITED AT BRISTOL ON ‘PROCLAMATION DAY’

68

Money, I've heard a wise man say,
Makes herself wings and flies away—
Ah! would she take it in her head
To make a pair for me instead.

69 MODERN CRITICS

No private grudge they need, no personal spite,
The viva sectio is its own delight!
All enmity, all envy, they disclaim,
Disinterested thieves of our good name—
Cool, sober murderers of their neighbours' fame!

70 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM

Parry seeks the Polar ridge,
Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge,
Author of Works, whereof—tho' not in Dutch—
The public little knows—the publisher too much.

71 TO A LADY WHO REQUESTED ME TO WRITE A POEM UPON NOTHING

On nothing, Fanny, shall I write?
Shall I not one charm of thee indite?
The Muse is most unruly,
And vows to sing of what's more free,
More soft, more beautiful than thee;—
And that is Nothing, truly!

72 SENTIMENTAL

The rose that blushes like the morn,
Bedecks the valleys low;
And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,
My Angelina's toe.
But on the rose there grows a thorn
That breeds disastrous woe;
And so dost thou, remorseless corn,
On Angelina's toe.

73

So Mr. Baker heart did pluck—
And did a-courting go!
And Mr. Baker is a buck;
For why? he needs the doe.

74 AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS

‘A heavy wit shall hang at every lord,’
So sung Dan Pope; but 'pon my word,
He was a story-teller,
Or else the times have altered quite;
For wits, or heavy, now, or light
Hang each by a bookseller.

75 THE ALTERNATIVE

This way or that, ye Powers above me!
I of my grief were rid—
Did Enna either really love me,
Or cease to think she did.

76

In Spain, that land of Monks and Apes,
The thing called Wine doth come from grapes,
But on the noble River Rhine,
The thing called Gripes doth come from Wine!

77 INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE

Now! It is gone—Our brief hours travel post,
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:—
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
To dwell within thee—an eternal Now!

78 ON THE MOST VERACIOUS ANECDOTIST, AND SMALL-TALK MAN, THOMAS HILL, ESQ.

Tom Hill, who laughs at Cares and Woes,
As nauci—nili—pili—
What is he like, as I suppose?
Why, to be sure, a Rose—a Rose.
At least, no soul that Tom Hill knows
Could e'er recall a Li-ly.

79

Nothing speaks our mind so well
As to speak Nothing. Come then, tell
Thy Mind in Tears, whoe'er thou be
That ow'st a name to Misery:
None can fluency deny
To Tears, the Language of the Eye.

80 EPITAPH OF THE PRESENT YEAR ON THE MONUMENT OF THOMAS FULLER

A Lutheran stout, I hold for Goose-and-Gaundry
Both the Pope's Limbo and his fiery Laundry:
No wit e'er saw I in Original Sin,
And no Sin find I in Original Wit;
But if I'm all in the wrong, and, Grin for Grin,
Scorch'd Souls must pay for each too lucky hit,—
Oh, Fuller! much I fear, so vast thy debt,
Thou art not out of Purgatory yet;
Tho' one, eight, three and three this year is reckon'd,
And thou, I think, didst die sub Charles the Second.

JEUX D'ESPRIT

1 MY GODMOTHER'S BEARD

2 LINES TO THOMAS POOLE

. . . . Joking apart, I would to God we could sit by a fireside and joke vivâ voce, face to face—Stella [Mrs. Thelwall] and Sara [Mrs. S. T. Coleridge], Jack Thelwall and I!—as I once wrote to my dear friend T. Poole,—

Repeating
Such verse as Bowles, heart honour'd Poet sang,
That wakes the Tear, yet steals away the Pang,
Then, or with Berkeley, or with Hobbes romance it,
Dissecting Truth with metaphysic lancet.
Or, drawn from up these dark unfathom'd wells,
In wiser folly chink the Cap and Bells.
How many tales we told! what jokes we made,
Conundrum, Crambo, Rebus, or Charade;
Ænigmas that had driven the Theban mad,
And Puns, these best when exquisitely bad;
And I, if aught of archer vein I hit,
With my own laughter stifled my own wit.

3 TO A WELL-KNOWN MUSICAL CRITIC, REMARKABLE FOR HIS EARS STICKING THROUGH HIS HAIR.

4 TO T. POOLE

AN INVITATION

5 SONG

TO BE SUNG BY THE LOVERS OF ALL THE NOBLE LIQUORS COMPRISED UNDER THE NAME OF ALE.

A.
Ye drinkers of Stingo and Nappy so free,
Are the Gods on Olympus so happy as we?

B.
They cannot be so happy!
For why? they drink no Nappy.

A.
But what if Nectar, in their lingo,
Is but another name for Stingo?

B.
Why, then we and the Gods are equally blest,
And Olympus an Ale-house as good as the best!

6 DRINKING versus THINKING

OR, A SONG AGAINST THE NEW PHILOSOPHY

7 THE WILLS OF THE WISP

A SAPPHIC

Lunatic Witch-fires! Ghosts of Light and Motion!
Fearless I see you weave your wanton dances
Near me, far off me; you, that tempt the traveller
Onward and onward.
Wooing, retreating, till the swamp beneath him
Groans—and 'tis dark!—This woman's wile—I know it!
Learnt it from thee, from thy perfidious glances!
Black-ey'd Rebecca!

8 TO CAPTAIN FINDLAY

9 ON DONNE'S POEM ‘TO A FLEA’

Be proud as Spaniards! Leap for pride ye Fleas!
Henceforth in Nature's mimic World grandees.
In Phœbus' archives registered are ye,
And this your patent of Nobility.
No skip-Jacks now, nor civiller skip-Johns,
Dread Anthropophagi! specks of living bronze,
I hail you one and all, sans Pros or Cons,
Descendants from a noble race of Dons.
What tho' that great ancestral Flea be gone,
Immortal with immortalising Donne,
His earthly spots bleached off a Papist's gloze,
In purgatory fire on Bardolph's nose.

10 [EX LIBRIS S. T. C.]

This, Hannah Scollock! may have been the case;
Your writing therefore I will not erase.
But now this Book, once yours, belongs to me,
The Morning Post's and Courier's S. T. C.;—
Elsewhere in College, knowledge, wit and scholarage
To Friends and Public known as S. T. Coleridge.
Witness hereto my hand, on Ashley Green,
One thousand, twice four hundred, and fourteen
Year of our Lord—and of the month November
The fifteenth day, if right I do remember.

11 ΕΓΩΕΝΚΑΙΠΑΝ

Eu! Dei vices gerens, ipse Divus,
(Speak English, Friend!) the God Imperativus,
Here on this market-cross aloud I cry:
‘I, I, I! I itself I!
The form and the substance, the what and the why,
The when and the where, and the low and the high,
The inside and outside, the earth and the sky,
I, you, and he, and he, you and I,
All souls and all bodies are I itself I!
All I itself I!
(Fools! a truce with this starting!)
All my I! all my I!
He's a heretic dog who but adds Betty Martin!’
Thus cried the God with high imperial tone:
In robe of stiffest state, that scoff'd at beauty,
A pronoun-verb imperative he shone—
Then substantive and plural-singular grown,
He thus spake on:—‘Behold in I alone
(For Ethics boast a syntax of their own)
Or if in ye, yet as I doth depute ye,
In O! I, you, the vocative of duty!
I of the world's whole Lexicon the root!
Of the whole universe of touch, sound, sight,
The genitive and ablative to boot:
The accusative of wrong, the nom'native of right,
And in all cases the case absolute!
Self-construed, I all other moods decline:
Imperative, from nothing we derive us;
Yet as a super-postulate of mine,
Unconstrued antecedence I assign,
To X Y Z, the God Infinitivus!’

12 THE BRIDGE STREET COMMITTEE

13 NONSENSE SAPPHICS

14 TO SUSAN STEELE ON RECEIVING THE PURSE

EXTRUMPERY LINES

My dearest Dawtie!
That's never naughty—
When the Mare was stolen, and not before,
The wise man got a stable-door:
And he and I are brother Ninnies,
One Beast he lost and I two guineas;
And as sure as it's wet when it above rains,
The man's brains and mine both alike had thick coverings,
For if he lost one mare, poor I lost two sovereigns!
A cash-pouch I have got, but no cash to put in it,
Tho' there's gold in the world and Sir Walter can win it:
For your sake I'll keep it for better or worse,
So here is a dear loving kiss for your purse.

15 ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS

I.—By Likeness

Fond, peevish, wedded pair! why all this rant?
O guard your tempers! hedge your tongues about
This empty head should warn you on that point—
The teeth were quarrelsome, and so fell out.

II.—Association by Contrast

Phidias changed marble into feet and legs.
Disease! vile anti-Phidias! thou, i' fegs!
Hast turned my live limbs into marble pegs.

III.—Association by Time

SIMPLICIUS SNIPKIN loquitur

I touch this scar upon my skull behind,
And instantly there rises in my mind
Napoleon's mighty hosts from Moscow lost,
Driven forth to perish in the fangs of Frost.
For in that self-same month, and self-same day,
Down Skinner Street I took my hasty way—
Mischief and Frost had set the boys at play;
I stept upon a slide—oh! treacherous tread!—
Fell smash with bottom bruised, and brake my head!
Thus Time's co-presence links the great and small,
Napoleon's overthrow, and Snipkin's fall.

16 VERSES TRIVOCULAR

Of one scrap of science I've evidence ocular.
A heart of one chamber they call unilocular,
And in a sharp frost, or when snow-flakes fall floccular,
Your wise man of old wrapp'd himself in a Roquelaure,
Which was called a Wrap-rascal when folks would be jocular.
And shell-fish, the small, Periwinkle and Cockle are,
So with them will I finish these verses trivocular.

17 CHOLERA CURED BEFORE-HAND

18 TO BABY BATES

19 TO A CHILD

Little Miss Fanny,
So cubic and canny,
With blue eyes and blue shoes—
The Queen of the Blues!
As darling a girl as there is in the world—
If she'll laugh, skip and jump,
And not be Miss Glump!

FRAGMENTS FROM A NOTEBOOK

[_]

Fragments in prose have been omitted.

Circa 1796–98

1

Light cargoes waft of modulated Sound
From viewless Hybla brought, when Melodies
Like Birds of Paradise on wings, that aye
Disport in wild variety of hues,
Murmur around the honey-dropping flower.

2

Broad-breasted rock—hanging cliff that glasses
His rugged forehead in the calmy sea.

3

Where Cam his stealthy flowings most dissembles
And scarce the Willow's watery shadow trembles.

4

With secret hand heal the conjectur'd wound,

[or]

Guess at the wound, and heal with secret hand.

5

Outmalic'd Calumny's imposthum'd Tongue.

6

And write Impromptus
Spurring their Pegasus to tortoise gallop.

7

Due to the Staggerers, that made drunk by Power
Forget thirst's eager promise, and presume,
Dark Dreamers! that the world forgets it too.

8

Perish warmth
Unfaithful to its seeming!

9

Old age, ‘the shape and messenger of Death,’
‘His wither'd Fist still knocking at Death's door.’

10

God no distance knows,
All of the whole possessing!

12

And cauldrons the scoop'd earth, a boiling sea.

13

Rush on my ear, a cataract of sound.

14

The guilty pomp, consuming while it flares.

15

My heart seraglios a whole host of Joys.

16

And Pity's sigh shall answer thy tale of Anguish
Like the faint echo of a distant valley.

17 A DUNGEON

In darkness I remain'd—the neighb'ring clock
Told me that now the rising sun shone lovely
On my garden.

18

The Sun (for now his orb 'gan slowly sink)
Shot half his rays aslant the heath whose flowers
Purpled the mountain's broad and level top;
Rich was his bed of clouds, and wide beneath
Expecting Ocean smiled with dimpled face.

19

Leanness, disquietude, and secret Pangs.

20

Smooth, shining, and deceitful as thin Ice.

21

Wisdom, Mother of retired Thought.

22

Nature wrote Rascal on his face,
By chalcographic art!

23

In this world we dwell among the tombs
And touch the pollutions of the Dead.

24

The mild despairing of a Heart resigned.

25

Such fierce vivacity as fires the eye
Of Genius fancy-craz'd.

26

— like a mighty Giantess
Seiz'd in sore travail and prodigious birth
Sick Nature struggled: long and strange her pangs;
Her groans were horrible, but O! most fair
The Twins she bore—Equality and Peace!

27

Discontent
Mild as an infant low-plaining in its sleep.

28

— terrible and loud,
As the strong Voice that from the Thunder-cloud
Speaks to the startled Midnight.

29

The swallows
Interweaving there, mid the pair'd sea-mews
At distance wildly-wailing!

30

The Brook runs over sea-weeds.
Sabbath day—from the Miller's merry wheel
The water-drops dripp'd leisurely.

31

On the broad mountain-top
The neighing wild-colt races with the wind
O'er fern and heath-flowers.

32

A long deep lane
So overshadow'd, it might seem one bower—
The damp clay-banks were furr'd with mouldy moss.

33

Broad-breasted Pollards, with broad-branching heads.

34

'Twas sweet to know it only possible—
Some wishes cross'd my mind and dimly cheer'd it—
And one or two poor melancholy Pleasures—
In these, the pale unwarming light of Hope
Silv'ring their flimsy wing, flew silent by,
Moths in the Moonlight.

35

Behind the thin
Grey cloud that cover'd but not hid the sky
The round full moon look'd small.

36

The subtle snow
In every breeze rose curling from the Grove
Like pillars of cottage smoke.

37

The sunshine lies on the cottage-wall,
A-shining thro' the snow.

40

The tongue can't speak when the mouth is cramm'd with earth—
A little mould fills up most eloquent mouths,
And a square stone with a few pious texts
Cut neatly on it, keeps the mould down tight.

41

And with my whole heart sing the stately song,
Loving the God that made me.

42

God's Image, Sister of the Cherubim!

43

And re-implace God's Image in the Soul.

44

And arrows steeled with wrath.

45

Lov'd the same Love, and hated the same hate,
Breath'd in his soul! etc. etc.

46

O man! thou half-dead Angel!

47

Thy stern and sullen eye, and thy dark brow
Chill me, like dew-damps of th' unwholesome Night.
My Love, a timorous and tender flower,
Closes beneath thy Touch, unkindly man!
Breath'd on by gentle gales of Courtesy
And cheer'd by sunshine of impassion'd look—
Then opes its petals of no vulgar hues.

48

With skill that never Alchemist yet told,
Made drossy Lead as ductile as pure Gold.

49

Grant me a Patron, gracious Heaven! whene'er
My unwash'd follies call for Penance drear:
But when more hideous guilt this heart infests
Instead of fiery coals upon my Pate,
O let a titled Patron be my Fate;—
That fierce Compendium of Ægyptian Pests!
Right reverend Dean, right honourable Squire,
Lord, Marquis, Earl, Duke, Prince,—or if aught higher,
However proudly nicknamed, he shall be
Anathema Maránatha to me!

FRAGMENTS

1

O'er the raised earth the gales of evening sigh;
And, see, a daisy peeps upon its slope!
I wipe the dimming waters from mine eye;
Even on the cold grave lights the Cherub Hope.

2

Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.

3 OVER MY COTTAGE

The Pleasures sport beneath the thatch;
But Prudence sits upon the watch;
Nor Dun nor Doctor lifts the latch!

4

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours;
But and if this will not do,
Let it be mine, because that I
Am the poorer of the Two!

5

Names do not always meet with Love,
And Love wants courage without a name.

6

And low and close the broad smooth mountain is more a thing of Heaven than when distinct by one dim shade, and yet undivided from the universal cloud in which it towers infinite in height.

7

(Unconquered, as if the Soul could find no purer Tabernacle, nor place of sojourn than the virgin Body it had before dwelt in, and wished to stay there till the Resurrection)—

8 [THE NIGHT-MARE DEATH IN LIFE]

I know 'tis but a dream, yet feel more anguish
Than if 'twere truth. It has been often so:
Must I die under it? Is no one near?
Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

9

Bright clouds of reverence, sufferably bright,
That intercept the dazzle, not the Light;
That veil the finite form, the boundless power reveal,
Itself an earthly sun of pure intensest white.

10 A BECK IN WINTER

Over the broad, the shallow, rapid stream,
The Alder, a vast hollow Trunk, and ribb'd—
All mossy green with mosses manifold,
And ferns still waving in the river-breeze
Sent out, like fingers, five projecting trunks—
The shortest twice 6 (?) of a tall man's strides.—
One curving upward in its middle growth
Rose straight with grove of twigs—a pollard tree:—
The rest more backward, gradual in descent—
One in the brook and one befoamed its waters:
One ran along the bank in the elk-like head
And pomp of antlers—

11

I from the influence of thy Looks receive,
Access in every virtue, in thy Sight
More wise, more wakeful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength.—

12

What never is, but only is to be
This is not Life:—
O hopeless Hope, and Death's Hypocrisy!
And with perpetual promise breaks its promises.

13

(or)

14

O beauty in a beauteous body dight!
Body that veiling brightness, beamest bright;
Fair cloud which less we see, than by thee see the light.

15

O th' Oppressive, irksome weight
Felt in an uncertain state:
Comfort, peace, and rest adieu
Should I prove at last untrue!
Self-confiding wretch, I thought
I could love thee as I ought,
Win thee and deserve to feel
All the Love thou canst reveal,
And still I chuse thee, follow still.

16

'Twas not a mist, nor was it quite a cloud,
But it pass'd smoothly on towards the sea—
Smoothly and lightly between Earth and Heaven:
So, thin a cloud,
It scarce bedimm'd the star that shone behind it:
And Hesper now
Paus'd on the welkin blue, and cloudless brink,
A golden circlet! while the Star of Jove—
That other lovely star—high o'er my head
Shone whitely in the centre of his Haze
. . . one black-blue cloud
Stretch'd, like the heaven, o'er all the cope of Heaven.

17 [NOT A CRITIC—BUT A JUDGE]

Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, imper sonal reader.
Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and himself!
You who have eyes to detect, and Gall to Chastise the imperfect,
Have you the heart, too, that loves,—feels and rewards the Compleat?

18

A sumptuous and magnificent Revenge.

19 [DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI]

Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a love-thought, thro' me, Death!
And take a life that wearies me.

20

As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
That crests its head with clouds, beneath the flood
Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank
Of its wide base controls the fronting bank—
(By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away
The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay)
High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits
His channel'd brow; low murmurs stir by fits
And dark below the horrid Faquir sits—
An Horror from its broad Head's branching wreath
Broods o'er the rude Idolatry beneath—

21

Let Eagle bid the Tortoise sunward soar—
As vainly Strength speaks to a broken Mind.

22

The body,
Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul,
The Soul's self-symbol, its image of itself.
Its own yet not itself.

23

Or Wren or Linnet,
In Bush and Bushet;
No tree, but in it
A cooing Cushat.

24

The reed roof'd village still bepatch'd with snow
Smok'd in the sun-thaw.

25

And in Life's noisiest hour
There whispers still the ceaseless love of thee,
The heart's self-{solace/commune}

[_]

The manuscript offers two variant readings: self-solace or, self-commune.

and soliloquy.

26

You mould my Hopes you fashion me within:
And to the leading love-throb in the heart,
Through all my being, through my pulses beat;
You lie in all my many thoughts like Light,
Like the fair light of Dawn, or summer Eve,
On rippling stream, or cloud-reflecting lake;
And looking to the Heaven that bends above you,
How oft! I bless the lot that made me love you.

27

And my heart mantles in its own delight.

28

The spruce and limber yellow-hammer
In the dawn of spring and sultry summer,
In hedge or tree the hours beguiling
With notes as of one who brass is filing.

29 FRAGMENT OF AN ODE ON NAPOLEON

O'erhung with yew, midway the Muses mount
From thy sweet murmurs far, O Hippocrene!
Turbid and black upboils an angry fount
Tossing its shatter'd foam in vengeful spleen—
Phlegethon's rage Cocytus' wailings hoarse
Alternate now, now mixt, made known its headlong course:
Thither with terror stricken and surprise,
(For sure such haunts were ne'er to Muse's choice)
Euterpe led me. Mute with asking eyes
I stood expectant of her heavenly voice.
Her voice entranc'd my terror and made flow
In a rude understrain the maniac fount below.
‘Whene'er (the Goddess said) abhorr'd of Jove
Usurping Power his hands in blood imbrues—

30

The singing Kettle and the purring Cat,
The gentle breathing of the cradled Babe,
The silence of the Mother's love-bright eye,
And tender smile answering its smile of Sleep.

31

32

Sole Maid, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare all living creatures dear—
Thoughts, which have found their harbour in thy heart
Dearest! me thought of him to thee so dear!

33 EPIGRAM ON KEPLER

FROM THE GERMAN

No mortal spirit yet had clomb so high
As Kepler—yet his Country saw him die
For very want! the Minds alone he fed,
And so the Bodies left him without bread.

34

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt:
A flight of Hope for ever on the wing
But made Tranquillity a conscious thing;
And wheeling round and round in sportive coil,
Fann'd the calm air upon the brow of Toil.

35

I have experienced
The worst the world can wreak on me—the worst
That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb
With whisper'd discontent the dying prayer—
I have beheld the whole of all, wherein
My heart had any interest in this life
To be disrent and torn from off my Hopes
That nothing now is left. Why then live on?
That hostage that the world had in its keeping
Given by me as a pledge that I would live—
That hope of Her, say rather that pure Faith
In her fix'd Love, which held me to keep truce
With the tyranny of Life—is gone, ah! whither?
What boots it to reply? 'tis gone! and now
Well may I break this Pact, this league of Blood
That ties me to myself—and break I shall.

36

As when the new or full Moon urges
The high, large, long, unbreaking surges
Of the Pacific main.

37

O mercy, O me, miserable man!
Slowly my wisdom, and how slowly comes
My Virtue! and how rapidly pass off
My Joys! my Hopes! my Friendships, and my Love!

38

A low dead Thunder mutter'd thro' the night,
As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep—
Nature! sweet nurse, O take me in thy lap
And tell me of my Father yet unseen,
Sweet tales, and true, that lull me into sleep
And leave me dreaming.

39

His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
His tender smiles, Love's day-dawn on his lips,
Put on such heavenly, spiritual light,
At the same moment in his steadfast eye
Were Virtue's native crest, th' innocent soul's
Unconscious meek self-heraldry,—to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
He suffer'd nor complain'd;—though oft with tears
He mourn'd th' oppression of his helpless brethren,—
And sometimes with a deeper holier grief
Mourn'd for the oppressor—but this in sabbath hours—
A solemn grief, that like a cloud at sunset,
Was but the veil of inward meditation
Pierced thro' and saturate with the intellectual rays
It soften'd.

40 [ARS POETICA]

In the two following lines, for instance, there is nothing objectionable, nothing which would preclude them from forming, in their proper place, part of a descriptive poem:—

‘Behold yon row of pines, that shorn and bow'd Bend from the sea-blast, seen at twilight eve.’ But with a small alteration of rhythm, the same words would be equally in their place in a book of topography, or in a descriptive tour. The same image will rise into a semblance of poetry if thus conveyed:—

41 TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST STROPHE OF PINDAR'S SECOND OLYMPIC

Ye harp-controlling hymns!

(or)

Ye hymns the sovereigns of harps!
What God? what Hero?
What Man shall we celebrate?
Truly Pisa indeed is of Jove,
But the Olympiad (or, the Olympic games) did Hercules establish,
The first-fruits of the spoils of war.
But Theron for the four-horsed car
That bore victory to him,
It behoves us now to voice aloud:
The Just, the Hospitable,
The Bulwark of Agrigentum,
Of renowned fathers
The Flower, even him
Who preserves his native city erect and safe.

42

O! Superstition is the giant shadow
Which the solicitude of weak mortality,
Its back toward Religion's rising sun,
Casts on the thin mist of th' uncertain future.

43 TRANSLATION OF A FRAGMENT OF HERACLITUS

Not hers
To win the sense by words of rhetoric,
Lip-blossoms breathing perishable sweets;
But by the power of the informing Word
Roll sounding onward through a thousand years
Her deep prophetic bodements.

44

Truth I pursued, as Fancy sketch'd the way,
And wiser men than I went worse astray.

45 IMITATED FROM ARISTOPHANES

Great goddesses are they to lazy folks,
Who pour down on us gifts of fluent speech,
Sense most sententious, wonderful fine effect,
And how to talk about it and about it,
Thoughts brisk as bees, and pathos soft and thawy.

46

Let clumps of earth, however glorified,
Roll round and round and still renew their cycle—
Man rushes like a winged Cherub through
The infinite space, and that which has been
Can therefore never be again—

47 TO EDWARD IRVING

Friend pure of heart and fervent! we have learnt
A different lore! We may not thus profane
The Idea and Name of Him whose Absolute Will
Is Reason—Truth Supreme!—Essential Order!

48 [LUTHER—DE DÆMONIBUS]

Yes! heroic Swan, I love thee even when thou gabblest like a goose; for thy geese helped to save the Capitol.

49 THE NETHERLANDS

Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;—
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:—
Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd—in the inland sky
The fog-transfixing Spires—
Water, wide water, greenness and green banks,
And water seen—

50 ELISA

TRANSLATED FROM CLAUDIAN

51 PROFUSE KINDNESS

What a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in a shoal!
Half of it to one were worth double the whole!

52

I stand alone, nor tho' my heart should break,
Have I, to whom I may complain or speak.
Here I stand, a hopeless man and sad,
Who hoped to have seen my Love, my Life.
And strange it were indeed, could I be glad
Remembering her, my soul's betrothéd wife.
For in this world no creature that has life
Was e'er to me so gracious and so good.
Her loss is to my Heart, like the Heart's blood.

53 NAPOLEON

The Sun with gentle beams his rage disguises,
And, like aspiring Tyrants, temporises—
Never to be endured but when he falls or rises.

54

Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.

55

His native accents to her stranger's ear,
Skill'd in the tongues of France and Italy—
Or while she warbles with bright eyes upraised,
Her fingers shoot like streams of silver light
Amid the golden haze of thrilling strings.

56

Each crime that once estranges from the virtues
Doth make the memory of their features daily
More dim and vague, till each coarse counterfeit
Can have the passport to our confidence
Sign'd by ourselves. And fitly are they punish'd
Who prize and seek the honest man but as
A safer lock to guard dishonest treasures.

57

Where'er I find the Good, the True, the Fair,
I ask no names—God's spirit dwelleth there!
The unconfounded, undivided Three,
Each for itself, and all in each, to see
In man and Nature, is Philosophy.

58

A wind that with Aurora hath abiding
Among the Arabian and the Persian Hills.

59

What boots to tell how o'er his grave
She wept, that would have died to save;
Little they know the heart, who deem
Her sorrow but an infant's dream
Of transient love begotten;
A passing gale, that as it blows
Just shakes the ripe drop from the rose—
That dies and is forgotten.
O Woman! nurse of hopes and fears,
All lovely in thy spring of years,
Thy soul in blameless mirth possessing,
Most lovely in affliction's tears,
More lovely still than tears suppressing.

60 THE THREE SORTS OF FRIENDS

Though friendships differ endless in degree,
The sorts, methinks, may be reduced to three.
Acquaintance many, and Conquaintance few;
But for Inquaintance I know only two—
The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo!

61

If fair by Nature
She honours the fair Boon with fair adorning,
And graces that bespeak a gracious breeding,
Can gracious Nature lessen Nature's Graces?
If taught by both she betters both and honours
Fair gifts with fair adorning, know you not
There is a beauty that resides within;—
A fine and delicate spirit of womanhood
Of inward birth?—

62 BO-PEEP AND I SPY—

In the corner one—
I spy Love!
In the corner None,
I spy Love.

63 A SIMILE

As the shy hind, the soft-eyed gentle Brute
Now moves, now stops, approaches by degrees—
At length emerges from the shelt'ring Trees,
Lur'd by her Hunter with the Shepherd's flute,
Whose music travelling on the twilight breeze,
When all besides was mute—
She oft had heard, and ever lov'd to hear;
She fearful Beast! but that no sound of Fear—

64 BARON GUELPH OF ADELSTAN. A FRAGMENT

Nor endless—

METRICAL EXPERIMENTS

1 AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE

I heard a voice pealing loud triumph to-day:
The voice of the Triumph, O Freedom, was thine!
Sumptuous Tyranny challeng'd the fray,
‘Drunk with Idolatry, drunk with wine.’
Whose could the Triumph be Freedom but thine?
Stars of the Heaven shine to feed thee;
Hush'd are the Whirl-blasts and heed thee;—
By her depth, by her height, Nature swears thou art mine!

2 TROCHAICS

Thus she said, and, all around,
Her diviner spirit, gan to borrow;
Earthly Hearings hear unearthly sound,
Hearts heroic faint, and sink aswound.
Welcome, welcome, spite of pain and sorrow,
Love to-day, and Thought to-morrow.

3 THE PROPER UNMODIFIED DOCHMIUS

Bĕnīgn shōōtĭng stārs, ĕcstātīc dĕlīght.

or

The Lord's throne in Heaven ămīd āngĕl troops
Amid troops of Angels God throned on high.

4 IAMBICS

No cold shall thee benumb,
Nor darkness stain thy sight;
To thee new Heat, new Light
Shall from this object come,
Whose Praises if thou now wilt sound aright,
My Pen shall give thee leave hereafter to be dumb.

5 NONSENSE

Sing impassionate Soul! of Mohammed the complicate story:
Sing, unfearful of Man, groaning and ending in care.
Short the Command and the Toil, but endlessly mighty the Glory!
Standing aloof if it chance, vainly our enemy's scare:
What tho' we wretchedly fare, wearily drawing the Breath—,
Malice in wonder may stare; merrily move we to Death.

6 A PLAINTIVE MOVEMENT

Go little Pipe! for ever I must leave thee,
Ah, vainly true!
Never, ah never! must I more receive thee?
Adieu! adieu!
Well, thou art gone! and what remains behind,
Soothing the soul to Hope?
The moaning Wind—
Hide with sere leaves my Grave's undaisied Slope.

7 AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE

When thy Beauty appears,
In its graces and airs,
All bright as an Angel new dight from the Sky,
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my Eye.

8 NONSENSE VERSES

[AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE]

Ye fowls of ill presage,
Go vanish into Night!
Let all things sweet and fair
Yield homage to the pair:
From Infancy to Age
Each Brow be smooth and bright,
As Lake in evening light.
To-day be Joy! and Sorrow
Devoid of Blame
(The widow'd Dame)
Shall welcome be to-morrow.
Thou, too, dull Night! may'st come unchid:
This wall of Flame the Dark hath hid
With turrets each a Pyramid;—
For the Tears that we shed, are Gladness,
A mockery of Sadness!

9 NONSENSE

[AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE]

or

10 EXPERIMENTS IN METRE

There in some darksome shade
Methinks I'd weep
Myself asleep,
And there forgotten fade.

11

Once again, sweet Willow, wave thee!
Why stays my Love?
Bend, and in yon streamlet—lave thee!
Why stays my Love?
Oft have I at evening straying,
Stood, thy branches long surveying,
Graceful in the light breeze playing,—
Why stays my Love?

12

Songs of Shepherds and rustical Roundelays,
Forms of Fancies and whistled on Reeds,
Songs to solace young Nymphs upon Holidays
Are too unworthy for wonderful deeds—
Round about, hornéd
Lucinda they swarméd,
And her they informéd,
How minded they were,
Each God and Goddess,
To take human Bodies
As Lords and Ladies to follow the Hare.

13 A METRICAL ACCIDENT

APPENDIX V

ADAPTATIONS

FULKE GREVILLE. LORD BROOKE

[1] Motto to ‘A Lay Sermon’, 1817

God and the World we worship still together,
Draw not our Laws to Him, but His to ours;
Untrue to both, so prosperous in neither,
The imperfect Will brings forth but barren Flowers!
Unwise as all distracted Interests be,
Strangers to God, fools in Humanity:
Too good for great things and too great for good,
While still ‘I dare not’ waits upon ‘I wou'd’!

2 Sonnet XCIV [Coelica]

3 Of Humane Learning Stanza CLX

For onely that man understands indeed,
And well remembers, which he well can doe,
The Laws live, onely where the Law doth breed
Obedience to the workes it bindes us to:
And as the life of Wisedome hath exprest,
If this ye know, then doe it, and be blest.

SIR JOHN DAVIES

4 On the Immortality of the Soul (Sect. iv. Stanzas 12-14.)

DONNE

5 Eclogue. ‘On Unworthy Wisdom’

So reclused Hermits oftentimes do know
More of Heaven's glory than a worldly can:
As Man is of the World, the Heart of Man
Is an Epitome of God's great Book
Of Creatures, and Men need no further look.

6 Letter to Sir Henry Goodyere

For Stanza II, line 3—

For Stanza III—

The motto reads:

BEN JONSON

7 Mutual Passion

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET

8

---

1120

The Hour-Glass

O think, fair maid! these sands that pass
In slender threads adown this glass,
Were once the body of some swain,
Who lov'd too well and lov'd in vain,
And let one soft sigh heave thy breast,
That not in life alone unblest
E'en lovers' ashes find no rest.

9 The Poetaster. Act I, Scene 1.

Let us not blame him: for against such chances
The heartiest strife of manhood is scarce proof.
We may read constancy and fortitude
To other souls—but had ourselves been struck
Even in the height and heat of our keen wishing,
It might have made our heart-strings jar, like his.

SAMUEL DANIEL

10 Epistle to Sir Thomas Egerton, Knight

11 Musophilus. Stanza cxlvii.

Blind is that soul which from this truth can swerve
No state stands sure, &c.

12 Musophilus. Stanzas xxvii, xxix, xxx.

O blessed letters, &c.

CHRISTOPHER HARVEY

13 The Synagogue THE NATIVITY OR CHRISTMAS DAY.

Unfold thy face, unmask thy ray,
Shine forth, bright sun, double the day;
Let no malignant misty fume
Nor foggy vapour, once presume
To sheath or blunt one happy ray,
That wins new splendour from the day,—
This day that gives thee power to rise,
And shine on hearts as well as eyes:
This birth-day of all souls, when first
On eyes of flesh and blood did burst
That primal great lucific light,
That rays to thee, to us gave sight.
Which is both the circumference
And centre of all excellence, &c.

MARK AKENSIDE

14 Blank Verse Inscriptions No. III.

Whoe'er thou art whose path in Summer lies
Through yonder village, turn thee where the Grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Embosoms—there dwells Albert, generous lord
Of all the harvest round. And onward thence
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Fast by a silent rivulet. Humbly walk,
O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;
And on that verdant Hillock, which thou seest
Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand
Sprinkle fresh water from the brook, and strew
Sweet-smelling flowers—for there doth Edmund rest,
The learned shepherd; for each rural art
Famed, and for songs harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave
In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous Heaven
With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care
Avenge her falsehood. Nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp, which lured her plighted faith
From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
The strokes of death. Go, traveller, relate
The mournful story. Haply some fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught
That riches cannot pay for truth or love.

W. L. BOWLES

15

[—I yet remain]

16 NAPOLEON

Then we may thank ourselves,
Who spell-bound by the magic name of Peace
Dream golden dreams. Go, warlike Britain, go,
For the grey olive-branch change thy green laurels:
Hang up thy rusty helmet, that the bee
May have a hive, or spider find a loom!
Instead of doubling drum and thrilling fife
Be lull'd in lady's lap with amorous flutes:
But for Napoleon, know, he'll scorn this calm:
The ruddy planet at his birth bore sway,
Sanguine adust his humour, and wild fire
His ruling element. Rage, revenge, and cunning
Make up the temper of this Captain's valour.