University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—In the Mountains.
Bertha,
discovered.
“Thou art no woman, if thou canst not love.”
Methinks I've found my womanhood full soon,
Or, why the converse of three little days
With one I never knew ere then, should seem
The sweetest of my life? Why should I love?
That is a question many a maid hath ask'd
Her heart before, and found not a reply.
He's bold, and so are they who tread these hills,
He's sweet voic'd, and well favoured; so are they
Who've asked me for my heart, and I've refused it.
Yet do I turn at every tread I hear, and hope 'tis he;
Know, without looking on the dial's face,—
The hour of his daily walk; can tell his voice,—
If it but syllables a word. All this I've learn'd
In three short days! He's not that he doth seem!
My father says it, and he knows an Austrian.
Should he be one, I will not love him more.
Hate him I cannot—He comes, he comes!
And my heart flutters like a new cag'd bird,
Which dreads the hand that brings the food it loves.

Enter Albert, L. H.
Alb.
I cannot now mistrust thy medicine, Leech!
The fresh keen air that blows around these peaks,
Hath given me back more than my wonted strength,
And had the power to lend a brighter glow,
E'en to the cheek I thought was brightest.

Ber,
Fie, fie! to pay me then with such a coin
As flattery! I doubt the cure that is
So little worth. Your thanks have been too much.

Alb.
Too much! Too little, were my words all thanks.
I would not leave these hills, if I could deem
I might consume the day in thanking thee.

Ber.
Nay, sir, forgive me, if I doubt again
You have e'er been a nursling of the court,
And train'd to whisper well tuned phrases
In ears that prized their music. You would soon tire
Of telling homely truths. Time would be heavy wing'd
To one who found him fleeter than his wish.

Alb.
Time is not half the laggard in your hills
As in our drowsy courts; but mid the state
And ceaseless glitter of a courtier's life,
Fancy's fleet changes are too slowly made
To feed the palate with variety.
E'en the soldier tires amid his praise,
Or, dearer than that praise, the privilege
Of th'endless repetition of his deeds.
Yet, Bertha, they are men who are no braggarts,
Men who will live in times that follow them.

Ber.
Brave men should ever do so.—Think of Tell.
Yonder is Uri, where his country's love
Hath raised his monument; and if the dead
Have after conciousness, how blest to hear
His name for ever mingling with pray'rs
To the Eternal! Yonder is Rutlis
Where Tell and Melcthal, Furst, and Stadfacher,
Their holy meetings held, and planned the victory
Their after valour gain'd. Yonder the rock
On which the hero sprang, when heaven (as though
The deed to sanctify) the angry waters still'd,
And gave him power to guide his fragile bark
Thus far in safety. And here stands Kusnatch
Where Gesler fell, and Switzerland was free!

Alb.
If Switzerland contains so many fair
And sweet tongued heralds of her children's valour
The wonder is, not that she boasts a Tell
Methinks she would have nam'd a hundred.

Ber.
The stuff they are made of is too costly;
The world could not produce them!

Enter William at back.
Alb.
Bertha, thy soul is far too bright a gem
To burn amid these hills. O, if a love
So pure, its memory would not even foul
The snowiest of thy thoughts, where all is pure;
If the idolatry of every sense
Of him who kneels before thee can outweigh
The show of his defects, look but the hope,
And at thy father's feet he'd sue as humbly
As he doth at thine. Oh, Bertha, answer me!

[William advances between them.]
Wil.
I will for her father answer, not for her.
Arnold of Winkelried would take her hand
As I now take it, and, pointing to the lake
That lies beneath, would tell her its waters
Kiss a land whose freedom was gladly bought
By her forefather's blood from Austrian
Tyranny. He'd tell her that those hills
Are named Mogartem, where a Tell,
And some such other noble hearts and hands
Drove Austria's thousand steel-clad knights
Before them like the timid chamois.
Her answer I could once have prophesied;
I now can only wonder—

Ber.
William! Brother!
How meanly am I rated in your love,
Since you can wrong me even by a doubt!
'Tis thus that Arnold's daughter would reply:—
She'd tell him, that her love, her hope
Which are her all, were given to her country:
That Austria's proudest noble she would spurn,
As she does him, who would have tempted her
To ask a father's hate! Has your wonder ceas'd
Or would you question further?

Wil.
Bertha, I've wrong'd thee!
Back to your court, and tell them what you deem
Is freedom's price! I'll send a guide to lead you
From our hills. Farewell, sir! [Going.]


Alb.
Bertha, one word!
The times are fraught with peril; another day
May see the hungry vulture's appetite
Allay'd by human blood. Promise to me,
That should your father's home become no shelter,
And your father's arm no safeguard to thee,
That he who peril'd thee, shall only shield thee,

Ber.
Think'st thou I have one father only?
The cause would give me thousands, Or that the land
He'd gladly die for, has but one sepulchre?
Look at yon ravine!

[Exeunt William and Bertha, R. H.
Alb.
There must be more in freedom than we deem
Who, nurs'd among the servile slaves of power,
Would bend all wills to ours, since it can lend
So much of nature's majesty to those
The mountain tops have only school'd and cradled.

[Exit L. H.