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THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 
 
 (COMPLETE EDITION^ 
 
 URIS LIBRARY 
 
 OCT 2 8 1987 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 M. A. DONOHUE & CO. 
 
 407-429 DEARBORN ST. 
 
PEEFACE; 
 
 Compositions resembling those of the present ■volnmo 
 are not unfrequently condemned for their qnerulous Kgo- 
 tjsm. But Egotism is to he nondHmned then only when 
 it oft'ends against Time and Place, aa in an Hiatory nr an " 
 ■Kpic Poem. To censure it in a Monndv or Sonnet is 
 almost as absurd as to disliliie a nirnle for heinpr round. " 
 wny then write Bonnets or MonodieHlf Becausfi thev 
 give me pleasure when perhaps nothing else could. After 
 the more violent emotions of sorrow, the mind demiinds 
 amusement, and can find it in employment alone; out 
 full of its late sufferings, it can endure no employmeot 
 not in some measure connected with them. Forcibly to 
 turn away our attention ' to general subjects is a painful 
 and most often an unavailing effort. 
 
 " But O ! how grateful to a wounded heart 
 The tale of Misery to impart — 
 From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow. 
 And raise esteem upon the base of Woel" — Shaw. 
 
 The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to describe 
 our own sorrows ; i n the endeavour to describe tliem. in- 
 tellectnal activity is exerted; and from intellectual ac- 
 tivity there res ults a pleasure, which is gradually nsso- " 
 ci'atofl, and milltt'leti as a corrective, with the painful 
 6U D^^ect ot tne description. " True I" (it may be answered ) 
 •' but now are the PUBLKJ interested in your Soitows or 
 yoUr Description ?" We are for ever attributing personal 
 Unities to imaginary Aggregates. What is tlie Eublic, 
 but a term for a number of scattered individuals? Of 
 whom as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have 
 experienced the same or similar. ^ 
 
 * ' Holy be the lay 
 Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way." 
 
 If I could jndge of others by myself, I should not hesitate 
 to affirm, that the moat intereatinjr pafiaag -es are tlinsp. ip 
 which the Anthor developes his own feelings? The sweet 
 voice of Uonat never sounds so sweetly, as when it 
 speaks of itself; and I should almost susi^ect that man of 
 
 * To the First and Second Editions. t Oasiau. 
 
vi preface; 
 
 an unkindly heart, who could read jTib npeniufr of the 
 third book of the Paradise Lost without pe culiar emption, 
 By a Law of our JMature, he, who laboursunder a strong 
 feeling, is impelled to seek for sympathy; but a Po e t' s 
 feelings are all strong . Quicquid amet yalde amat. Aken- 
 Bide theretbre speaks with philosophical accuracy when 
 he' classes Love and Poetry, as producing the same effects: 
 
 I" Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue 
 Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms 
 Their own." Pleasures of Imagination. 
 
 There is one species of Egotism which Is truly disgust- 
 ing; not that which leads us to communicate oiir feelings 
 to others, hnt, that, w>'i'-Ti wnnlrl rpflnrn thp feelinffH of 
 others to an identity with our own. The Atheist,' who 
 exclaims, "pshaw!" when he glances his eye oa the 
 
 praises of Deity, is an Egi 
 snea ks contemptuously of L( 
 
 :otist: an old man, when 
 
 lOYe-yerHBB, is an Egotist: and 
 
 the sleek Favourites of Fortune are Egotists, when' they 
 condemn all " melanchn l Yi discon tpnted " TPrsea. . Surely, 
 it would be candid not merely to ask whether the poem 
 pleases ourselves, but to consider whether or no there may 
 not be others, to whom it is well calculated to give an 
 innocent pleasure. 
 
 I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I hope, 
 remember, that these Poems on various subjects, which 
 he reads at one time and under the influence of one set of 
 feelings, were written at diflFerent times and prompted by 
 very different feelings; and therefore that the supposed 
 inferiority of one Poem to another may sometimes be 
 owing to the temper of mind, in which he happens to 
 peruse it. 
 
 My poems have been rightly charged with a profusion 
 nf Hnnhlp-ppithetHf and a general turgidnesB. I have 
 pruned the double-epithets with no sparing hand; and 
 used my best efforts to tame the swell and glitter both of 
 thought and diction. This latter fault however had in- 
 sinuated itself into my Religious Musings with such in- 
 tricacy of union, that sometimes I have omitted to disen- . 
 tangle the weed from the fear ofsnanTiinff the flowey , A^ 
 thinl and heavier accusation has been brought against 
 me, that of obscurity;, but not, I think, with equal justice. 
 An Author is obscure, when his conceptions are dim and 
 imperfect, and his language incorrect, or unappropriate, 
 or involved. A poem that abounds in allusions, like the 
 Bard of Gray, or one that impersbnates high and abstract 
 truths, like CoUins's Ode on the fjoetical character, claims 
 not to be popular — but should be acquitted of obscurity. 
 The deficiency is In the Reader. But this- is a charge 
 'vrbicta every poet, whose imagination is warm and rapid, 
 
PREFACE. vu 
 
 innst expect from hia conlnm.'para.rip.n. Milton did not 
 escape it ; and it was adduced with virulence against 
 Gray and Collins. We now Lear no more of it: not that 
 their poems are better understood at present, thau they 
 were at their first publication ; but their fame is estabr 
 . lished; and a critic would accuse himself of frimdity or 
 iiiattelition. who should profess not to understana thenf. 
 liut a living writer is yet sub jiidice; aud if we cannot 
 follow his conceptions or enter into his feelings, it is more 
 consoling toour pride to consider him as lost beneath, than 
 as soaring above us. If any man expect from my poems 
 the same easiness of style which he admires in a drinking- 
 song, for him I have not written. Intelligibilia, non in- 
 telleetum adfero. 
 
 I expect neither profit or general fame by my writings ; 
 and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without 
 either. Poetry has been to me its own " exceeding great 
 reward:" it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied ' 
 and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; and 
 it has given me the habit of wishing to discover_thejGood 
 -ind the Beautiful in all that meets and smrounds me. 
 
 S. T. C. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOE COLEEIDGE. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was bom at Ottery St. 
 Mary, Devonshire, on the 2l8t October, 1772. His father 
 ■was a clergyman of amiable character and simple habits, 
 settled as vicar of that parish. Here he continued many 
 years, a constant student forgetful not only of the distant 
 world but of the things about him; and here his wife 
 died, leaving three daughters, children, to whom he gave 
 a, second mother by marrying Anne Bowdon, who seems 
 to have been all that second marriages require. Besides, 
 she quickly increased the number of the vicarage house- 
 hold, and the last of her ten children appearing year by 
 year, was the poet. 
 
 Samuel's recollections of Ottery St. Mary and of his 
 father were vivid, although the Rev. John Coleridge, died 
 before his sou completed his seventh year, at which time' 
 the family must have left the place. Before he was nine 
 his mother died also, and as the living was not a very 
 rich one, and Anne Bowdon had only added to the vicar's 
 riches in another direction, the orphan family were in 
 some difficulties, which friends mitigated by getting the 
 youngest into the Blue-coat school in London a year after. 
 
 Unaccustomed to many luxuries, easily contented, and 
 absent-minded, like his father, even from childhood, hfe 
 life at Christ's Hospital during the nine years spent there 
 was rendered harder by the habits of the school and the 
 character of the head master, of whom Charles Lamb, 
 then also wearing the yellow stockings, has left a vivid 
 and alarming picture. 
 
 Coleridge was eighteen and a half when he was entered 
 at Jesus College, Cambridge, not a very strong or active 
 youth, having just before been attacked by illness; not 
 
X SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDaE. 
 
 a premature genius either, leaving next to no hidden 
 , treasures of verse among his papers ; nor yet likely to be 
 first in classics, although hig previous attainments en- 
 abled him to take a prize for a Greek ode. Worldly wis- 
 dom we must not expect, so he immediately got into trouble 
 on account of the price of the furniture he took over with 
 his rooms. During the folio wirig year some other agita- 
 tions were added, though he was then, and always, moral- • 
 ly innocent; hut sqddenly he was missed, and for some 
 time entirely lost sight of. This episode in his career 
 used to afford hiis friends in later life the nearest approach 
 to humour it was possible to indulge in conversation with 
 Coleridge : he had always too much weight on his mind, 
 too many hesetting ideas, and too much seriousness to 
 allow any moments of chaff or raillery. He made no secret 
 of it, but never explained the mystery. What is very 
 certain is that he had no money to keep himself with, 
 and that he enlisted immediately in the 15th Light Dra- 
 goons, and distinguished himself hy the extreme difficulty 
 they experienced in training him. This was at the begin- 
 ning of December 1793, :wheu he was just turned twenty- 
 one. Private Comberback, the apt name he chose for him- 
 self, never got out of the drill sergeant's hands, and was 
 sent down to the dep6t at Reading, where it is said he 
 was recognised. If this was the case nothing came out 
 of the recognition ; the history of his getting out of the 
 scrape is said to be this, he wrote some Greek on his 
 saddle, which an officer saw and questioned him re- 
 garding. Perhaps he was tired of the drudgery, at aU 
 events he told the truth, and his friends captured him, 
 got his discharge, and ensured his return to his rooms 
 at Jesus College, so that he was not altogether half a 
 •year a soldier. 
 I Soon after he left Cambridge for altogether, without of 
 course taking any degree, or having any definite views 
 of a professional kind. These indeed never took a prac- 
 tical shape all through life; he might at any moment 
 have sui^rised his most intimatfe friends by a determina- 
 tion never before dreamt of by them, and even when be 
 became acquainted with Southey at Bristol, and with the 
 set of verse-writing and speculating men about him, and 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. si 
 
 determined on following literature, he did not do so on 
 any plan or with any regularity. Further than that, 
 when he meCrried, he took the step without undertaking 
 any of the difficulties or consequences usually tinderstood 
 to belong to matrimony, he continued to" live fl"om place 
 to place as he fancieij, and at last left his wife altogether. 
 From this date, when Coleridge was about twenty-two, 
 for the next four or five years, In the first warmth of 
 Mendship with Southey and Wordsworth, he was wholly 
 a poet, and wrote all the pieces that gave him his position, 
 now so high and so incapable of change. After this short 
 period of productive time, while he was still a boy one 
 may say, although a married one, and without any visible 
 means of keeping the wolf from the door, he became a 
 Lecturer, a Journalist, a Politician, a Metaphysician, but 
 a Poet only cogitatively and retrospectively, employing 
 himself in revising the conditions of mind under which 
 they were produced rather than the poems themselves. 
 
 The first result of the acquaintance with Southey was 
 the mntual production of a " Historical Drama," on the 
 all-absorbing event of the day, "The Fall of Robespierre." 
 Of this Coleridge wrote one act, and Southey two, so that 
 it ought, perhaps,, to be relegated to the works of the 
 latter in future editions. It was, however, a mere even- 
 ing's amusement, as Southey afterwards related to Henry 
 N. Coleridge, when that gentleman was editing his uncle's 
 Literary Remains. Coleridge had not at that time finally 
 left Jesus College, because he took the MS. thither and 
 published it as his own, dating from the College, so that it 
 has ever since been looked upon as his. We have printed 
 it in this edition because it has been hitherto included in 
 the works of Coleridge. 
 
 He now left Jesus College for the last time, and at 
 Bristol, where the America^ trade then employed many 
 vessels, the young men, enthusiastic for the principles of 
 the French Revolution, and in despair for their ever being 
 the rule of life in 'France, conceived the idea of a com- 
 munity to live in brotherhood in the far West,ithe famous 
 Pantisocracy that De Quincey and others afterwards des- 
 canted on in endless magazine papers, which wasHio make 
 Susquehannah the ground of a new world. If this emi- 
 
xii SAMUEL TAYLOE COLERIDGE. 
 
 gration was ever seriously entertained, it was so but for a 
 few months, all the three — Coleridge, Southey, and Lovell 
 , — were married within a year from the Robespierre per- 
 formance, in one day to three sisters, the Misses Fricker, 
 who rather wished to remain at home. 
 
 Coleridge was now twenty-three, and in the following 
 year his first publication, properly speaking, a prose tract- 
 ate called Conoiones ad Populum, appeared while he lived 
 near Bristol. Very shortly he removed to Nether Stowey, 
 at the foot of the Quantock hills, where he found a help- 
 ful friend, as he always did throughout life, the charms of 
 his conversation, and his rhetorical powers of speech being 
 immense, — as great as his powers of work were feeble. 
 This friend was a Mr. Poole, but the decisive advantage 
 brought about by his cottage life under the Quantocks, 
 was the neighbourhood of Allfoxden, where Wordsworth 
 then lived, whose influence on Coleridge was even greater 
 than that of Southey. , 
 
 Neither had done any worthy work yet, though Words- 
 Worth had published a miW poem called An Evening Walk 
 two years before, but the determination of bringing poetry 
 back to the " hearth and home of every one," had taken 
 possession of him, which resulted two years after in the 
 publication of the Lyrical Ballads, and Coleridge going with 
 him fully, but still supremely affected by the far-off and 
 the imaginative, had written the Ancient Mariner, which 
 then appeared, and the few years following saw all his 
 excellent things produced. The first part of Christabel, 
 Bemorae, Kubla Khan, the Pains of Sleep, and others, were 
 all written during a few months ; but the remainder of 
 Christabel, the Three Graven, and many other good things 
 were not visible till the century was out. Still if we giire 
 five years as the duration of his productive life as a poet, 
 we allow an ample margin. This short period was besides 
 the most eventful of his history in other ways, both his 
 religious opinions and his politics veering round and 
 gradually settling in an unromantic conservative ortho- 
 dox;y, that eventuated, after his visit to Germany, and 
 years of rumination, in the essay on Church and. State ac- 
 coi-ding to the Idea of each, and other less definitive specula- 
 tions. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE. xiii 
 
 Muoli more important, aud much more intimately con- 
 necteJ with his poetry, its motiveless and fragmentary 
 character in some of its finest manifestations, and -with its 
 cessation, is his habit of opium-eating. lu the prefatory 
 note to Kubla Khan he says, " In the summer of the year 
 1797, the author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely 
 farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor 
 confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of 
 a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, 
 from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the 
 momentthat he was readinginPurch as' Pilgrimage, — 'Here 
 the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, &c.' 
 The author continued about three hours in this sleep, at 
 least of the external sense, during which time he com- 
 posed between two and three hundred lines, if that can 
 be called composition in which all the images rose up 
 before him as things, with a parallel production of the 
 corresponding expressions without any sfensation of con- 
 sciousness of effort." This is the earliest record of the 
 disposition to be ecstatically affected by the use of seda- 
 tive stimulants. The experience once indulged in, be- 
 came an absorbing passion, breaking down every barrier, 
 rending in pieces all his efforts, and for many years he 
 lived far away from all his solid interests, in a dreamland 
 of his own, peopled by beautiful ephemera. 
 
 In 1801 we find Coleridge living in Cumberland, at 
 Keswick, attracted thither by Southey ; Wordsworth also 
 having by this time settled down not far off at Grasmere. 
 By this time he had translated Wallenstein, making a 
 very able translation of these noblest of'tragedies, the 
 first part, called " Wallenstein's Camp," he omitted. It 
 was issued by arrangement at the same time as Schiller's' 
 original in Germany; but like everything else by Cole- 
 ridge had very little immediate sale. He had also begun 
 writing both literary and political articles for London 
 papers, an employment he continued irregularly, espe- 
 cially for the Com-ier, till 1814. By his time, too, he had 
 begun Tegular opium-eating. "Wretched delusion!" he 
 writes; "but I owe it in justice to myself to declare, 
 before God, that this, the curse and slavery of my life, 
 did not commence in any low craving for sensation, in 
 
xiv SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE. 
 
 any desire or -wish to atlmulate or exhilarate myself, — ^in 
 fact my nervous spirits and my mental activity were saah 
 as never required it, — ^but wholly in rashness, delusion, 
 and presmuptaous quackery, and afterwards in pure 
 terror." 
 
 I have said no work by Coleridge, poem or treatise, ever 
 sold to any considerable extent when first published. 
 Some of his most excellent works, The Friend for instance, 
 was a serious loss to him, a very serious one in his mone- 
 tary position at the time. It was issued periodically, be- 
 ginning in June, 1809, when he was living a short time 
 with Wordsworth, having been absent from the lake 
 country, and from England, too, for a year, and when 
 shortly after that date he left Cumberland, he never re- 
 turned. His wife, however,, remained with the three 
 children : Derwent, afterwards in orders in the Church, 
 Sara, his daughter whom he dearly loved, and Hartley, 
 in whose genius he wholly believed. The presence of her 
 sister, Mrs. Southey, and other interests kept her there, 
 and her husband's constant failure as an author dis- 
 couraged household expenses. His last year abroad was 
 a visit to Malta for hia health, during which he fell into 
 a lucrative appointment, officiating- as secretary to the 
 Governor, Sir Alexander Ball, whom he highly esteemed. 
 
 On the failure of The Friend he returned to London, 
 living with dear friends, who were honoured by his 
 society, Mr. Basil Montague and others, by no means 
 disinclined to use his pen or to lecture, which he did at 
 the Royal Institution and in connection with the London 
 Philosophical Society, and sending on his earnings to his 
 well-beloved famUy at Keswick. Hia drama Remorse, 
 written fifteen years before, was also now acted at Drury 
 Lane with fiair success, not enough, however, to cause the 
 acceptance' of Zapolya, which he now produced. He then 
 also arranged the poems, which are called Sibylline Leaves, 
 and the reader may be surprised to learn that Christaiel 
 was now first published, so that his poetic standing had 
 been hitherto dependent on The Ancient Mariner alone, pub- 
 lished long ago in Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads, and 
 some minor pieces here and there published I This fact is 
 the most astounding in the history of the poet; it is true 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOE COLEEIDGE. xv 
 
 The Ancient Mariner is alone of his highest lyrical crea- 
 tions, a finished work, hut to keep his poeins in his desk 
 all through his struggling manhood, and yet to have 
 taken the position he did, is truly surprising. The Sibyl-, 
 line Leaves with Christabel, &o., were published in 181G, 
 a complete edition of his poems not till 1828, hut a few 
 years before his death. With respect to the publication 
 of The Ancient Mariner, too, there was an inconsequent 
 an.d incidental character, the Lyrical Ballads, being pro- 
 duced, as their long Preface set forth in the wordiest 
 manner, to bring poetry back to common life, and by the 
 ballad treatment again interest people in their actual 
 surroundings Nothing further from this field can be 
 imagined than the poem Coleridge contributed to Words- 
 worth's volume. He has, indeed, given us an explana- 
 tion of the difference, by saying the first conception of 
 the volume" was that it should Qousist of two classes of 
 poems, one relating to ordinary life, the other to super- 
 natural incidents treated naturally, but nothing of this 
 appears ia Wordsworth's argument, and the poem stood 
 alone in the book. 
 
 Indeed the morality of the narrative — ^the enormity of 
 the punishment for the death of the albatross, — seems to 
 disconnect the poem from reality, as in no age, nor under 
 any law, religious, moral, or civil, has it ever been sup- 
 posed that such a revenge was just. Even in a dramatic ■ 
 point of view, and as a work of art, this has been felt 
 as a serious defect in the invention of The Ancient Mariner. 
 But this, it appears to me, is a misconception. It is the 
 " Lonesome Spirit of the South Pole " and his " fellow 
 demons " who bring about the fearful punishment ,of the 
 Mariner and the crew. "They were the first who ever 
 burst into that silent sea," and the elemental' sprcits were 
 fniiously opposed to their inroad, and especially 
 
 " The Spirit who bideth by himself 
 ' In the land of mist and snow. 
 
 He loved the bird that loved the mim 
 Who shot him with his bow." 
 
 He it is, and the other unknown spirits who work the 
 mischief and carry the ship violently back to the Line, 
 
xvi SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE. 
 
 only in the mind of the Mariner, the punishment aBsiimea 
 the character of a penance imposed by providence. lie 
 thinks the punishment just; he is, in truth, mad, for 
 Death and Life-in-Death have thrown the dice for him, 
 ' and Life-in-Death, who is the Demon of Madness, has 
 gained the throw. 
 
 The house of the good surgeon, Mr. Gilman, at High- 
 gate, was one of those rather large-looking houses with 
 trees quite as old as themselves in front of them, in the 
 open space, opposite the gate to the church. To this 
 family he was introduced in 1815 as an inmate to he 
 looked upon as an invalid, and truly he found himself in 
 the hands of the Good Samaritan, and never left him 
 again, but continued for the long weary period of nineteen 
 years, resigning opium, but still in many ways an invalid, 
 and visited by many admiring friends who listened to his 
 monologues with wonder and delight. In 1825 the Eoyal 
 Society of Literature came to his aid, with a pension of 
 £105, which he only enjoyed for five years, George IV., 
 from whose private purse it came, dying in 1830. 
 
 For some years at last he was nearly confined to the 
 sick-roorn. He died on the 25th July, 1834, in the 62nd 
 year of his age. Let me finish by transcribing some por- 
 tion of the inscription on the marble tablet to Ms memory 
 in Highgate New Church : 
 
 " His disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic. 
 
 He was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend: 
 
 The gentlest and kindest teacher, • 
 
 The most engaging home-companion. 
 
 Here on this monumental stone thy friends inscribe thy worth. 
 
 Reader! for the world mourn, 
 
 A light has passed away from the earth: 
 
 But for this pious and exalted Christian, 
 
 Kejoice, and again I say unto you, rejoice 1" 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PASB 
 
 The Bime of the Ancient Mariner, 1 
 
 Christabel, .......... 18 
 
 Kuhla Khan; or, a Vision in a dream, . • . . . .33 
 
 The Pains of Sleep, 35 
 
 Love, 36 
 
 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Geneviere, 39 
 
 Monody on the Death of Chatterton, 39 
 
 Sonnet to the Autumnal Moon, 43 
 
 Time, Real and Imaginary, 43 
 
 Songs of the Pixies, 43 
 
 The Eaven, 46 
 
 Absence, a Farewell Ode, 47 
 
 Written in Early Youth', 48 
 
 TheKigs, 50 
 
 The Rose, 51 
 
 To a Young Ass, 51 
 
 The Sigh, 52 
 
 Domestic Peace, 53 
 
 Lines Written at the Klng's-Arm, Ross, . . . .53 
 
 Lines to a Beautiful Spring in a Village, .... 53 
 
 Lines on a Friend, 54 
 
 Lines composed while climbing Brockley Coomb, . . 55 
 
 To a Young Lady, with a Poem on the French Revolution, 56 
 
 Sonnet I. " My Heart has thanked thee, Bowles," . , . 57 
 
 — II. "As late I lay in Slumher's Shadowy Vale," ,. 57 
 
 — m. " Though roused by that dark Vizir Riot Rude," 58 
 
 — IV. " When British Freedom for an Happier Land," . 58 
 
 — V. "It was some Spirit, Sheridan!" ... 58 
 
 — VI. "O what a loud and fearful Shriek was there," . 59 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 pagu 
 iSonnetVII. " As when far-off the warbled Strains are heard, " 59 
 
 — VIII. "ThoU gentle look," .... 59 
 
 — IX. " Pale Eoamer through the Night!" . . ¥50 
 
 — X. " Sweet Mercy! how my very. Heart has bled," TO 
 
 — XI. "Thou bleedest,my poor Heart! and thy Distress, "60 
 
 — XII. "To the author of the Robbers," ... 61 
 
 Epitaph on an Infant, 61 
 
 Lines in the manner of Spenser, 61 
 
 Imitated from Osslan, ....•••• 62 
 
 The Complaint of Ninathoma, 63 
 
 To an Infant, 63 
 
 Imitated from the Welsh, 64 
 
 Lines in Answer to a Letter from Bristol, .... 64 
 
 Lines to a Friend in Answer to a melancholy Letter, . 67 
 
 Religious Musings, . . • 67 
 
 The Destiny of Nations, a Vision, 77 
 
 SIBTLLINS LEAVES. 
 I. — Poems occasioned bt Political Events ' oir Feelings 
 
 CONNECTED WITH THEM. 
 
 Ode to the Departing "^eax, 88 
 
 France, an Ode, 92 
 
 Fears in Solitude, 94 
 
 Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 99 
 
 Recantation, 109 
 
 II.— Love Poems. 
 
 Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie, 
 
 Lewti, or the Circassian Love-Chaunt, 
 
 The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution 
 
 The Night-Scene, a Dramatic Fragment, 
 
 To an Unfortunate Woman, .... 
 
 To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre, . 
 
 Lines composed in a Concert-Room, . 
 
 The Keeps.alie, 
 
 To a Young Lady on her Recovery from a Fever, 
 To a Lady, with Falconer's " Shipwreck," . 
 Home-Sick: written in Germany, 
 Something Childish, but very Natural, . 
 
 Ill 
 . 112 
 
 114 
 . 118 
 
 120 
 . 121 
 
 122 
 . 103 
 
 124 
 . 124 
 
 125 
 . 126 
 
CONTENTS. six 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Answer to a Child's Question, 136 
 
 The Visionary Hope, 136 
 
 The Happy Husband, 127 
 
 On Ee-visiting the SesrShore, . . . . ' . . . 138 
 
 KeeoUeetions of Love, 138 
 
 The Composition of a Kiss, 139 
 
 m.— MBDiTATrvB Poems, in Blank Veese. 
 
 Hymn before 8un-rise, in the Vale of Chamouny, . . 130 
 Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz 
 
 Forest, i . 133 
 
 The Eplian Harp, 133 
 
 On observing a Blossom on the First of February, . . 134 
 I Beflections on having left a Place of Retirement, . . 135 
 
 To the Kev. George Coleridge, 137 
 
 Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath, .... 138 
 A Tombless Epitaph, . . . < .' . . . .139 
 
 This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison, 140 
 
 To a Friend who had declared his Intention of writing no 
 
 more Poetry, . . . . . . . .141 
 
 To a Gentleman (W. Wordsworth) composed on the Night 
 
 after his Recitation of a Poem on the Growth of an 
 
 Individual Mind, 140 
 
 The Nightingale: a conversation poem, ■'.... 145 
 Frost at Midnight 148 
 
 rv. — Odes and Miscellaneotjs Poems. 
 
 The Three Graves, . . 149 
 
 Dejection: an Ode, ..... - . 158 
 
 Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, .... 161 
 
 Ode to Tranquillity, 163 
 
 To a Toung Friend, on his proposing to domesticate with 
 
 the Author, 164 
 
 Line's to W. L. Esq., while he sang a Song to Purcell's 
 
 Music, , . . . 165 
 
 Addressed to a Toung Man of Fortune, . . .' .166 
 
 Sonnet to the River Otter, 166 
 
 ,— to a Friend, . 166 
 
 — composed on a Journey homeward after hSring of 
 
 the Birth of a Son, . . . ... 167 
 
 Epitaph on an Infant, 167 
 
 The Virgin's Cradle-Hymn, 168 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TeU's Birth-Place, . ; . . . . , • • -168 
 
 Melancholy, a Fragment, 169 
 
 A Christmas Carol, . . , 168 
 
 Human Life, 171 
 
 The Visit of the Gods, 171 
 
 Elegy, imitated from Akenside, 178 
 
 PROSE IN RHYME: 
 
 OB, Epiobams, Mobalitibs, and Things Withotit a Name. 
 
 Duty surviving SelfrLove, 173 
 
 Song, . .; 173 
 
 Phantom or Fact? a Dialogue in Verse, .... 174 
 
 Work without Hope, 174 
 
 Youth and Age, ......... 175 
 
 A Day Dream, ......... 175 
 
 . Lines suggested by the Last Words of Berengarios, . . 176 
 To a Lady,_ offended by a sportive Observation, ■ . . 177 
 
 The Devil's Thoughts, 178 
 
 The Alienated Mistress, 179 
 
 Constancy to an Ideal Object, 179 
 
 The Suicide's Argument, 180 
 
 The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-Tree, .... 181 
 
 Fancy in Nubibus, 183 
 
 The Two Founts, •. '. .183 
 
 The Wanderings of Cain, ....... 184 
 
 Remorse, a Tragedy, 190 
 
 Appendix, 335 
 
 The Fall of Robespierre, 238 
 
 The Piccolomini, or the First Part>of Wallenstein, . . 256 
 The Death of Walleustein, 354 
 
Coleridge's Poetical Works. 
 
 THE 
 
 RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 m SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 Facile credo, plares esse Naturas invisibiles quam \ isibiles in rerutn 
 universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? 
 et ^adus et cognationes et 'discrimina et singulorum munera? 
 Quid agnnt ? qu» loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper 
 ' ambivjt ingenmm humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non 
 dicBteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in Tabula, majoris et melioris 
 mundiimaginemcontemi)lari: ne mens assuefacta hodiemse vitae 
 minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitatioues. 
 Sed veritatl interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut cei-ta 
 ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. 
 
 T. Bdbnet: Abcrsol. Phil, p. 68. 
 
 PART THE FIEST. 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three. 
 
 " By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, 
 
 "Now -wherefore stopp'st thou me f 
 
 " The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
 " And I am next of kin : 
 "Tlie guests are met, the feast»is set; 
 "May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him. with his skinny hand, 
 "There was a ship," quoth he. 
 " Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon I" 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye — . 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three jeaxa child: 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 An ancient 
 Mariner 
 meeteth 
 three Gal- 
 lants hiddpn 
 toawt^ddiut?- 
 feast, aiitl riti- 
 taineth ouu. 
 
 The Wed- 
 ding-Guest is 
 spellbound 
 by the eye of 
 the old sea- 
 
& THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 faring man, The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 and con- jjg cannot chuse but hear; 
 Kwstole. And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 , The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,, 
 
 Merrily did, we drop 
 
 Belpw the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 BeloV the light-house top. . 
 
 The Mariner The Sun came up upon the left, 
 sWp ^Uel^^ Out of the sea came he ! 
 ■ soiShward And he shone bright, and on tbe right 
 with a good Went down into the sea. 
 wind and fair 
 
 k reached*"' Higher and higher every day, 
 
 the line. Till over the mast at noon — 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Wed- The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 
 h?are*th1fhe Red as a rose is she ; , 
 
 bridal music; Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 but the Mar- The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 iaer oontin- • 
 
 :aeth his tale, rj,-^^^ Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
 
 Yet he cannot chuse but hear ; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 The ship And pow the STORM-BLAST came, and he 
 stor^toward Was tyrannous and strong : 
 the south He stmck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 pole. And chased us south along. 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow. 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 I Still treads the shadow of his foe 
 
 ' And forward bends his head. 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 
 
 And southward aye we fled. 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow. 
 
 And it grew wondrous cold: 
 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 
 _ As green as emerald. 
 
 The land of 
 
 ice, and of 
 
 fearful And through the drifts the snowy cliits 
 
 sounds,where Dij ggnd a dismal sheSen: 
 
 thing wis to -^""^ shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 
 be seen. The ice was all between. 
 
THE ANCIENT MlRINEE. 
 
 The ipe was here, the ice was there, 
 
 The ice was all around : 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roaxedaodhowled. 
 
 Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 At length did cross an Alhatross : 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 
 We bailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split \, - i a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered us through ! 
 
 And a good south-wind sprung up behind ; 
 
 The Albatross did follow, 
 
 And every day, for food or play, 
 
 Came to the mariners' hoUo ! 
 
 In mist or cjoud, on mast or sbroud, 
 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
 
 Glimmered the white Moon-shine. 
 
 Till a great 
 sea-bird, 
 called the 
 Albatross, 
 came 
 
 through the 
 snow-fog, 
 and was re- 
 ceived with 
 great joy and 
 hospitality. 
 
 Andlol the 
 Albatross 
 
 Eroveth a 
 ird of good 
 omen, and 
 f oUoweth the 
 ship ^s it re- 
 turned north- 
 ward, 
 
 through tog 
 and floating 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
 
 Why look'st thou so f'^With my cross-bow 
 
 I shot the AXBATROSS. 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner 
 inhospitably 
 killeth the 
 pious bird of 
 good omen. 
 
 PAET THE SECOND. 
 
 The San now rose upon the right : 
 Out of the sea came he. 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left; 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind, 
 But no sweet bird did follow. 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariners' hollo I 
 
 And I had done an hellish thing. 
 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 His ship- 
 mates cry out 
 against the 
 ancient 
 Mariner, for 
 killing the 
 bird of good 
 luck. 
 
THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. 
 
 But when the 
 fog cleared 
 oil, they just- 
 ify the same, 
 and thus 
 make them- 
 selves accom- 
 plices in the 
 crime. 
 The fair 
 breeze con- 
 tinues ; the 
 ship enters 
 the Pacific 
 Ocean and 
 sails north- 
 ward, even 
 till it reaches 
 th^ Line. 
 The shiphath 
 been sudden- 
 ly becalmed. 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, 1 had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
 
 The furrow followed free : 
 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 AH in a hot and copper sky, 
 
 The bloody Sun, at noon, ^ 
 
 Kight up above the mast did stand, 
 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a pa intefl whip . 
 iTpon a painted ocean. 
 
 And the Al- Water, water, every where, 
 efns'to be*" ^^^ ^^ ^^^ boards did shrink ; 
 avenged. Water, water, every where, 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ I 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy aeaT 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 Burnt green, and blue and white. 
 
 A spirit had And some in dreams assured were 
 
 tSetTo^ne-ot ^f ^^^, T"'^ *!"** ??T'«A"1 «° = 
 the invisible '^"^^ lathom dee^ he had followed us 
 inhabitants From the land ot mist and snow, 
 of this planet, 
 neither de- 
 parted souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned Jew Jose- 
 phus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus may be 
 consulted. They are veiy numerous and there is no climate or 
 element without one or more. 
 
THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. 5 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than If 
 We had been choked with soot. The ship- 
 
 mates, in 
 
 Ah! well a-day I what evil looks distrels™ 
 
 Had I from old and young ! would fain 
 
 Instead of tl^e cross, the Albatross throw the 
 
 About my neck was hung. ffielSnt™ 
 
 Mariner: in 
 sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 
 How glazed each weary eye, 
 
 When looking westward, I beheld 
 
 A something m the sky. 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck. 
 And then it seemed a mist : 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist I 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 With throats un8laJi:ed, with black lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood. 
 
 And cried, A sail! a sail I 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
 Agape they heard me. call : 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in. 
 As they were drinking alL 
 
 See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
 Hither to work us weal ; 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 She atoadieg.with upright keel ! 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner be- 
 holdeth a 
 8ig:%in the 
 element afar 
 off. 
 
 At its nearer 
 approach, ic 
 seemeth liim 
 to be a ship: 
 and at a dear 
 ransoni he 
 freethJiis 
 speech from 
 the bonds of 
 thirst. 
 
 A flash of 
 joy. 
 
 And horror 
 follows. For 
 can it be a 
 ship thnt 
 comes on- 
 ward without 
 wind or tic!c? 
 
6 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 
 The day was well nigh done! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the troad bright Sun ; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
 It seemeth (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
 sk^letSnof a -A-s if through a dungeon-grate he peered, 
 ship. With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres ! • 
 
 And its ribs ^^ those her ribs through which the Sun 
 
 are seen as Did peer, as through a grate f 
 
 bars on the And is that Woman all her crew ? 
 
 face of the Is that a DEATH ? and are there two T 
 
 setting hun. j^ pjj^Tjj that woman's mate ? 
 
 The spectre- 
 woman and Ser lips were red, her looks were free, 
 her death- jjer locks were yellow as gold : 
 She? o™ "^ Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 board the The Night-Mare Life-IN-Death was she, 
 skeleton-ship Who thicks man's blood ,\^ith cold. 
 
 hke%rew I '' '^'"'^ aakei hulk alongside came, 
 
 And the twain were casting dice: 
 Death, and " The game is done ! I've won! I've won!" 
 Life-is- Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 Death have ' 
 
 SSp^ crew,* '^^^ Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : 
 andshe (the At one stride comes the dark; 
 latter) win- With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 an'cten't? <^^ ^^°* *'^^ spectre-bark. 
 
 We listened and looked sideways up ! 
 
 Mariner. 
 
 No twilight Peaimt my heart, as at a cup, 
 
 "'""teof the *^y life-l^lood seemed to sip f 
 
 Sun!^ The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; 
 At the rising. From the sails the dew did drip — 
 of the Moon, rpin clombe above the eastern bar 
 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star . 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after One after one, by the star-dogged Moon 
 another. Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 
 Each turned his face with a ghaistly pang. 
 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 Four times fifty living men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 The souis did from their bodies fly, — 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 And every soul, it passed me by, 
 Like the whizz of my ceoss-bow! 
 
 His ship- , 
 mates drop 
 down dead; 
 
 But LlffE-IH- 
 
 Death begins 
 her work on 
 the ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 PART THE FOURTH. 
 
 "I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand.* ' 
 
 " I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand^ so brown." — 
 Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding -Guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 The many men, so beautiful ! 
 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 Lived on ; and ^o did I. 
 
 I loojced upon the rotting sea, • 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I looked upon the rotting deck. 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray; 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked Whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 ~ For the aky an,d the sea, and the sea and the sky ■ 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
 And the dead were at my feet; 
 
 * For the two last lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. 
 Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to 
 Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the auluma of 1797, that this 
 Poem was planned, and in part compoked. 
 
 The Wedding- 
 Guest feareth 
 that a spirit is 
 talking to 
 him; ^ 
 
 But the an- 
 cient Mariner 
 assurech him 
 of his bodily 
 life, and pro- 
 ceedeth to re- 
 late his horri- 
 ble penance. 
 
 He despiseth 
 the creatures 
 of the calm. 
 
 And envieth 
 that they 
 should hve,- 
 and BO many 
 lie dead. 
 
8 THE ANCIENT MAEINER. 
 
 I 
 But the curse The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 i!rth"ey'e''of' ^^^ rot nor reek did they : 
 the dead men ThB look with which they looked on me 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But oh! more horrible than that 
 
 Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 In his loneli- Seven days, seven ui~fits, I saw that curse, 
 ness and flx- And yet I could not die. 
 edness be 
 
 yearnethto- The moving' Moon went up the sky, 
 loume*^* And no where did abide : 
 Moon, inl Softly she was going upT 
 the stars that An d a star or two beside. 
 
 still sojourn, 
 
 yet still move onward; and every where the blue sky, belongs to 
 them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their 
 own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that 
 are certainly expected*and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A stUl and awful red. 
 
 By the light Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 h b h^d°th ^ ■watched the water-snakes : 
 
 God's crea- They moved in tracks of shining white, 
 
 tures of the And when they reared, the elfish light 
 
 great calm. Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watched their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 They coiled ami swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 "^^f^^.^^^^^y O happy living things ! no tongue 
 hlipinSs. Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
 He blesseth And I blessed them unaware : 
 
 heart '° ^^ ^^^^ ™y ^^^^ ®^™' *°°''^ P'*y 0" «ie. 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 The spell be- The self same moment I could prav : 
 gins to break. And from my neck so free 
 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 PART THE FIFTH. 
 
 Oh slbep 1 it is a gentle tiling, 
 Beloved from pole to pole I 
 To Mary Qneen the praise be given ! 
 She sen* the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly" buckets on the dedk, 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank : 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 And stiU my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought tliat I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind: 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 Thj upper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about ! 
 And to and fro, and in and out. 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 By grace of 
 the Holy 
 Mother, the 
 ancient Mar- 
 iner is re- 
 freshed with 
 rain. 
 
 He heareth 
 sounds, and 
 seethstrangH 
 sights and 
 commotions 
 in the sky 
 and the 
 element. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 And the rain poured downfrom one black cloud; 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The Moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 Yet now the ship moved on '. 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 The bodies 
 of the ship's 
 crew are in- 
 spired, and 
 the ship 
 moves on : 
 
10 THE ANCIENT MAEINER. 
 
 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream, 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 
 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 
 yhe mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 Where they were wont to do : 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— 
 
 We were,a ghastly crew. 
 
 . The body of my brother's son. 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and I pulled at one rope, • 
 
 But he said nought to me. 
 
 But not by " I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
 
 the souls of Bg calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 
 by (tomins""' 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
 
 of earth or Which to their corses came again, 
 
 middle air, But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 but by a r r 
 
 blessed troop ' - , , . 
 
 of angelic For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
 
 spirits, sent ^mH clustered round the mast ; 
 
 inTOoatfon of Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
 
 the guardian And from their bodies passed. 
 
 saint. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to the Sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, . 
 Now like a lonely flute ; i 
 
 And now it is an angel's song, 
 That makes the Heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 11 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 .Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 The spirit slid: and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left on their tune, 
 And the ship stood stiU also. 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast. 
 Had fixed her to the ocean: 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go. 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into my head, 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare ; 
 But ere my living Ufe returned, 
 I heard and in my soul discerned 
 Two VOICES in the air. 
 
 " Is it he ?" quoth one, " Is this the man ? 
 By him who died on cross, 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low, 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 "The spirit who bideth by himself • 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow." 
 
 The other was a softer voice. 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, 
 
 And penance more will do. 
 
 The lonesome 
 spirit from ' 
 tne south- 
 pole carries 
 CD the ship as 
 far as the 
 Line, in obe- 
 dience to the 
 angelic troop, 
 but still re- 
 quireth ven- 
 geance. 
 
 The Polar 
 Spirit's fellow 
 dsemons, the 
 invisible in- 
 habitants of 
 the element, 
 take part in 
 his wrong; 
 and two of 
 them relate, 
 one to the 
 other, that 
 penance long 
 and heavy for 
 the ancient 
 Mariner hath 
 been accord- 
 ed to the Po- 
 lar Spirit, 
 who retum- 
 eth south- 
 ward. 
 
12 
 
 THE ANCIENT MAJRINEE. 
 
 PART THE SIXTH. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fastt 
 What is the ocean doing ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 8till as a slave before his lord, 
 The OCEAN "hath no blast; 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the Moon is cast — 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see! how graciously 
 She looketh down on hun. 
 
 The Mariner 
 hath been 
 cast into a 
 trance; for 
 the angelic 
 power caus- 
 eth the vessel 
 todrive north- 
 ward faster 
 than l^uman 
 life could en- 
 dure. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind? 
 
 The super- 
 natural mo- 
 tion is retard- 
 ed: the Mari- 
 ner awakes, 
 and his pen- 
 ance begins 
 anew. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 The air is cut away before, 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high, 
 Or we shall he belated : 
 For bIo-^ and slow that ship wiU go, 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated. 
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 
 . 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon wa3 higuj 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck. 
 For a chamel-dungeon fitter : 
 AH fixed on me their stony eyes. 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
 Had never parsed away : 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
THE ANCIEKT MARINER. 13 
 
 And now this spell 'vras snapt : once more The curse is 
 I viewed the ocean green, exDi^d 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth wait in fear and dread. 
 
 And having once turned round walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Kor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea,' 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears. 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze^ 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 Oh! dream of joy ! is this indeed Andthe an- 
 
 The light-house top I see ? beholdSh hIS 
 
 Is this the hill ? is this the kirk? native coun- 
 
 Is this mine own countree ? try. 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 O let me be awake, my God I 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 The haibour-bay was clear as glass. 
 So smoothly it was strewn! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
 And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light. 
 Till rising from the same. The angelic 
 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, tSedead"'™ 
 In crimson colours came. bodies. 
 
14 
 
 THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. 
 
 And appear 
 in their own 
 foiTas of 
 light. 
 
 A little distance from tlie prow 
 Those crimson shadows were: 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 OjL every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand ; 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 Each one a lovely light : 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but ohi the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. ' 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat, appear: 
 
 The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast; 
 Dear Lord" in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'U. shrieve my soul, he'U wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 The Hermit 
 of the Wood. 
 
 PAET THE SEVENTH. 
 
 This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with mariueres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at mom, and noon and eve — 
 He hath a cushion plump ; 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 15 
 
 The skiff boat neaied : I heard them talk, 
 " Why this is strange, I trow 1 
 Where are those lights so many and fair, 
 That signal made out now V . 
 
 " StraJige,by myfaith!"the Hermitsadd- ^fJ^j^^S 
 " And they answered not our cheer I wonder. 
 
 The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 That eats the she-wolf's young." 
 
 " Dear Lord I it hath a fiendish look— 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on !" 
 Said the Hermit cheerily, h 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, The ship sud- 
 
 Still louder and more dread : denly smketh 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, The ancient 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote, KdTn^he 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned puot's boat. 
 
 My body lay aflpat ; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 / 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hHI 
 Was telling of the sound! 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
 And prayed where he did sit. , 
 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 
 WTio now doth crazy go, 
 
16 THE ANCIENT MARINEE. 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 " Ha ! ha!" quoth he, " fall plain I see, 
 The Devil knows iow to row." 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 
 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the hoat, 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 The ancjent " O shrieve me, shrievo me, holy man !'' 
 Mariner The Hermit crossed his hrow. 
 earnestly « gay quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say— 
 the Hermit "hat manner of man art thou I" 
 to shrieve 
 
 him; and the Forthwith this frame of inine was wrenched 
 penance of With a woefol agony, 
 hta. Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 f'^™*™*'!,™? Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 anon thro- ™, . ' , i* ' 
 
 out his future That agony returns ;^ 
 life an agony And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 cOTstraineth This heart within me bums, 
 him to travel 
 
 land. I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door! 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 - And bride-maids singing are : 
 And hark the little vesper bell, 
 Which biddeth me to prayer. 
 
 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that Gtod himself 
 "Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company! — 
 
 To walk together to the kirk, 
 
 And all together pray, 
 
 While each to his great Father benda, 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 
 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
THE ANCIENT MAEINEE. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 AH things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us 
 He made and loveth aU." 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 Is gone : and now the Weddipg-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 17 
 
 And to teach, 
 by his own 
 example, 
 love and 
 reverence to 
 all things 
 that God 
 made and 
 loveth. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 
 
 PREFACE.* 
 
 The first part of the followingf poem was written in the year one' 
 thousand seven hundred and nmety-seven, at Stowey in the county 
 of Somerset. The second part, atter my return from Germany, in 
 the year one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cumberland . 
 Since the latter date, my poetic powers have been, till very lately, in 
 a, state of suspended animation. But as, in my very first concep- 
 tion bf the tale, I had the whole present to my mind, with the 
 wholeness, no less than with .the loveliness of a vision; I trust that 
 I shall yet be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come. 
 It is probable, that if the poem had been finished at either of the 
 former periods, or if even tne first and second part had been pub- 
 lished in the year 1800, the impression of ,its originality would nave 
 been mach greater than I dare at present expect. But for this, I 
 have only my qwn indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned 
 for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or 
 servile imitation from myself. For there is among us a set of 
 critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is 
 traditional ; who have no notion that there are such things as 
 fountains in the world, small as well ss great ; and who would 
 therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, from a 
 perforation made in some other man's tank. I am confident, how- 
 ever, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated 
 poets whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, 
 either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit bf the 
 whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the charge, 
 and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address 
 them in this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexameters : 
 
 'Tis mine and it is likewise your's, 
 
 But an if this will not do; 
 
 Let it be mine, good friend 1 for I 
 
 Am the poorer of the two. 
 I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, prop- 
 erly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being 
 founded on a, new principle : namely, that of counting in each line 
 the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vaiy from 
 seven t.o twelve, vet in^eacb lint^ the accents will be found to be only 
 41]Ur. JNeyertbeless this occasional variation in number of syllables 
 i.s not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenipnce, 
 but in correspondence wi th some tran sitio n in the nature o f the 
 imagery or passion. ,»_-^ ~^ . 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
 And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ; 
 
 Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 
 
 And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
 How drowsUy it crew. 
 
 ' 'To the edition of 1816. 
 
CHEISTABEL. 19 
 
 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 
 
 Hath a toothless mastiff, which 
 
 From her keniiel beneath the rock 
 
 Maketh answer-to the clock, 
 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 
 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dai-k f 
 The night is chilly, but not dark. 
 The thm grey cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers hilt not hides the skv.- 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is grey : 
 'Tis a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christahel, 
 
 Whom her father loves so well, 
 
 What makes her in the wood so late, 
 
 A furlong from the castle gate ? 
 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 
 Of her own betrothed knight; 
 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 
 For the weal of her lover that's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke. 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
 And naught was green upon the oak, 
 But moss and rare t mistletoe : 
 She kneels beneath the hug* oak tree, 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christahel if 
 
 It moaned as near, as near can be. 
 
 But what it is, she cannot tell. — 
 
 On the other, side it seems to be. 
 
 Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 
 
 The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
 
 Is it the wind that moaueth bleak ? 
 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
 
 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
 
 On the topaiost twig that looks up at the sky. 
 
20 CHEISTABEL. 
 
 Hush beating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu, Moria, shield her well! 
 She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she there ? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 Brest in a silken robe of white, 
 That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
 The neck that made that white robe wan. 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
 Her blue- veined feet unsandl'd were 
 ' And wildly glittered here and there 
 The gems entangled hi her hair. 
 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she — 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 Mary mother, save me now ! 
 
 (Said Christabel,) And who art thont 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
 
 Have pity on my sore distress, 
 
 I scarce can speak for weariness. 
 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear. 
 
 Said Christabel, How camest thou here f 
 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 
 
 My sire is of a noble line,. 
 
 And my name is Geraldine : 
 
 Five warriors seized me yestermom. 
 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn: 
 
 They choked my cries with force and fright, 
 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 
 The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 
 
 And they rode furiously behind. 
 
 They spurred amain, their steeds were white ; 
 
 And once we crossed the shade of night. 
 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 
 I have no thought what men they be ; 
 
 Nor do I know how long it is 
 
 (For 1 have lain entranced I wis) 
 
 Since one, the tallest of the five. 
 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 
 Some muttered words his comrades spoke. 
 
 He placed meunderneath this oak, 
 
 He swore they would return with haste ; 
 
 Whither they went I cannot tell — 
 
CHEISTABEL. 21 
 
 I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
 Sounds as' of a castle bell. 
 - Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she,) 
 And help a wretched maid to flee. 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 
 And comforted fair Geraldine : 
 
 well bright dame may you command 
 The service of Sir Leolinc ; 
 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 WiU he send forth and friends withall 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 Home to your noble father's hall. 
 
 Sho rose : and forth with steps they passed 
 
 That strovad to be, and were not, fast. • 
 
 Her graoious stars the lady blest. 
 
 And thus spake on sweet Christabel ; 
 
 All our household are at rest, 
 
 The hall as silent as the cell. 
 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health 
 
 And may not well awakened be, 
 
 But we will move as if in stealth 
 
 4nd I beseech your courtesy 
 
 This night, to share your coach with me. 
 
 They etossedthe moat, and Christabel 
 
 Took the key that fitted weU ; 
 
 A little door she opened straight,* 
 
 All in the middle of the gate ; 
 
 The gate that was ironed within and without, 
 
 Where an army in battle array had marched out. 
 
 The lady sank, belike through pain. 
 
 And Christabel with might and main 
 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight, 
 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 
 Then the lady rose again. 
 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were. 
 
 And Christabel devoutly cried. 
 
 To the lady by her side. 
 
 Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! 
 
 Alas, alas ! said Oeraldine, 
 
 1 cannot speak for weariness. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 
 They crossed the court: right glad they were. 
 
 Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 
CHEISTABEL. 
 
 The mastiff old did not awake, 
 Yet she an angry moan did make! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch t 
 Never till now she uttered yell 
 Beneath the eve of Christahel. ' 
 
 JPerhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still, 
 
 Pass as lightly as you will! 
 
 The brands were flat, the brands were dying, 
 
 Amid their own white ashes lying ; 
 
 But when the lady passed, there came 
 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame; 
 
 And Christabel saw tbe iady's eye. 
 
 And nothing else saw she thereby, 
 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 
 
 Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 
 
 softly tread, said Christabel, 
 My father seldom sleepeth well. 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare 
 And jealous of the listening air 
 They steal their way fronj stair to stair 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. 
 And now they pass the Baron's room. 
 As still as death with stifled breath ! 
 And nt)w have reached her chamber door ; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber floor. , 
 
 The moon shines dim in the open air, 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 . But they without its light can see 
 The chamber carved so curiously. 
 Carved with' figures strange and sweet. 
 All made out of the carver's hrain, 
 For a lady's chamber meet : 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. l 
 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim; 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 
 And left it swinging to and fro, 
 While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
 ' O weary lady, Geraldine, 
 
 1 pray you, drink this cordial wine! 
 It is a wine of virtuous jwwers; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers. 
 
CHEISTABEL. , 23 
 
 And will your mother pity me, ■ 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
 Christabel answered— Woe is me ! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 ^ I have heard the grey-haired friar tell, 
 How on her deaith-bed she did say. 
 That she should hear the castle bell 
 Strike t\f elve upon my wedding day. 
 
 mother dear ! that thou wert here ! 
 
 1 would, said Geraldine, she were I 
 
 But soon with altered voice, said she — 
 " Off, wandering motherl Peak and pine ! 
 "I have power to bid thee flee." 
 Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 " Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 
 " Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
 " Off, woiaan, off! 'tis given to me." 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
 Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride- 
 Dear lady ! it hath wilderefl you! 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow. 
 And faintly said, '" 'tis over now ! " 
 
 Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 
 And from the floor whereon she sank, 
 The lofty lady stood upright ; 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countree. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake — 
 All they, who live in the upper sky, 
 Do love you, holy Christabel! 
 And you lo-v e them, and for their sake 
 And for the good which me befel, 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself; for I 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 
 
 Quoth Christabel, so let it be I 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she ujodresa, 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
24 CHEISTABEL. 
 
 But through her brain of weal and w^OO 
 So many tnoughts moved to aod fro, 
 That vain it were her lids to close ; 
 So half-way from the bed she rose. 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her breath aloud, 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The oincture from beneath her breast: 
 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, ■ 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side 
 
 A sight to dream "f Tint tn tp.11 1 
 
 O shield her! shield sweet Christabel I 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs : 
 Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
 Deep from within she seems half-way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay, 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
 Then suddenly as one defied 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
 And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 
 And in her aoms the maid she took, 
 
 Ah wel-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look 
 These words did say : 
 
 In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
 Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
 This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
 
 But vainly thou warrest, 
 For this is alone in 
 
 Thy power to declare, 
 That in the dim foregt 
 
 Thou heardest a low moaning. 
 And foucdest a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 
 And didst bring her home with thee in love and iu 
 
 charity. 
 To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was praying at the old oak tree. 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 Of mossy leanoss boughs 
 
CHEISTABEL. 25 
 
 Kneeling in tlie moonlight, 
 
 To make bei- gentle vows ; 
 Her slender palms togetlier preat, 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
 Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
 And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, j 
 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
 
 Dreaming that alone, which is — 
 
 O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? 
 
 And lo! the worker of thesB harms, 
 
 That holds, the maiden in*her arms, 
 
 Seems to slumber still and mild, 
 
 As a mother vrith her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 OGeraldine! since arms of thine 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 O Geraldine ! one hour was thme — 
 Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill. 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 But now they are jubilant anew. 
 From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 
 Tu — whoo! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell! 
 
 And see ! the lady Christabel 
 Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
 Close o'er hei eyes ; and tears she sheds- 
 Large tears that leave the lashes' bright ! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 As infa nts at a sudden light ! 
 Yea,, she doth smile, and she doth weep. 
 Like a youthful hermitess. 
 Beauteous in a wilderness. 
 Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
 And, if she move unquietly , 
 Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free. 
 Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
 No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
 What if hei guardian spirit 'twere, 
 What if she knew her mother near ? 
 But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
 That saints will aid if men will call: 
 For the blue sky bends ovei alU 
 B 
 
86 CHEISTABEL. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Each matin bell, the Baron saitli, 
 Kuells us back to a world of death. 
 These words Sir Leoline first said, 
 When he rose and found his lady dead ! 
 These words Sir Leoline will say, 
 Many a mom to his dying day. 
 And hence the custom and law .began, . 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
 Five and forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke — a warning knell 
 Which not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
 Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell 1 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can! 
 There is no lack of such, I weeu 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 
 Who all give back, one after t'other, 
 The death-note to their living brother; 
 And oft too, by the knell oflfended, 
 Just as their one! two! three! is ended, 
 The devil mocks the doleful tale 
 Witn a merry peal from Borrowdale. 
 
 The air is still! through mist and cloud 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
 And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
 And rises lightly from the bed ; 
 Puts on her silken vestments white, 
 And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
 And nothing doubting of her spell 
 Awakens the lady Christabel. 
 " Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel f 
 "I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 The same who lay down by her side^ 
 O rather say, the same whom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak tree! 
 Nay, fairer yet I and yet more fair! 
 l''or she belike hath (frunkeu deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep I 
 
CHRlSTABEL. , 37 
 
 And whiio she spake, Iter looks, her air 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 " Sure I have sinned !" said Christabel, 
 " Now heaven be praised if all be well !" 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
 Did she the lofty lady greet 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden limha, and having prayed 
 That He, who on the cross did groan. 
 Might wash away her sins unkiiown, 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing both into tha hall, 
 Afld pacing on through page and groom 
 Enter the Baron's presence room. 
 
 The Baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast. 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The lady Geraldine espies. 
 And gave such welcome to the same, ' 
 As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale, 
 And when she told her father's name. 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
 Murmuring o'er the name again, 
 Lord Eoland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and voiit b is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother: 
 
 They parted^-ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 They stood aloof, the soars remaining, 
 Like cliffs which have been rent asunder; 
 
28 CHEISTABEL. 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between; 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been 
 
 Sir Leo!ine, a moment's space, 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face ; 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 O then the Baron forgot his age. 
 
 His noble heart swelled high with ragej 
 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 
 
 He would proclaim it far and wide 
 
 With trump and solemn heraldry, 
 
 That they, who thus had wronged the dame, 
 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 
 " And if they dare deny the same, 
 
 " My herald shall appoint a week, 
 
 " And let the recreant traitors seek 
 
 "My tournay — that there and then 
 
 ■' I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 
 " From the bodies and forms of men !" 
 
 He spake: his eye in lightning rolls ! 
 
 For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenned 
 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 
 
 And now the tears were on his face, 
 And fondly in his arms he tpok 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 Which when she viewed, a vision fell 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again 
 (Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, 
 ■ Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 
 
 Again she saw that bosom old. 
 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, 
 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 
 
 Whereat the Knight turned wildly round. 
 
 And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest, 
 Which comforted her after-rest, 
 While in the lady's arms she lay, 
 Had put a rapture in her breast. 
 And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
CHRISTABEL. 29 
 
 With new surprise, 
 " What ails then my beloved child ?" 
 The Baron said — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, " All will yet be well !" 
 I weeu, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
 Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
 As if she feared, she had offended 
 Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
 And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 "Nay! 
 " Nay, by my soul !" said Leoline. 
 " Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! 
 " Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
 " And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
 " And take the youth whom thou lov'st Best 
 " To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
 "And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
 " And over the mountains haste along, 
 " Lest wandering folk, that are abroad 
 " Detain you on the valley road. 
 "And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 
 " My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
 " Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 
 "And reaches soon that castle good, 
 " Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 
 
 ■" Bard Bracy I bard Bracy ! youi horses aire fleet, 
 
 " Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 
 
 " More loud than your horses' echoing feet I 
 
 " And loud and loud to Lord Eoland call, 
 
 " Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
 
 " Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free— 
 
 " Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 
 " He bids thee come without delay 
 
 " With all thy numerous array ; 
 
 " And take thy lovely daughter home, 
 
 " And he will meet thee on the way 
 
 " With all his numerous array 
 
 " White with their panting palfreys' foam, 
 
 " And, by mine honour ! I will say, 
 
 " That I repent me of the day 
 
 " When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 
 "To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine \^- 
 
 " — For since that evil hour hath flown, 
 
 " Many a summer's suniath shown; 
 
 " Yet ne'er found I a friend agaiu 
 
 " Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 
 
30 CHEISTABEL. 
 
 The lady fell, and clasped hia knees, 
 Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; 
 And Bracy replied, with faultering voice, 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing : — 
 Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
 .ire sweeter than my harp can tpll ; 
 Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 
 This day my jouruey should not be, 
 So strange a dream hath come to me : 
 That I had vowed with musip loud 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
 Warned by a vision in my rest ! ' 
 
 Fof in my sleep I saw that dove, 
 Tbat gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's name- 
 Sir Leoline ! I saw the same, 
 Fluttering, and uttering feaifal moan. 
 Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
 Which when I saw and when I heard, 
 I wonderid what might g,il the bird : 
 For nothing near it conld I see, 
 Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree. 
 
 And in my dream, methonght, I went 
 To search out what might there be found ; 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant. 
 That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 I went and peered, and could descry 
 No cause for her distressfal cry ; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stooped, methought the dove to take, 
 When lo.! I saw a bright green snake 
 Coiled around its wings and neck. 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched, 
 Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
 And with the dove it heaves and stirs. 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hors ! 
 I wpke ; it was the midnight hour, 
 The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
 But though my slumber was gone by. 
 This dream itVould not pass away — 
 It seems to live upon my eye ! 
 And thence I vowed this self-same day 
 With mnsic strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there. 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
 Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 
 Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 
 His eyes made up of wouder and love ; 
 And said in courtly accents fine. 
 
CHEISTABEL. 31 
 
 Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove, 
 With arms more strong than harp or song,' 
 Thy sire and I will crush the snake! 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake 
 And Geraldine in maiden wise, 
 Casting down her large bright eyes, 
 With mushing cheek and courtesy fine 
 She turned her feom Sir Leoliue ; 
 Softly gathered up her train. 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest, 
 And couched her head upon her breast. 
 
 And looked askance at Christabel 
 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well t 
 
 A snake's small eye blinks duUjand shy. 
 
 And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
 
 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
 
 And with somewhat of maUce, and more of dread 
 
 At Christabel she looked askance I — 
 
 One moment— and the sight was fled ! 
 
 But Christabel in dizzy trance. 
 
 Stumbling on the unsteady ground — 
 
 Shuddered aloud with a hissing sound ; 
 
 And Geraldine again turned round, 
 
 And like a thing, that sought relief. 
 
 Full of wonder and full of grief. 
 
 She rolled her large bright eyes divins 
 
 Wildly on Sir Leollne. 
 
 The maidj alas 1 her thoughts are gone. 
 
 She nothing sees — no sight but one I But 
 
 The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
 
 I know not how, in tearful wise 
 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
 
 That all ber features were resigned 
 
 To this sole image in her mind : 
 
 And passively did imitate 
 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate, 
 
 And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
 
 Still picturing that look askance. 
 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 
 Full before her father's view 
 
 As far as such a look could be, 
 In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
 And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 Paused awhile, and inly prayed, 
 Then lulling at her father's feet, 
 " By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 " That thou this woman send away !" 
 She said ; and more she could not say, 
 
CHEISTABEL. 
 
 For what she knew sho could not tell, 
 O'er-maatered by the mighty spell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
 
 Sir Leoline ? Thy only chUd 
 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 
 
 So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
 
 The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
 
 by the pangs of her dear mother 
 Think thou no evil of thy child 1 ' 
 For her, and thee, and for no other. 
 She prayed the moment ere she died : 
 Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 
 Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride j 
 
 That prayer her deadly paugs beguiled, 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 
 And would'st thou wrong thy only child, 
 Her child and thine ? 
 Within the Baron's heart and brain 
 If thoughts, like these,'had any share. 
 They only swelled his rage and pain, 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild. 
 Dishonoured thus in his old age ; 
 Dishonoured by his only child, 
 And.all his hospitality 
 To the insulted daughter of his firiend 
 By more than woman's jealousy. 
 Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 
 He rolled his eye with stem regard 
 •Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
 And said in tones abrupt, austere — 
 Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here 1 
 
 1 bade thee hence 1 The bard obeyed ; 
 And turning from his own sweet maid, 
 The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 
 
 Led forth the lady Geraldine I 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PAET THE SECOND. 
 
 A UTTLE child, a limber elf. 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks 
 That always finds, and never seeks. 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 
KUBLA KHAN. 33 
 
 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 
 Thoughts so unlike fianh nt.TiRr j 
 
 to mutter and mock a broken charm, , 
 
 To dally -with wrong that does tip ha,rm. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 
 A sweet recoil of tftvpi flTid pity. 
 
 And what, if in a world of sin 
 
 (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) ^ 
 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
 
 So talks as it's most used to do. 
 
 KUBLA KHAN; OE, A VISION IN A DREAM. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet 
 of great and deserved celebrity, and as far as the Author's own 
 opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than oii 
 the ground of any supposed poetic merits. 
 
 In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, 
 had retired to a lonely farm house between Porlock and Linton, on 
 the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence 
 of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the 
 effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he 
 was reading the following sentence, or words of the same sub- 
 stance, in "Purchas's Pilgrimage:" "Here the Khan Kubla com- 
 manded a palace to be buut, and a stately garden thereunto. And 
 thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall." The 
 author continued for about three houra in a profound sleep, at 
 least of the external senses, during which time he has the most 
 vivid confidence, that he could not have coinposed less than from 
 two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composi- 
 tion in which all the images rose up before him as things^ with a 
 parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any 
 sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to 
 himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his 
 pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines 
 that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately 
 called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by 
 him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found to his no 
 small surprise and mortification, that thougii he still retained 
 some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the 
 vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines 
 and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the 
 surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas \ 
 without tne after restoration of the latter: 
 
 Then all the charm 
 Is broken— all that phantom-world so fair 
 "Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
 And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, 
 Poor youth! who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes— 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will return I And lo, he stays, 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Gome trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mirror. 
 Yet from the still surviving recollections in his' mind the Author 
 
34 KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been orip- 
 inally, as it were, given to him, 2a/tepov aSiov aa^: but the to-morrow 
 is yet to come. 
 
 As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very 
 different character, describing with e^ual fidelity the dream of 
 pain and disease. Note to the first edition, 1816. 
 
 In Xaaadn did Kubla. Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless,8ea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round: 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedain cover ! 
 
 A savage placet as holy and enchanted 
 
 As e'er D«neath a waning moon was haunted 
 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seethin g, 
 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
 
 And 'mid tiiese dancing rocks at once and ever \ 
 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 
 Through wood and daSe the sacred river ran, 
 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 
 And 'mid' this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of icel 
 
 A damsel with a. dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw : 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Comfl. I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song, 
 
 To Buoh a deep delight 'twould win me, 
 
THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 35 
 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread. 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
 And diunk the mUk of Paradise. 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP, 
 
 Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 
 
 It hath not been my use to pray 
 
 With moving lips or bended kneea ; 
 
 But silently, by slow degrees, 
 
 My spirit I to Love compose, 
 
 lu humble Trust mine eye-lids clq^ny 
 
 With reverential resignation, 
 
 No Wish conceived, no thought expressedl 
 
 Only a eerue of supplication, 
 
 A sense o'er all my soul impressed 
 
 That I am weak, yet not unbleSt, 
 
 Since in me, round me, every whera 
 
 Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 
 
 But yester-night I prayed aloud 
 In anguish and in agony, 
 Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
 Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me"! 
 A lurid li^ht, a trampling throng. 
 Sense of intolerable wrong, 
 «And whom I scorned, those only strong I 
 Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
 Still bafded, and yet burning still! 
 Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
 On wild or hateful objects fixed. 
 Fantastic passions! maddening brawl t 
 
 Vnd shame and terror over all! 
 
 leeds to be hid which were not hid, 
 
 tVhich all confused I could not know. 
 Whether I suffered, or I did : 
 For all seemed guilt, remorse or woey 
 My own or others still the same 
 
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shamew 
 
 So two nights passed : the night's dtamay 
 Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
 
36 LOVE. 
 
 Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 
 
 Distemper's worst calamity. 
 
 The third night, when niy own loud scream 
 
 Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
 
 O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 
 
 I wept as I had been a child ; 
 
 And having thus toy tears subdued 
 
 My anguish to a milder mood, 
 
 Such punishments, I said, were due 
 
 To natures deepliest stained with sin : 
 
 For aye entempesting anew 
 
 The unfathomable hell within 
 
 The horror of their deeds to view, 
 
 To know and loathe, yet wish and do I 
 
 Such griefs with such men well agree, 
 
 But wherefore, wherefore fall on me t 
 
 To be beloved is all I need, 
 
 And whom I love, I love indeed. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 ■ The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with the fights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leant against the armed man, 
 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 
 She stood and listened tto my lay, 
 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 1 sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
LOVE. 
 
 She listened with a flitting Wush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not cnuse 
 Bnt gaze upon her face. ' 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love,' 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace, 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But when I told the crnel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
 Kor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes ftom the savage den. 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did. 
 He leaped amid a murderous band, 
 "And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; — 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knees; 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 
 
 And^that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And'how his madness went away. 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay. 
 
 His dying words — but when I reached 
 
 That teiiderest strain of all the ditty. 
 
 My faltering voice aud pausing harp 
 
 Disiiirbed her soul with pity ! 
 
38 LOVE. 
 
 All Impulses of soul and sense 
 Had tbtilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
 The music, and the dojeful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throne, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherished long ! 
 
 She -wept with pity and delight. 
 She blushed with love, and virgin-shame ; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stepped — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me arid wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, looked up. 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
 That I might rather feel, than see, 
 The swelling of her heart. - 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 Maid of my Love, sweet GENEVnrrtl 
 In Beauty's light you glide Along : 
 , Your eye is like the star of eve, 
 And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song. 
 Tet not your heavenly Beauty gives 
 This heart with passion soft to glow : 
 Within your soul a Voice there lives I 
 It hids you hear the tale of Woe. 
 When sinking low the Sufferer waif 
 Beholds no hand outstretched to save, 
 Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
 That rises graceful o'ex the wave, 
 I've seen your breast with pity heave, 
 And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve I 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. 
 
 When faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desert wild 
 Slow journeys onward poor Misfortune's child ; 
 When fades each lovely form by Fancy dxest, 
 And inly pines the self-consuming breast ; 
 No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread. 
 No helmed terrors nodding o'fer thy head, 
 Assume, O Death I thte cherub wings of Peace, 
 AjU bid the heart-sick Wanderer's anguish cease I 
 
 Thee, Chatterton! yon unblest stones protect 
 From Want, and the blea^ Freezings or neglect! 
 Escap'd the sore wounds of Affliction's rod, 
 Meek at the Throne of Mercy, and of God, 
 Perchance, thou raisest high the enraptured hymn 
 Amid the blaze of Seraphim ! 
 
 Yet oft ('tis Nature's bosom-startling call) 
 
 I weep, that heaven-bom Genius eo should fall; 
 
40 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
 
 Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. 
 
 Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view 
 
 Thy corse of livid hue ; 
 And now a flash of indignation high 
 Darts through the tear that glistens in mine eye ! 
 
 Is this the land of song-ennobled line ? 
 
 Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 
 
 Poured forth his lofty strain ? 
 Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
 Beneath chill Disappointment's shade, 
 His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid 
 
 And o'er her darling dead 
 
 Pity hopeless hung her head, 
 While "mid the pelting of that merciless storm,'' 
 Sunk to the cold earth Otwat's famished form ! 
 
 Sublime of thought, and confident of fame, 
 
 From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel* cam^. 
 
 Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along, 
 
 He meditates the future song, 
 How dauntless Mlla frayed the Dacyan foes ; 
 
 And, as floating high in air 
 
 Glitter the sunny visions fair. 
 His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows ! 
 Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, 
 With generous joy he views the ideal weal th ; 
 He hears the widow's heaven-Jbreathed prayer of pr ise; 
 He marks the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze ; 
 Or, where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay, 
 Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ra, : 
 And now, indignant, " grasps the patriot steel," 
 And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 
 
 Clad in Nature's rioh array, , 
 
 And bright in all her tender hues, 
 Sweet tree of Hope ! thou loveliest child of Spriog ! 
 How fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom. 
 
 Loading the west-winds with its soft perfume! 
 And Fancy, elfin form of gorgeous wing, 
 
 On every blossom hung ner fostering dews. 
 That changeful, wantoned to the orient da^ '.' 
 But soon upon thy poor unsheltered head 
 Did Penury her sickly mildew shed: 
 And soon the scathing Lightning h&Ae thee staud, 
 In frowning horror o'er the blighted land ! 
 
 Ah where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 
 And Joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er thy face f 
 
 • Avon, a river near Bristol; the birth-place of Chatterton. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 41 
 
 Youth of tumultuous sonl, and haggard eye! 
 Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 
 On thy cold forehead starts the anguished dew, 
 And dreadful was that hosom-rendmg sigh ! 
 
 Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, 
 
 When Care, of withered brow, 
 Prepared the poison's dearth-cold power : 
 Already to thy lijis was raised the bowl, 
 When near thee stood Affection meek 
 (Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek) 
 Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
 On scenes that well might melt thy soul; 
 Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view, 
 Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, 
 Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay ; 
 Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, . 
 And mark thy Mother's tljriUing tear; 
 
 See, see her breast's convulsive throe, 
 Her silent agony of woe ! 
 Ah ! dash the poisoned chaUce from thy hand I 
 
 And thou had'st dashed it, at her soft command, 
 
 But that Despair and Indignation rose, 
 
 And told again the story of thy woes ; 
 
 Told the keen insult on the unfeeling heart : 
 
 The dread dependence on the low-bom mind ; 
 
 Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart. 
 
 Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined! 
 
 Eeooiling quick, thou had'st the friend of pain 
 
 Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing vein ! 
 
 Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep. 
 To Fancy's ear sweet is 70ur niurmuriug deep ! 
 For here she loves the cypress wreath to wave ; 
 Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve. 
 Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove, 
 Iti solemn thought the Minstrel wont to roam, 
 Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide 
 Lone-guttering, through the high tree branching wide. 
 And here, in I&spiration's eager hour. 
 When most the big soul feels the maddening power. 
 These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, 
 Bound which the screaming sea-gulls soar. 
 With wild unequal steps he passed along. 
 Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : 
 Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
 Would pause abrupt— and gaze upon the waves below. 
 
 Poor Chatterton ! lie sorrows for thy fate 
 
 Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late; 
 
42 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 
 This chaplet cast I on thy unsliaped tomb ; 
 But daxe nd longer on the sad theme muse, 
 Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 
 For oh I big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, 
 Have blackened the fair promise of my spring ; 
 And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart 
 The last pale Hope that shivered at my heart ! 
 
 Hence, gloomy thoughts I no more my soul shall dwell 
 
 On joys that were! Ko more endure to weigh 
 
 The shame and anguish of the evil day, 
 
 Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell 
 
 Sub Jme oiHope I seek the cottaged dell 
 
 Where Viktue calm with careless step may stray, 
 
 And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay, 
 
 The wizard fassions weave a holy spell f 
 
 O Chattkkton ! that thou wert yet alive ! 
 Sure thou would'st spread the canvas to the gale. 
 And love, with us, the tinkling team to drive 
 O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ; 
 And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. 
 Hanging, enraptured, on thy stately song! 
 And greet with smiles the young-eyed POEST 
 All deftly masked, as hoar Antiquitt. 
 
 Alas vain Phantasies I the fleeting brood 
 Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood I 
 Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream. 
 Where Susqnehannah pours his untamed stream ; 
 And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 
 Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide, 
 Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee, 
 Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstkelsy ! 
 And there, soothed sadly by the dtrgeful wind, 
 Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON. 
 
 Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night 2 
 Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail I 
 I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
 Thy weak eye gUmmers through a fleecy veil ; 
 And. when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud 
 Behind the gathered blackness lost on high ; 
 And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
 Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 43 
 
 Ah such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair I 
 Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; ' 
 Now hid behind the dragon-winged Despair .■ 
 But soon emerging in her radiant might 
 She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
 Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight. 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINAKY. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. . 
 V 
 
 On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
 (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
 Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread. 
 Two lovely children run an endless race, 
 A sister and a brother I 
 This far outstripped the other ; 
 Yet ever run she with reverted face, 
 And looks and listens for the boy behind : ^ 
 For he, alas ! is blind ! 
 O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, 
 And knows not whether he be first or last. 
 
 SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 
 
 The Pixies, In the superstition of DeTonsbire, are a race of bpings 
 invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small dis 
 tance from a village in that county, half way up a wood covered 
 hill, is an excavation, called t)ie Fixies' Parlour. The roots of old 
 trees form its ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, 
 among which the author discovered his o>vn cypher and tlioKe i if 
 his brothers, cut by the hand of their childhood. At the foot of the 
 hill flows the river Otter. 
 
 To this place th'e A'uthor conducted a party of young Ladies, 
 during the Summer months of the year 1793; one of whom, i>t 
 stature elegantly small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, 
 was proclaimed the Fairy Queen; on which occasion the following 
 Irregular Ode was written ^; 
 
 Whom the nntanght Shepherds call 
 
 Pixies in their madrigal, 
 Fancy's children, here we dwell : 
 
 Welcome, Ladies I to our cell. 
 Here the wren of softest note 
 
 Builds its nest and warbles well ; 
 Here the blackbird strains his throat: 
 
 Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 
 
 When fades the moon all shadov.-y pale 
 And scuds the cloud before tho £;a,lo. 
 
44 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Ere Mom mth living gems bedight 
 Purples the East Trith streaky light, 
 We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dtews 
 Clad in robes of rainbow hues 
 Eicher than the deepened bloom 
 That glows on Summer's lily-scented plume i 
 Or sport amid the rosy gleam 
 Soothed by the diBtant-tinkling team, 
 While lusty Labour scouting sorrow 
 Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow, 
 Who jogs tfee accustomed road along, 
 And paces cheery to her cheering song. 
 
 But not our filmy pinion 
 We scorch amid tiie blaze of da^, 
 When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion 
 Flashes the fervid ray. 
 Aye from the sultry heat " 
 
 We to the cave retreat ' 
 O'ercamopied by huge roots intertwined 
 With wildest texture, blaotened o'er with age : 
 Bound them their mantle green the ivies bind, 
 Beneath whose foliage pale 
 Fanned by the unfrequent gale 
 We shield us froin the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 
 
 rv. 
 
 Thither, while the murmuring throng 
 Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song. 
 By indolence and Fancy brought, 
 A youthful Bakd, " unknown to Fame," 
 Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, 
 And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh 
 . Gazing with tearful eye. 
 As round our sandy grot appear 
 Many a rudely sculptured name 
 To pensive Memory dear 1 
 Weaving gay dreams of eunny-tinctured hue 
 
 we glance before his view : 
 O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed. 
 And twine our faery garlands round his head. 
 
 When Evening's dusky oar 
 
 Crowned with her dewy star 
 Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight; 
 
 On leaves of aspen trees 
 
 We tremble to the breeze 
 VeUed from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. I 4S 
 
 Or, haply, at tlie visionary hour, 
 Along our wildly-bowered, sequestered walk, 
 We listen to Ijhe enamoured rustic's talk ; 
 Heaye with the heavings of the maiden's breast, 
 Where young-eyed Loviis have built their turtle nest; 
 
 ■ Or guide of soul-subduing power 
 The electric flash, that from the meltrng eye 
 Darts the fond question and the soft reply. 
 
 Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale 
 We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ; 
 Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court 
 Circling the Spirit of the Western 6ai.e, , 
 Where, wearied with his flower-caressing sport, 
 Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; 
 Then with quaint music hymu the parting gleam, 
 By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream; 
 Or where his wave with loud unquiet song 
 Dashed o'er the rocky channel froth along ; 
 Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest. 
 The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Hence I thou lingerer. Light I 
 Eve saddens into Night. 
 Mother -of wildly-working dreams I we view 
 The SOMBRE HOURS, that round thee stand 
 With down-cast eyes (a duteous band !) 
 Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. 
 Sorceress of the ebon throneJ 
 Thy power the Pixies own, 
 When round thy raven brow 
 Heaven's lucent roses glow, 
 And clouds, in watery colours drest, 
 Float in light drapery o'er thy salsle vest : 
 What time the pale moon sheds a softer day 
 Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam: 
 For mid the quivering light 'tis our's to play, 
 Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 
 
 Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell 
 Where the blameless Pixies dwell : 
 But thou sweet Nymph I proclaimed our Faery Queen, 
 With what obeisance meet 
 Thy presence shall we greet? 
 Forlo! attendant ou thy steps are seen 
 Graceful Ease in artless stole, 
 And white-robed P'JRTty of soul. 
 With Honour's softer mienj 
 
46 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair, 
 And meek eyed Pitt eloquently fair, 
 Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view. 
 As snow-drop wet with dew. 
 
 Unboaatful Maid 1 though now the Lily pale 
 
 Transparent grace thy_ beauties meek ; 
 Yet ere again along the impurpling vale, 
 The purpUng vale and elfin-haunted grove, 
 Young Zephyr his ftesh flowera profusely throws, 
 
 We'll tiuge with livelier hues thy cheek ; 
 
 Asd, haply, from the nectar-breathing Kosb 
 
 Extract a Blush for Lots t 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 A. CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOLBOY TO HIS LIITLK 
 ' BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 Underneath a huge oak tree 
 
 There was, of swine, a huge company, 
 
 That grunted as they crunched the mast: 
 
 For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 
 
 Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 
 
 One acorn they left, and not more might you spy. 
 
 Nest came a Baven, that liked not such folly : 
 
 He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melajicholy I 
 
 Blacker was he than blackest jet, 
 
 Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 
 
 He picked up the acorn and buried it straight 
 
 By the side of a river both deep and great. 
 Where then did the Raven got 
 He went high and low. 
 
 Over hill, over dale, did the blac^ Ea^en go. 
 Many Autumns, many Spimgs 
 Travelled he with wandering wings : 
 Many Summers, many Winters — 
 I can't tell half his adventures. 
 
 At length he came back, and with him a She, 
 
 And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
 
 They built them a nest in the topmost bough. 
 
 And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 
 
 But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, 
 
 His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 
 
 He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, 
 
 But with many a hem I and a sturdy stroke, 
 
 At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 47 
 
 His young ones were killed ; for they could not depart, 
 And their mother did die of a broken heart. 
 
 The houghs from the trunk the woodman did sever ; 
 And they floated it down on the course of the river. 
 They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 
 And with this tree and others they made a good ship. 
 The ship, it was launched ; but in sight of the land 
 Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. 
 It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast : 
 The old raven flew round and round, and cawed to the 
 
 blast. 
 He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 
 See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 
 
 Eight glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, 
 And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet. 
 And he thanked him again and again for this treat : 
 
 They had taken his all, and Revenge was sweet I 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 A FAKEWELL ode on quitting school FOK JESUS COIa 
 LEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Where graced with many a classic spoil 
 
 Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 
 
 I haste to urge the learned toil 
 
 That sternly chides my love-lorn song : 
 
 Ah me ! too mindful of the days 
 
 Illumed by Passion's orient rays, 
 
 When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health 
 
 Enriched me with the best of wealth. 
 
 Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul 
 On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! 
 Ah riowers! which Joy from Eden stole 
 While Innocence stood smiling by t — 
 But cease, fond Heart ! this bootless moan : 
 Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown 
 Shall yet return by Absence crowned, 
 And scatter livelier roses round. 
 
 The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
 On heedless eyes may pour the day: 
 The Moon, that oft from heaven retires. 
 Endears her renovated ray. 
 What though she leaves the sky unblest 
 To mourn awhile the murky vest? 
 When she relumes her lovely Light, 
 We BLESS the Wanderer of the Night. 
 
.Jg JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN EAELT YOUTH— THE TIME AN 
 AUTUMNAL EVENING. 
 
 THOU wild FAJSfCY, check thy wing ! No more 
 Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore ! 
 Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
 Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ; 
 
 Nor ill yon gleam, where slow descends the day, 
 
 With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 
 
 Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasures move, 
 
 A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! 
 
 O'er Di8appointm.ent'8 wintry desert fling 
 
 Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring, 
 
 When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower 
 
 She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. 
 
 Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam, 
 
 Aid, lovely Sorceress! aid thy Poet's dream ! 
 
 With faery wand, O bid the Maid arise. 
 
 Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 
 
 As erst when from the Muses' calm abode 
 
 1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed : 
 When as she twined a laurel round my brow. 
 And met my kiss, and half returned my vow. 
 O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart, 
 And every nerve confessed the electric dart. 
 
 dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden rise. 
 
 Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue Eyes I 
 When first the lark high soaring swells his throat, 
 Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 
 
 1 trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn, 
 I mark her glancing 'mid the gleam of dawn. 
 When the bent flower beneath the night dew weeps 
 And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, 
 
 Amid the paly radiance soft and sad. 
 She meets my lonS'ly path in moon-beams clad. 
 With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
 With her I list the warblings of the grove ; 
 And seems in each low wind her voice to float 
 Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note ! 
 
 Spirits op Love ! ye heard her name I Obey 
 The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 
 Whether on clustering pinions ye are there, 
 Wheris rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees, 
 Or with fond laliguishment around my fair 
 Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 
 O heed the spell, and hither wing your way. 
 Like far-o£E music, voyaging the oreeze I 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 49 
 
 Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 
 Formed by the wonderous Alchemy of Heaven! 
 
 No fairer Haid does Love's wide empire know, 
 No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 
 A thousand Loves around her forehead fly ; 
 A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
 Love lights her smile — ^in Joy's red iieotar dips 
 His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
 She speaks ! and hark that passion warbled song — 
 Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes prolong. 
 As sweet as when that voice with rapturous faljs, 
 Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls! 
 
 O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, 
 Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 
 A flower-eitangled Aebouk I would seem 
 To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam : 
 Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
 My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. 
 When Twilight stole across the fading vale, 
 To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale ; 
 Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 
 And flatter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
 On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night. 
 To sooth my Love with shadows of delight : — 
 Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
 And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 
 
 As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame 
 Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame. 
 Awakes amid the troubles of the air. 
 The skley deluge, and white lightning's glare — 
 Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep. 
 And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 
 So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way. 
 Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 
 When by my native brook I wont to rove 
 While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Lovo. 
 
 Dear native brook ! like Peace so placidly 
 Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek '. 
 Dear native brook 1 where first young Poesy 
 Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream, 
 Where blameless pleasures dimple Qciet's cheek. 
 As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! 
 Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay, 
 Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a mellowed ray. 
 Where Love a crqwn of thomless Eoses wears, 
 Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 
 And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ, 
 Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy ! 
 
50 JUVENILK POEMS. 
 
 No more your sky-larks melting from the sigbt 
 Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight- 
 No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet 
 With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
 Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
 Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between t 
 Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song, 
 That soars on Morning's wing your vales among. 
 
 Scenes of my Hope I the aching eye ye leave 
 Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve I 
 Tearful and saddening with the saddened, blaze 
 Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : 
 Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, 
 Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 Oke kiss, dear Maid 1 I said and sighed— > 
 Your scorn the little boon denied. 
 Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ? 
 Can daUger lurk within a kiss ? 
 
 Yon viewless Wanderer oi the vale, 
 The Spirit of the Western Gale, 
 At Morning's break, at Evening's close 
 Inhales the sweetness of the KosE, 
 And hovers o'er the uninjured Bloom 
 Sighing back the soft perfume. 
 Vigour to the Zephyr's wing 
 Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling; 
 And He the glitter of the Deyr 
 Scatters on the Rose's hue. 
 Bashful lo ! she bends her head. 
 And darts a blush of deeper Eed ! 
 
 Too well those lovely lips disclose 
 The Triumphs of the opening Eose ; 
 O fair ! O graceful ! bid them jirove 
 As passive to the breath of Love. 
 In tender accents, faint and low, 
 Well-pleased I hear the whispered " N<> !" 
 The whispered " No " — how little meant I 
 Sweet Falsehood that endears Consen„ ! 
 For on those lovely lips the. while 
 Dawns the soft relenting smile, 
 And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy 
 .The gentle violence of Joy. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 51 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 As late each flower that sweetest blows 
 I plucked, the Garden's pride.' 
 Within the petals of a Eose 
 A sleeping Love I spied. 
 
 Around his brows a beamy wreath 
 Of many a lucent hue ; 
 All puiple glowed his cheek, beneath, 
 Inebriate with dew. 
 
 I softly seized the unguarded Power, 
 Nor soared his balmy rest ; 
 And placed him, cagedwithin the flowar. 
 On Spotless Sara's breast. 
 
 But when unweeting of the guile 
 Awoke the prisoner sweet. 
 He struggled to escape awhile 
 Aud stamped his faery feet. 
 
 Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight 
 Subdued the impatient boy I 
 Ho gazed ! he thrilled with deep delight! 
 Then clapped his wings for joy. 
 
 " And O!" he cried — " Of magic kind 
 "What charms this Throne endear 1 
 " Some other Love let Venus find — 
 " I'll fix my empire here." 
 
 TO A YOUNG ASS. 
 
 ITS MOTHBK BEING TETHERED NEAR IT. 
 
 Poor little Foal of an oppressed Eace ! 
 I love the languid Patience of thy face : 
 And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 
 And clap thy Tagged Coat, and pat thyiead. 
 But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed, 
 That never thou dost sport along the glade ? 
 And (most unlike the nature of things young) 
 That earthward still, thy moveless head is hung \ 
 Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, 
 Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate ? — 
 The starviug meal, and all the thousand aches 
 " Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ?" 
 Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain 
 To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain t 
 
5B JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 And truly, very piteous is her hot — 
 Chained to a, Log within a narrow spot 
 Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, 
 While sweet aronnd her waves the tempting Green I 
 
 Poor Ass ! thy Master should have learnt to shew 
 Pity — hest taught by fellowship of Woe ! 
 For much I fear me that He lives, like thee, 
 Half famished in a land of Luxury I 
 How aakingly its footsteps hither -bend ? 
 It seems to say, " And have I then one Friend ?" 
 Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised Forlorn ! 
 I hail thee Brothek — spite of the fool's scorn ! 
 And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell, 
 Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, 
 Where Tqil shall call the charmer Health his Brids, 
 And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side ! 
 How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, 
 And fWsk about, as Lamb or Kitten gay ! 
 Yea I and more musically sweet to me 
 Thy dissonant harsh Bray of Joy would be. 
 Than warbled Melodies that soothe to rest 
 The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast I 
 
 THE SIGH. 
 
 When Youth his faery reign began 
 Ere Sorrow had proclaimed me man ; 
 While Peace the present hour beguiled, 
 And all the lovely Prospect smiled: 
 Then, Mary ! 'mid my lightsome glee 
 I heaved the painless Sigh for thee. 
 And when, along the waves of woe. 
 My harrassed Heart was doomed to know 
 The frantic Burst of Outrage keen. 
 And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen ; 
 Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea 
 I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee 1 
 But soon Reflection's power imprest 
 A stiller sadness on my breast ; 
 And sickly Hope with waning eye 
 Was well content to droop and die. 
 I yielded to the stern decree, 
 Yet heaved a languid SiGH for thee ; 
 And though in distant climes to roam, 
 A wanderer from my native home, 
 I fain would soothe the sense of Care 
 And lull to sleep the Joys that were ! 
 Thy Image may not banished be — 
 Still, Mary 1 still I sigh for thea. 
 June, 1794. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 53 
 
 DOMESTIC. PEACE. 
 
 Tell me, on -what holy ground 
 May Domestic Peace be found ? 
 Halcyon Daughter of the skies, 
 Far on feairful wings she flies, 
 From the pomp of Soeptered State, 
 From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
 In a cottage vale She dwells 
 Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
 Still around her steps are seen 
 Spotless Honour's meeker mien, 
 Love, the sire of pleasing fears, 
 Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
 And conscious of the past employ 
 Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S- ARMS, ROSS, 
 
 FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF "THE MAN OF ROSS." 
 
 Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards. 
 
 Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords, 
 
 Here dwelt the Man of Ross! O Traveller, hear! 
 
 Departed Merit claims a reverent tear. 
 
 Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health. 
 
 With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth ; 
 
 He hears the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise, 
 
 He marks the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, 
 
 Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay. 
 
 Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noontide ray. 
 
 Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass, 
 
 Fill to the good man's nan^e one grateful glass : 
 
 To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul, 
 
 And VIRTUE mingled in the ennobled bowl. 
 
 But if, like me, through life's distressfal scene 
 
 Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; 
 
 And if, thy breast with heart-siek anguish fraught. 
 
 Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought ; 
 
 Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt. 
 
 And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt ! 
 
 LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE. 
 
 Once more, sweet Stream I with slow foot wandering 
 
 near, 
 I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 
 Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours 
 With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers 
 
54 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 (Ere from thy zepliyr-hauiitecl brink I turn) 
 My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy um. 
 For not through pathless grove with murmur rude 
 Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude ; 
 Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, 
 The Hermit-pountain of some dripping cell ! 
 Pride of the Valel thy useful streams supply 
 The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
 The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
 With infant uproar and soul-sooihing pranks, 
 Eeleased from school, their little hearts at rcrt, 
 Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. 
 The rustic here at eve with pensive look 
 Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook. 
 Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread 
 To list the jpuch-loved maid's accustomed tread : 
 She, vainly mindful of her dame's command, 
 Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand. 
 Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls 
 The faded form of past delight recalls. 
 What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 
 And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
 A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, 
 Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
 Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 
 Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon : 
 Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, 
 Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along I 
 
 LINES ON A FRIEND, 
 
 who died of a frenzy fbvter induced by caiumnious 
 repo'ets. 
 
 Edmund ! thy grave with aching eye I scan, 
 , ' And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast — Man ! 
 'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth 
 If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth 
 We force to start amid her feigned caress 
 Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ; 
 A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear. 
 And on we go in heaviness and fear ! 
 But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower 
 Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour, 
 The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground 
 And mingled forms of Misery rise around : 
 Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghastj 
 That courts the future woe to hide the past ; 
 Eemorse, the poisoned arrow in his side, 
 And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish clos^ allied; 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 63 
 
 Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain, 
 
 Dans her hot lightning flash athwart the brain. 
 
 Rest, injured shade! Shall Slander squatting near 
 
 Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear i 
 
 'Twas thine, to feel the sympathetic glow 
 
 In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 
 
 Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies, 
 
 The zoneleas Cares, and smiling Courtesies. 
 
 Nnrsed in thy heart the firmer virtues grew, 
 
 And in thy heart they withered ! Such chill dew 
 
 Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ; 
 
 And Vanity her filmy net- work spread, 
 
 With eye that rolled around in asking gaze, 
 
 And tongue that trafflcked in the trade of praise, 
 
 Thy follies such! the hard world marked them well — 
 
 Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ? 
 
 Rest, injured shade! the poor man's gratefiil prayer 
 
 Oh heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear. 
 
 As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I p^ss, 
 
 And sit me down upon its recent grass. 
 
 With introverted eye I contemplate 
 
 Similitude of soul, perhaps of— Fate ! 
 
 To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned 
 
 Energio Eeason and a shaping mind, 
 
 The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part. 
 
 The Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. 
 
 Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my grasplesa hand 
 
 Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand 
 
 I weep, yet stoop not! the m,int anguish flows, 
 
 A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze. 
 
 Is this piled earth onr Being's passless mound f 
 Tell me, cold grave ! is Death with poppies crowned ? 
 Tired Centinel ! mid fitful starts I nod. 
 And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod! 
 
 LINES 
 composed while climbing the left ascent op brock. 
 
 LEY coomb, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. 
 
 With many a panse and oft-reverted eye 
 
 I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near 
 
 Warble in shade-their wild-wOod melody : 
 
 Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. 
 
 Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock 
 
 That on green plots o'fer precipices browse : 
 
 From the forced fissures of the naked rock 
 
 The Yew tree hursts ! Beneath its dark greeu boughs 
 
 (Mid ■n;hich the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) 
 
 Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 
 
56 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 I rest : — and now have gained the topmost site. 
 Ab I what a luxury of landscape meets 
 My gaze ! Proud Towers, and Cots more dear to nue, 
 Elm-Shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea! 
 Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear : 
 Enchanting spot I O were my Sara here t 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH 
 REVOLUTION. 
 
 Much on my early youth I love to dwell, 
 
 Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell, 
 
 Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, 
 
 I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale ! 
 
 Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 
 
 Full heavily of Sorrow would 1 sing. 
 
 Aye as the star of evening flung its beam 
 
 In broken radiance on the wavy stream, 
 
 My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom 
 
 Mourned with the breeze, O Lbb Boo !* o'er thy tomb. 
 
 Where'er I wandered. Pity still was near, 
 
 Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear: 
 
 No kuell that tolled, but fiUed my anxious eye, 
 
 And suffering Nature wept that one should die !t 
 
 Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast. 
 
 Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : 
 
 When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain 
 
 With giant fury burst her triple chain ! 
 
 Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed; 
 
 Her Banners, like a midnight Meteor, flowed ; 
 
 Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies 
 
 She came, and scattered battles from her eyes ! 
 
 Then Exultation waked the patr' t fire 
 
 And swept with wilder hand the Alcoean lyre : 
 
 Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance, 
 
 And strode in joy the reeking plains of France! 
 
 Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low. 
 And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. 
 With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, 
 Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid. 
 And O ! If Eyes whose holy glances roll, 
 Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul; 
 If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien 
 Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen 
 
 * Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thttle, Prince of the Pelew Islands, 
 came over to England with Captain Wilson, disd of the smallpox, 
 andis buried in Greenwich chui-eh-yard. See Keate's Account. 
 
 t Southey's Betrcspect, 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 57 
 
 Shaping celestial forms in Taciiut nir, 
 - If these demand the impassioned Poet's care — 
 If MiETH, and softened Sense, and Wit refined. 
 The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
 Then haply shall my trembling hand assign 
 No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. 
 Nor, Saea ! thou these early flowers refuse — 
 Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues ; 
 No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings 
 Prom Flattery's night-shade : as he feels he sings. 
 September, 1793. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Content, as random Fancies might inspire, 
 If his wealE harp at times or lonely lyre 
 He struck with desultory hand, and drew 
 Some softened tones to Nature not untrue. 
 
 BowLSs. 
 
 My heart has thanked thee, Bowies !^ for those soft strains 
 
 W hose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring 
 
 Of wild-tees in the sunny showers of spring ! 
 
 For hence not callous to the mourner's pains 
 
 Through Youth's gay prime and thomless paths I went : 
 
 And when the mightier Throes of mind began, i 
 
 And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man ! 
 
 Their mild and manliest melancholy lent 
 
 A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned 
 
 To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; 
 
 Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood 
 
 Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, 
 
 As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep 
 
 Mov^d on the darkness of the unforuied deep. 
 
 As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale. 
 
 With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,, 
 
 I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : 
 
 She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale— . 
 
 " Great Son of Genius 1 sweet to me thy name, 
 
 " Ere in an evil hour with altered voice 
 
 " Thou badst Oppression's hireling crew rejoice 
 
 "Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. 
 
 "Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowH 
 
 " The stormy Pity and the cherished lure 
 
 "Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul 
 
 " Wildered wi th meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure I 
 
 " That error's mist had left thy purged eye : 
 
 " So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy !" 
 
68 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Though roused by that dark Vizii Riot rude 
 Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell ; 
 Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 
 Bay hia mild radiance, impotent and fell j 
 Calm in his halls of Brightness he shall dwell 1 
 For lo ! Eeugion at his strong behest 
 Starts with jnild anger from the Papal spell, 
 And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest. 
 Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp imholy : 
 And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail 
 Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly ; 
 And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won 
 Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil 
 To smile with fondness on her gazing son! , 
 
 >i._ 
 
 When British Freedom for an happier land 
 
 Spread her broad -syings that fluttered with affiight, 
 
 Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight 
 
 Sublime of hope 1 For dreadless thou didst stand 
 
 (Thy censor glowing with the hallowed flame) 
 
 An hireless Priest before the insulted shrine, 
 
 And at her altar pour the stream divine 
 
 Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name 
 
 Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 
 
 With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the doom 
 
 Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 
 
 Thy light shall shine : as sunk beneath the West 
 
 Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaz*, 
 
 ■Still bums wide Heaven with his distended blaze. 
 
 It was some Spirit, Shekidah! that breathed 
 
 O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! 
 
 My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour. 
 
 Thy temples with Hymmettian flow'rets wreathed : 
 
 And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier 
 
 Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade ; 
 
 Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade 
 
 That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. 
 
 Now patriot Rage and Indignation high 
 
 Swell the lull tones ! And now thine eye-beams dance 
 
 Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry ! 
 
 Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance ' 
 
 The Apostate by the brainless rout adored. 
 
 As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 59 
 
 O WHAT a loud and fearful shi'iek was there, 
 
 As thongh a thousand souls one death-groan poured! 
 
 Ah me! they viewed beneath an hireling's sword 
 
 Fallen Koskiusko! Through the burthened air 
 
 (As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell 
 
 Of Triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 
 
 Rises with frantic buist or sadder swell 
 
 The dirge of murdered Hope 1 while Freedom pale 
 
 Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, 
 
 As if from eldest time some Spirit meek 
 
 Had gathered in a mystic nm each tear 
 
 That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek 
 
 Fit channel found ; and she had drained the bowl 
 
 In the mere wilftdness, and sick despair of soul! 
 
 vn. 
 
 As when far off the warbled strains are heard 
 
 That soar on Morning's wing the valea among, 
 
 Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird 
 
 Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 
 
 He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, 
 
 No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, 
 
 Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight ; 
 
 His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares ! 
 
 Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling v6icv» 
 
 Life's better sun from that long wintry night, 
 
 Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice 
 
 And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might : 
 
 Forlol the morning struggles into d y. 
 
 And Slavery's speotees shriek and vanish from the ray ! 
 
 Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, 
 
 Why hast thou left me ? Still in some fond dream 
 
 Eevisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile ! 
 
 As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : 
 
 What time, in si(S;ly mood, at parting day 
 
 I lay me down and think of happier years ; 
 
 Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, 
 
 Then left me darkling in' a vale of tears. 
 
 O pleasant days of Hope — for ever gone! 
 
 Could I recall yon! — But that thought is vain : 
 
 Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone- 
 
 To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again : 
 
 Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
 
 Like the bright Eainbow on a willowy stream. 
 
60 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Paxe Eoamer through the Night I thou poor Forlorn! 
 Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, 
 Who in the credulous hour of tenderness 
 Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn ! 
 The world is pitiless : the Chaste one's pride 
 Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress : 
 Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride : 
 ' And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness ! 
 Oh ! I am sad to think, that there should be 
 Cold-bosomed Lewd ones, who endure to place 
 Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery, 
 And force from Famine the caress of Love ; 
 May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace, 
 He, the great Comforter that rules above 1 
 
 Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled 
 
 To see thee, poor Oll> Mau ! and thy gray hairs 
 
 Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares 
 
 To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 
 
 My Father! throw away this tattered vest 
 
 That mocks thy shivering ! take my garment — use 
 
 A young-man's arms ! I'll melt these frozen dews 
 
 That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. 
 
 My Sara too shall tend thee^ like a ChUd : 
 
 And thou shalt talk, in our fire side's recess, 
 
 Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. 
 
 He did not so, the Gaxil^an mild, 
 
 Wh met the Lazars turned from rich man's doors, 
 
 And called them Friends, and healed their noisome Sores ! 
 
 Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress 
 
 Reasoning I ponder with a Bcomfol smile 
 
 And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while 
 
 Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 
 
 Why didst thou Usten to Hope's whisper bland ? 
 
 Or, listening, why forget the healing tale. 
 
 When Jealousy with teverish fancies pale 
 
 Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? 
 
 Faint was that Hope, and rayless I — Yet 'twas fair 
 
 And soothed with many a dream -the hour of rest : 
 
 Thou should'st have loved it most, when most opprest, 
 
 And nursed it with an agonsr of Care, 
 
 Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir 
 
 That wan and sickly droops upon her breast i 
 
 ■■:'■ ■••i 
 
JtrVENlLE POEMS. 61 
 
 XII. 
 TO THE AUTHOR OP THE "ROBBERS." 
 
 ScHlLUiR ! that hour I wonld have wished to die, 
 If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
 From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent 
 That Fearful voice, a famished Father's cry — 
 Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
 Might stamp me. mortal ! A triumphant shout 
 Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout 
 Diminished shrunk &om the more withering scene ! 
 Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
 Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 
 Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye 
 Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
 Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : 
 Then weep aloud in a 'vnld estasy ! 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fate, 
 Death came with friendly care ; 
 
 The opening bud to Heaven conveyed 
 And bade it blossom there. 
 
 LDfES 
 
 IN THE MASKER OP SPENSER. 
 
 Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love 
 To rest thine head beneath an Ohve Tree, 
 
 1 would, that from the pinions of thy Dove 
 One quill withouten pain yplucked might he ! 
 For O ! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, 
 
 And fain to her some soothing song would write, 
 Lest she resent my rude discourtesy, 
 Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, 
 But broke my plighted word — ah ! false and recreant 
 wight! 
 
 Last night as I my weary head did pillow 
 
 With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrossed, 
 
 Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow. 
 
 As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. 
 
 " From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, 
 
63 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 " Rejected Slumber ! hither wing thy way ; 
 
 " But leave me with the matiu hour, at most 1 
 
 " As night-closed Floweret to the orient ray, 
 
 " My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.^' 
 
 But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, 
 Contrived a too successful wile, I ween: 
 And whispered to himself, with malice fraught — 
 " Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : 
 " To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !" 
 He spake, and ambushed lay,' till on my hed 
 The morning shot her dewy glances keen, 
 When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head — 
 " Now, Bard t I'll work thee woe !" the laughing Elfin 
 said. 
 
 ^LBEP, softly-breathing God ! his dovpny wing 
 Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ; 
 When twanged an arrov? from Love's mystic string, 
 With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. 
 Was there some Magic in the Elfin's dart ? 
 Or did be strike my oouoh with wizzard lance ? 
 For straight so fair a Form did upwards start 
 (No fairer decked the Bowers of old Romance) 
 That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from hia 
 sweet Trance ! 
 
 My Saea came, with gentlest Look divine ; 
 
 Bright shone her Eye, yet tender was its beam : 
 
 I felt the pressure of her lip to mine! 
 
 Whispering we went, and Jjove was all our theme — 
 
 Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem. 
 
 He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 
 
 'bide, , 
 
 That I the living Image of my Dream 
 Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd — 
 " O ! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !" 
 
 IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. 
 
 The stream with languid murmur creeps, 
 ' In hvMiN'S flowm-y vale : 
 Beneath the dew the Lilj' weeps 
 Slow-waving to the gale. 
 
 " Cease, restless gale ! it seems to say, 
 "Nor wake me with thy sighing I 
 
 "The honours of my vernal day 
 " On rapid wing are flying. 
 
 " To-morrow shall the Traveller come 
 " Who late beheld me blooming : 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 63 
 
 " His searching eye shall vainly roam 
 " The dreary vale of Lumin." 
 
 With eager gaze and wetted cheek 
 
 My wonted haunts along, 
 Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shalt seek 
 
 The Youth of simplest song. 
 
 But I along the breeze shall roll 
 
 The voice of feeble power; 
 And dw*ll, the Moon-beam of thy sdul, 
 
 In Slumber's nightly hour. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. 
 
 How long will ye round me be swelling, 
 
 O ye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ? 
 Not always in Caves was my dwelling, 
 
 Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. 
 Through the high-sounding halls of CathWma 
 
 In the steps of my Beauty I strayed ; 
 The Warriors beheld Ninath6ma, 
 
 And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid ! 
 
 A Ghost ! by my Cavern it darted ! 
 
 In moon-beams the Spirit was drest- — 
 For lovely appear the departed 
 
 When they visit the dreams of my Eest ! 
 But disturbed by the Tempest's commotion 
 
 Fleet the shadowy forms of Delight — 
 Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean ! 
 
 To howl through my Cavern by Night. 
 
 TO AN INFANT. 
 
 Ah cease thy Tears and Sobs, my little Life ! 
 I did but snatch away the unclasped Knife : 
 Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye 
 And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry ,' 
 Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, 
 Tutored by Pain each source of Pain to. know ! 
 Alike the foodful fruit and scorching; fire 
 Awake the eager gyasp and young desire : 
 Alike the Good, the 111 offend thy sight, 
 And rouse the stormy Sense of shrill Affright! 
 Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms 
 Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms. 
 Nestling thy little face in that fond. breast 
 Whose anxious Hea,ving8 lull thee to thy rest! 
 
64 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Man's 'breathing Miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh-w 
 * A Babe art thou — and such a Thing am I ! 
 To anger rapid and as soon appeased, 
 For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased, 
 Break Friendship's Mirror with a tetchy blow, 
 Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow ' 
 
 O thou that rearest with celestial aim 
 
 The future Seraph in my mortal &ame , 
 
 Thrice holy Faith : whatever thorns 1 meet 
 
 As on I totter with unpractised feet, 
 
 Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee. 
 
 Meek Nurse of Souls through their long Infancy I 
 
 IMITATED FEOM THE WELSH. 
 
 If, while my passion I impart, 
 
 You deem my words untrue, 
 O place your hand upon my heart — 
 
 Feel how it throbs for you ! 
 
 Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim 
 
 In pity to your Lover ! 
 That thrilling touch would aid the flame 
 
 It wishes to discover. 
 
 WRITTEN AT SHUKTON BAES, NEAR BKIDwE- 
 WATER, SEPTEMBER, 1795, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A LETTER PROM BRISTOL. 
 
 Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better 
 Received from absent friend by way of Letter. 
 For what so sweet can laboured lays impart 
 As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart ? 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Nor travels my meandering eye 
 The starry wilderness on higli ; 
 
 Nor now with curious sight 
 I mark the glow-worm, as I pass. 
 Move with " green radiance"through tt- a ess, 
 
 An Emerald of Light. 
 
 O ever present to my view ! 
 My wafted spirit is with you. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 65 
 
 And soothes your boding fears : 
 1 see you all oppressed -with gloom 
 Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 
 
 Ah me ! You are in tears ! 
 
 Beloved Woman ! did you fly 
 
 Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye, 
 
 Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
 With cruel weight these trifles press 
 A temper sore with tenderness, 
 
 When aches the Void within. 
 
 Bat why with sable wand unblessed 
 Should Fancy rouse within my breast 
 
 Dim-visaged shapes of Dread ? 
 Untenanting its beauteous clay j 
 
 My Saka's soul has winged its way, 
 
 And hovers round my head 1 
 
 I felt it prompt the tender Dream, 
 When slowly sunk the day's last gleam ; 
 
 You roused each gentler sense 
 As sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom 
 Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume 
 
 With viewless influence. 
 
 And hark, my Love ! The sea-breeze moans 
 Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones 
 
 In bold ambitious sweep 
 The onward-surging tides supply 
 The silence of the cloudless sky 
 
 With mimic thunders deep. 
 
 Dark reddening from the channelled Isle* 
 (Where stands one solitary pile 
 
 Unslated by the blast) 
 The Watchfire, like a sullen star 
 Twinkles to many a dozing Tar 
 
 Bude cradled on the mast. 
 
 Even there — beneath that lighthouse tower- 
 In the tumultuous evil hour 
 
 Ere Peace with Saka came, 
 Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
 To count the echoings of my feet. 
 
 And watch the storm-vexed flame. 
 
 And there in black soul-jaundiced fit ' ; ' 
 
 A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit, ' 
 
 * The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel. 
 
56 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 And listeti to the roar: 
 When mountain Surges bellowing deep 
 With an uncouth monster leap 
 
 plunged foaming on the shore. 
 
 Then by the Lightning's blaae to mark 
 Some toiling tempest-shattered bark ; 
 
 Her vain distress-gUns hear ; 
 And when a second sheet of light 
 Flashed o'er the blackness of the night— 
 
 To see no Vessel there ! 
 
 But Fancy now more gaily sings ; . 
 Or if awhile she droop her wings, 
 
 As sky-larks 'mid the com, 
 On summer fields she grounds her breast: 
 The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest 
 
 Nods, till returning- moi'E» i 
 
 O mark those smiling tears, that fwell 
 The opened Eose ! From heaven they fell, 
 
 And with the sun-beam blend. 
 Blessed visitations from above, 
 Such are the tender woes of Love 
 
 Fostering the heart, they bend ! 
 
 When stormy Midnight bowling round 
 Beats on oirr roof with clattering sound, 
 
 To me your arms you'll stretch : 
 Great God! you'll say — ^To us so kind, 
 
 shelter from this loud bleak wind 
 The houseless, fiiendless wretch ! 
 
 The tears that tremble down your cheek, 
 Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 
 
 In Pity's dew divine ; 
 And from your heart the sighs that steal 
 Shall make your rising bosom feci 
 
 The answering swell of mine ! 
 
 How oft, my Love ! w^ith shapings sweet 
 
 1 paint the moment, we shall meet ! 
 
 With eager speed I dart — 
 I seize you in the vacant air. 
 And fancy, with a Husband's care ■ 
 
 I press you to my heart ! 
 
 'Tis said, on Summer's evening hoiir 
 Flashes the golden-coloured flower 
 
 A fair electric flame : 
 And so shall -lash my love-charged eye 
 When all the heart's big ecstasy 
 
 Shoots rapid through the frame! 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 67 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER. 
 
 Aw Ay, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh, 
 The peevish offspring of a sickly hour! 
 Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, 
 When the blind Gamester throws a luckless dia 
 
 Yon setting Stiu flashes a mournful gleam 
 Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train : 
 To-morrow shall the mauy-coloured main 
 In brightness roll beneath his orient beam I 
 
 Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time 
 Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadowy dance 
 The alternate groupes of Joy and Grief advance 
 Responsive to his varying strains sublime ! 
 
 Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate, 
 
 The swain, who,mlled by Seine's mild murmurs, led 
 
 His weary oxen to their nightly shed, 
 
 To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State. 
 
 Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile 
 Siirvey the sanguinary Despot's might, 
 And haply hnrl the Pageant from his height 
 Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 
 
 There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's fiown 
 Bound his tired limbs to w-ap the purple vest ; 
 And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest! 
 Barter for food, the jewels of his crown. 
 
 EELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OP 
 1794. 
 
 This is the time, when most divine to hear, 
 
 The voice of Adoration rouses me. 
 
 As with a Cherub's trump : and high upborne, 
 
 Xea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view 
 
 The vision of the heavenly multitude, 
 
 Who hymned the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields ! 
 
 Yet thou more bright than all the Angel blaze, 
 
 That harbingered thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes ! 
 
 Despised Galilsean ! For the Great 
 
 Invisible (by symbols only seen) 
 
 With a pecjiliar and surpassing light 
 
 Shines from the visage of the oppressed good Man, 
 
 When heedless of himself the scourged Saiilt 
 
 Mourns for the Oppressor. Fair the vernal Mead, 
 
8 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 • 
 
 Fair the high Grove, the Sea, the Sun, the Stars ; 
 
 True Impress each of their creating Sire ! 
 
 Yet nor high Grove, nor many-coloured Mead, 
 
 Nor the green Ocean with his thousand Isles, 
 
 Nor the starred Azure, nor the sovran Sun, 
 
 E'er with such majesty of portraiture 
 
 Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate, 
 
 As thou,,meek Saviour! at thefearful hour 
 
 When thy insulted Anguish winged the prayer 
 
 Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy ! 
 
 Which when the Almighty heard from forth his Throne, 
 
 Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstacy ! 
 
 Heaven's hymnings paused : and Hell heryawning mouth 
 
 Closed a brief moment. 
 
 Lovely was the Death 
 Of Him whose Life was Love I Holy with power 
 He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed 
 Manifest Godhead, melting into day 
 What floating mists of dark Idolatry 
 Broke and misshaped the Omnipresent Sire: 
 And first by Fbak uncharmed the droused Soul.* 
 Till of its nobler Nature it 'gan feel 
 Dim recollections ; and thence soared to Hope, 
 Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good 
 The Eternal dooms for his immortal Sons. 
 From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love 
 Attracted and absorbed: and centered there 
 GrOD only to behold, and know, and feel, 
 Till by exclusive Consciousness of God 
 All self-annihilated it shall make 
 God its Identity : God aU in all ! 
 We and our Father ONE ! 
 
 And blessed are they, 
 Who in this fleshly World, the elect of HeaveUj 
 Their strong eye darting througli the deeds of Men, 
 Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze 
 Him Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy ! 
 And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend 
 Treading beneath their feet all visible things 
 As steps, that upward to their Father's Throne 
 Lead gradual — else nor glorified nor loved. 
 They nor Contempt embosom nor Eevenge : 
 For THEY dare know of what may seem deform 
 The Supreme Fair sole Operant : in whose sight 
 All things are pure, his strong controlling Love 
 Alike from all educing perfect good. 
 Theirs too celestial courage, inly anned-r- 
 
 * To yorfTov 9i.ripiiKourtv eis iroAAcav 
 
 ®€ttiV t5lOT7]Taf> Damas DE HYST. iEjGTFT. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. G9 
 
 Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse 
 On their great Father, great beyond compare 1 
 And marching onwards view high o'er their heads 
 His waving Banners of Omnipotence. 
 
 Who the Creator Love, created might 
 
 Dread not : within their tents no Terrors walk. 
 
 For th y are Holy Things before the Lord 
 
 Aye unprofaned, t houghEarth should league with Hell ; 
 
 God's Itar grasping with an eager hand 
 
 Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, 
 
 Sure-refuged hears Ms hot pursuing fiends 
 
 Yell at vain distance. Soon refreshed from Heaven 
 
 He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. 
 
 His countenance settles: a soft solemn bliss 
 
 Swims in his eye — his swimming eye upraised : 
 
 And Faith's whole armour glitters on his limbs I 
 
 And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe, 
 
 A solemji hush of soul, meek he beholds 
 
 All things of ten-ible seeming: yea, unmoved 
 
 Views e'en the immitigable ministers 
 
 That shower down vengeance on these latter days. 
 
 For kindling with intenser Deity 
 
 From the celestial Mercy-seat they come. 
 
 And at the renovating Wells of Love 
 
 Have filled their Viafi with salutary Wrath, 
 
 To sickly Nature more medicinal 
 
 Thau what soft balm the weeping good man pours 
 
 Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 
 
 Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith. 
 Pass thj ;ark Passions and what thirsty Cares 
 Drin? up the pi- t and the dim regards 
 Self-centre. Lo they vanish ! or acquire 
 New names, new features — by supernal grace 
 Enrobed with Light, and naturalized in Heaven. 
 As wlieu a Shepherd on a vernal mom 
 Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot, 
 Darklin . he fixes on the immediate road 
 ' His owuward eye i all else of fairest kind 
 Hid or deformed. But lo ! the bursting Sun ! 
 Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam 
 Straight the black vapour melteth, and in globes 
 Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 
 On every leaf, on every blade it hangs! 
 Dance glad the new-bom intermingling rays. 
 And wide around the landscape streams with glory I 
 
 There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 
 Omriific. His most holy name is Love. 
 Truth of subliming import! with the which 
 Who feeds and saturates bis constant soul. 
 
70 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 He flora his small particular orbit flies 
 
 With blessed outstarting! From Himself he flies, 
 
 Stands in the Sun, and with no partial gaze 
 
 Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 
 
 And blesses it, and calls it very good! 
 
 This is indeed to dwell with the most High! 
 
 Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim 
 
 Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne. 
 
 But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 
 
 Unfeeling of ur universal Sire, 
 
 And that iu his vast family no Cain 
 
 Injuries uninjured (in her best-aimed blow 
 
 Victorious Mukder a blind Suicide) 
 
 Haply f r this some younger Angel now 
 
 Looks down on Human Nature : and, behold ! 
 
 A sea oi! blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad 
 
 Embattling Interests on each other rush 
 
 With unhelmed Eage ! 
 
 'Tis the sublime of man. 
 Our noon-tide Majesty, to know oiirselves 
 Parts and ■;^roportiuns of one w nderous whole ! 
 This fraternizes man, this constiiutes 
 Our charities an;? bearings. B i'; 'tij God 
 Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole; 
 This the wore . saperstition, liim except 
 Aught to desi.e, Supreme Reaxi' y! 
 , The plenitude and permanence gf I lies? 
 
 Fiends of Supepstition! not hat oft 
 
 The erring Priest hath stained with Brother's blood 
 Your grisly idols, not for this may Wrath 
 Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
 But o'ur some plain that steameth to the Sun, 
 Peopled with Death ; or where more hideous Trade 
 L6ud-laughinpf packs his bales of human anguish ; , 
 
 1 will rise up a m nrming, O ye Fiends ! 
 
 And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith, 
 
 Hiding the present God ; whose presence lost, 
 
 The moral world's Cohesion, we become 
 
 An Anarchy of Spirits ! Toy-bewitched, 
 
 Made blind by lusts, disherited f soul, 
 
 No common centre Man, no common sire 
 
 Knoweth 1 A sordid solitary thing, 
 
 Mid countless brethren wiih a lonely heart ■ 
 
 Through c ourts and cities the smooth Savage roams 
 
 Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole ; 
 
 When he b/ sacred sympathy might make 
 
 The whole one self! self, that no alien knows! 
 
 Self, far diffused as Fancy's Wing can travel ! 
 
 Self, spreading still ! Oblivious of its own 
 
 Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 
 
 This the Messiah's destined victory ! 
 
JUVENILE POEMS.- 71 
 
 , But first offences ueetts must come! Even now* 
 (Black Hell laughs horrible— to hear the scoff!) 
 Thee to defend, meek Galilean ! Thee 
 And thy mild laws of Love unutterable, 
 Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands 
 Of social 5eace ; and listenin Treachery lurks 
 With pious fraud to suaro a brother's life ; 
 And childless widows o'er the groaning land 
 Wail numberless; and orphans weep for bread! 
 Thee to defend, dear Saviour of Mankind! 
 Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Pi-ince of Poacef 
 From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War? 
 Austria, and that foul WomiVN of the North, 
 The lustful Ilurderess of her wedded Lord! 
 And he, eonna tral Mind ! -vvhoin (in their songs 
 So bards of eldT time had haply feigned) 
 Some Fury fo died in her hate to man. 
 Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
 Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe 
 Iloixible sympathy ! And leagued with these 
 Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore ! 
 Soul-hardened barterers of human blood ! 
 Death's prime Slave-merchants ! Scorpion-whips of 
 
 Fate! 
 ,Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, 
 Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate. 
 Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons! 
 Thee to defend th Moloch Priest prefers 
 The prayer of hate, and bellow to the herd 
 That Deity', accomplice Deity 
 In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath 
 Will go forth with our armies and our fleets 
 To scatter the red ruin on their foes! 
 O blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds 
 With blessedness! 
 
 Lord of unsleeping Love,+ 
 
 * Jaiiuary Slst, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his Majestv, 
 on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford moved an 
 Amendment to the following effect: "That the House hoped his 
 Majesty would seize the earliest opportunity to conclude a peace 
 with France, &c." This motion was opposed by the Dulce of Port- 
 land, who "considered the war to be merely grounded on one prin- 
 ciplfr--thfe preservation of the Christian Eeligion." May 80th, 
 iVQa, the Duke of Bedford moved a number of Resolutions,' with a 
 view to the Establishment of a Peaee with France. He was opposed 
 (among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words: 
 "The best road to Peace, my Lords, is WarI and War carried on 
 in the same manner in which we are taught to worship our Creator, 
 namely, with all our souls, and with all our minds, and with all our* 
 hearts, and with all our strength." 
 
 t Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord, mine Holy One? We 
 shall not die, O Lord, thou bast ordained them for Judgment, &c.— 
 Uaiakkuk. 
 
72 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 From everlasting Thou! We shall not die. 
 These, even these, in mercy didst thou form, 
 Teachers of God through Evil, hy brief wrong 
 Mating Truth lovely, and her future might 
 Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart. 
 
 In the primeval age a dateless while 
 
 The vacant Shepbord wandered with his flock 
 
 Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved. 
 
 But soon Imagination conjured up 
 
 An host of new desires : with busy aim. 
 
 Each for himself. Earth's eager children tolled. 
 
 So Property began, twy-streaming fount, 
 
 Whenc Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall. 
 
 Hence the soft couch, and many-coloured robe, 
 
 The ti vbrel, and arched dome and costly feast, 
 
 With all the inven ive arts, that nursed the soul 
 
 To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants 
 
 Unsensualized the mind, which in the means 
 
 Learnt t ) forget the grossness of the end, 
 
 Best pleasured witii it own activity. 
 
 And bene i Disease that withers manhood's arm, 
 
 The daggered Envy spirit quenching Want, 
 
 Warriors, and Lords, and Priests — all the sore ills 
 
 That vei and desolate our mort 1 life. 
 
 Wide 'wasting ills ." yet each the immediate source 
 
 Of mightier good. Their keen necessities 
 
 To ceaseless action goading human thought 
 
 Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord; 
 
 And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand 
 
 Strong as an host of armed Deities, 
 
 Such as the blind "I;man fabled erst. 
 
 From Avarice thus, from Luxury and War 
 Sprang heavenly Science ; and from Science Freedom. 
 O'tr w".kened realms Philosophers an^ Bards 
 I Spread in concentric circles • they wbos souls, 
 Conscious of their high dignities fro i Cod 
 Brook not Weaithh rivalry! and the/ who long j 
 
 Enamoured with the charms of or ler liate 
 The unseemly disp p rtion : and wAoe'er 
 Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car 
 And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse 
 On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage 
 Called the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud 
 And dMhed flie beauteous Terrors on the earth 
 Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er 
 Measured firm paces to the calming sound 
 ' Of Spartan flute ! These on the fated day, 
 When, stung to rage by Pity, eloquent men 
 Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered tribes 
 That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 73 
 
 Tlieae hushed awhile with patient eye serene 
 
 Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 
 
 Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 
 
 And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might 
 
 jyiouldiug Confusipn to such perfect forms, 
 
 As erst were wont, bright visions of the day! 
 
 Tofloat before them, when, the Summer noon 
 
 Beneath some orched romantic rock reclined 
 
 They felt the ea breeze lift their youthful looks ; 
 
 Or in the moith of blossoms, at mild eve. 
 
 Wandering with desul+ory feetMnhaled 
 
 The wafted perfumed, and the flocks and woods 
 
 And many-tinted streaTis and setting Sun 
 
 With all his gorgeous - ompany of clouds 
 
 Ecstatic gazed 1 then home«?a.rd as they strayed 
 
 Cast ih sau. eye to earth, "nd inly mused 
 
 Why there was Misefcy in a world so fair. 
 
 Ah far removed from all that glads the sense. 
 
 From all tha. softe„s or ennobles Man, 
 
 Ihe wretcnpd Maa Bent beneath their loads 
 
 The/ gape at pagea_t Power, nor recognise 
 
 Thoi'- cots' transmuted plunder! From the tree 
 
 Of Knowledge, ore the vernal sap had risen 
 
 Eudely disbranche ". I Blessed Society ! 
 
 Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorched waste, 
 
 Where oft majes.i j through the tainted noon 
 
 The Simoom euil \ before whose purple pomp 
 
 Wh falls bo. iirostrate dies 1 And where, by night. 
 
 Fast b^ each precious fountain on green herbs 
 
 Tho 'ion couches ; or hysena dips 
 
 Deep in th lucll stream his bloody jaws ; 
 
 Or c .rpent plant., h.s -as^ moon glittering bulk, 
 
 C jUght in whose rionstrous twine Behemoth* yells, 
 
 His bones loud-crashing ! 
 
 O ye numberless, ' 
 Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony 
 Drives from life's plenteous feast ! O thou ijoor Wretch 
 Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want 
 Eoamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand 
 Dost • ft to deeds of blood ! O pale-eyed Form, 
 The victim of seduction, doomed to know 
 Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ; 
 Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers 
 Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered Home 
 Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart 1 
 O aged Women ! ye -v^ho weekly catch 
 The morsel tossed by law-forced Charity, 
 
 * Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general. Some 
 believe it is the elephant, some the hippopotamus; some afiOrm it is 
 the wild bull. Poetically, it designates any large quadruped.' 
 D 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 And die so slowly, that none call it murder! 
 O loathly Suppliants! ye, that unreceived 
 Totter "heart-broken froin the closing g^tes 
 Of the full Lazar-housc ; or, gazing, stand 
 Sick with despair! O ye to Glory's field 
 Forced or ensnared, who, as ye rasp in death. 
 Bleed with new wounds beneath the Vulture's beak I 
 O thou poor Widow, who in dreams dost view 
 Thy Husband's mangled corse, and from short doze 
 
 ' Start'st 'with a shriek : or in thy half-thatched cot 
 Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold, 
 Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile, 
 Children of Wretchedness ! More groans must rise, 
 More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full. 
 Yet is the day of Retribution nigh : 
 The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal : 
 And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire 
 The innumerable multitude of Wrongs 
 By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile. 
 Children of Wretchedness! The hour is nigh ; 
 And lo ! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men, 
 The Kings and the Chief Captains of the World, 
 With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaven 
 Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth. 
 Vile and down- trodden, as the untimely fruit 
 Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
 Even now the storm begins :* eafih gentle name, 
 Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 
 Tremble far-off— for lo !• the Giant Frenzy 
 
 ' Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm 
 Mocketh high Heaven ; burst hideons from the cell 
 Where the old Hag, nnconqnerable, hnge^ 
 Creation's eyeless drudge, black Euix, sits 
 Nursing the impatient earthquake. 
 
 O return ! 
 Pure Faith! meek Piety ! The abhorred Form 
 Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp, 
 Wlio drank iniquity in cups of Gold, 
 Whose names were many and all blasphemous, 
 Hath met the horrible judgment ! Whence that cry ? 
 The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked 
 Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
 On whose black front was written Mystery ; 
 She that reeled heavily, whose wine was Mood ; 
 She that worked whoredom with the DiEMON Power 
 And from the dark embrace all evil things 
 Brought forth and nurtured : mitred Atheism ; 
 And patient FOLtY who on bended knee 
 
 * Alluding to the French Revolutioni 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. . '75 
 
 Gives bacTi the steel that stabbed him ; and pale Feak 
 
 Hunted by ghastlier shapings than surround 
 
 Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight ! 
 
 Return pure Faith 1 return meek Piety 
 
 The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heart 
 
 Self-goverued, the vast family of Love 
 
 Eaised from the common earth by common toil 
 
 Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights 
 
 As float to earth, permitted visitants ! ' 
 
 When in some hour of solemn jubilee 
 
 The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
 
 Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild 
 
 Sweet echos of unearthly melodies. 
 
 And odours snatched from beds of Amaranth, 
 
 And thiey, that from the crystal river of life 
 
 Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales I 
 
 The favoured good man in his lonely walk 
 
 Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
 
 Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven. 
 
 And such delights, such strange beatitude 
 
 Seize on my young anticipating heart 
 
 When that blest future rushes on my view ! 
 
 For in his own and in his Father's might 
 
 The Saviour comes! While as the Thousand Years 
 
 Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert sliouts ! 
 
 Old Ocean claps his hands ! The mighty Dcq^d 
 
 Else to new life, whoe'er from earliest time 
 
 With conscious zeal had nrged Love's wondrous plan, 
 
 Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 
 
 The high Groves of the renovated Earth 
 
 Unbosom their glad echoes : inly hushed, 
 
 Adoring Newton his serener eye 
 
 Eaise? to heaven : and he of mortal kind 
 
 Wisest, he" first who marked the ideal tribes . , 
 
 Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. / 
 
 Lo I Priestley there. Patriot, and Saint, ard Sage, 
 
 Him, full of years, from his loved native land 
 
 Statesmen blood-stained and Priests idolatrous 
 
 By dark lies maddening the blind multitude 
 
 Drove with vain hate, Calm, pitying he retired. 
 
 And mused expectant on these jiromised years 
 
 O Tears ! the blest preeminence of Saints ! ' 
 
 Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly-bright, 
 The wings that veil the adoring Seraph's eyes, 
 What time he bends before the Jasper Throne t 
 Eeflect no loyeUer hues ! yet ye depart, 
 
 * David Hartley. 
 
 t Rev, chap, iv., v. 2, and 3 :— And immediately . I was in the 
 Spirit : and behold, a Throne, was set in Heaven, and one saton tiie 
 Throne. An(i he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and Bardine 
 stone, &c. 
 
75 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 And all beyond is darkness! Heights most strange, 
 Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing. 
 For who of woman born may paint the hour, 
 When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall wane, 
 Making noon ghastly! Who of woman bom 
 May image in the workings of his thought, 
 How the black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched* 
 Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans. 
 In feverish slumbers — destined then to wake, 
 When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name 
 And Angels shout, Destruction ! How his arm 
 The last great Spirit lifting high in air 
 Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One, 
 Time is no more ! 
 
 . Believe thou, O my soul. 
 Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
 And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave. 
 Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire, 
 And lo ! the Throne of the redeeming God' 
 Forth flashing unimaginable day 
 Wraps in one blaae earth, heaveii, and deepest helL 
 
 Contemplant Spirits ! ye that hover o'er 
 With untired gaze the immeasurable fount 
 Ebulliedt with creative Deity ! 
 And ye of plastic power, that interfused 
 Roll through the grosser and material mass 
 In organizing surge! Holies of God ! 
 (And what if Monads of the infinite mind) 
 I haply journeying my immortal course 
 Shall sometime join your mystic choir ? Till then 
 I discipline my young noviciate thought 
 ' la ministeries of heart-stirring song. 
 And aye on Meditation's heavenward wing 
 Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air 
 Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, 
 Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul 
 As the great Sun, when he his influence 
 Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream 
 Flows to the ray and warbles as it flows. 
 
 * The final Destruction impeisonated. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 77 
 
 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Auspicious Eeverence ! , Hush all meaner song, 
 
 Ere we the deep preluding strain have poured 
 
 To the Gkeat Father, only Rightful King, 
 
 Eternal Father ! King Omnipotent ! 
 
 The Will, The Word, the Breath,— the Living God. 
 
 Such symphony requires hest instrument. 
 Seize, then, my soul ! from Freedom's trophied dome 
 The Harp which hangeth high between the Shields 
 Of Brutus and Leonidas 1 With that 
 Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back 
 Earth's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced. 
 
 For what is Freedom, but the unfettered use 
 Of all the powers which God for use had given i 
 But chiefly this, him First, him Last to view 
 Through meaner powers and secondary things 
 Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze. 
 For sul that meets the bodily sense I deem 
 Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 
 For infant minds ; and we in this low world 
 Placed with our backs to bright Reality, 
 That we may learn with young unwounded ken 
 The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love 
 Whose latenoe is the plenitude of All, 
 Thou with retracted Beams, and Self-eclipse 
 Veiling, revealest thine eternal Sun. 
 
 But some there are who deem themselves most free 
 When they within this gross and visible sphere 
 Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent, 
 Proud in their meanness : and themselves they cheat 
 With noisy emptiness of learned phrase, 
 Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences, 
 Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all 
 Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves, 
 Untenanting creation of its God. 
 
 But properties are God: the naked mass 
 (If mass there be, fantastic Guess or Ghost) 
 Acts only by its inactivity. 
 Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
 That as one body seems the aggregate 
 Of Atoms numberless, each organized ; 
 So by a strange and dim similitude 
 Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds 
 Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
 With absolute ubiquity of thought 
 
IS . JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 (His one eternal self-affirming Act !,) 
 AH bis involved Monads, that yet seem 
 With various province and apt agency 
 Each to pursue its own self-centering end. 
 Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine ; 
 Some roll the genial juices through the oak; ' 
 Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air, 
 And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed, 
 Yoke.the red lightning to their volleying car. 
 Thus these pursue their never-varying course, 
 No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild, 
 With complex interests weaving human fates, 
 Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
 Evolve the process of eternal good. 
 
 And what if some rebellious, o'er dark realm^ 
 Arrogate power? yet these train up to God, 
 And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day, 
 Elash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
 As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapoury bead 
 The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun 
 Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows, 
 While yet the stem and solitary Night 
 Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Mom 
 With mimic lustre Substitutes its gleam, 
 Gniding his course or byNiemi Jake 
 Or Balda-Zhiok,* or the mossy stone 
 Of ^olfar-kapper.t while the snowy blast 
 Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge. 
 Making the p)or babe at its mother's backj; 
 Scream in its scanty cradle: he the while 
 Wins gentle solace as with upward eye 
 He marks the streamy banners of the North, 
 Thinking himself those hajppy spirits shall join 
 Who there in floating robes of rosy light 
 Dance sportiyely. For Fancy is the Power 
 
 * Balda Zhiok ; i. e. mons altitudinis, the highest mountain in 
 Lapland. 
 
 t Solfar Kappen capitlum Solfar, hie locus omnium, quotquot 
 veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis religiosoque cultui dedi. 
 cavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis situs, semi- 
 niilliaris spatio a mari distans. Ipse locus, quern curiositatis gratia 
 allquando me invisisse memini, duabus prealtis lapidibus, sibi 
 iavicem oppositis, quorum alter musco circumdatus erat, con- 
 Ktabat, — Leemius De Lapponibus. 
 
 t The Lapland women carry their infants at their back in a piece 
 of excavated wood, which serves them for a cradle. Opposite to 
 the infant's mouth there is a hole for it to breathe through. — Miran- 
 dum prorsus est et vix credibile nisi cui vidisset contigit. Lappones 
 hyeme iter facientes per vastos montes. perque horrida et invia 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 79 
 
 That first unsensualizea the dark mind, 
 
 Giving it now delights ; and bids it swell 
 
 With wild activity ; and peopling air, 
 
 By obscure fears of Beings invisible, ' • 
 
 Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 
 
 Of the present impulse, teaching Self-controul, 
 
 Till Superstition with unconscious hand 
 
 Seat Reason ou her throne. Wherefore not vain, 
 
 Nor yet without permitted power, impressed, 
 
 I deem those legends terrible, with which 
 
 The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng : , 
 
 Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 
 
 O'er slaughtered infants, or that Giant Bird 
 
 VuoKHO, of whose rushing wings the noise 
 
 Is Tempest, when the unutterable* shape 
 
 Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 
 
 That shriek, which never Murderer heard, and lived. 
 
 Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance 
 
 Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed 
 
 (Where live the innocent as far from cares 
 
 As from the storms and overwhelming waves 
 
 Dark tumbling on the surface of the deep). 
 
 Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave 
 
 By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguered, such 
 
 As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea. 
 
 There dwells the Eury Form, whose unheard name 
 With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath, 
 And lips half-opening with the dread of sound. 
 Unsleeping Silence guards, worn oat with fear 
 Lest haply escaping on sopae treacherous bla^t 
 The fateful word let slip the Elements 
 And frenzy Natvire. Yet the wizard her, 
 Armed with Torngarsuck'st power, the Spirit of Good, 
 Forces to unchain the foodful progeny 
 Of the Ocean stream. — Wild phantasies ! yet wise, 
 On the victorious goodness of high God 
 Teaching Reliance, and Medicinal Hope, 
 Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth 
 With gradual steps winning her difficiilt way. 
 Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure. 
 
 If theie be Beings of higher class than Man, 
 
 * Jaibme Aibmo. 
 
 + They call the Good Spirit Torngareuclc. The other great but 
 malignant spirit is % nameless Female ; she dwells under the sea in 
 a great house, where she ca:u detsiin in captivity all the animals pf 
 the ocean by her ma^ic power. When a dearth befalls the Green- 
 Innders, an Angekok or magician must undertake a journey thither. 
 He papses throug:h the kingdom of sohls, over an horrible abyss into 
 the Palace of this phantom, and by his enchantments causes the 
 captive creatures to ascend directly to the surface of the ocean. 
 See CuANiz' Hist, of Greenlahd, vol. i. 206. 
 
80 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 I deem no nobler province they poBsess, 
 
 Than by disposal of apt circumstance 
 
 To rear up Kingdoms : and the deeds they prompt, 
 
 Distinguishing from mortal agency, 
 
 They chuse their human ministers tt6m such states 
 
 As still the Epic Song half fears to name, 
 
 Eepelled from all the Minstrelsies that strike 
 
 The Palace-Roof and sooth the Monarfth's pride. 
 
 And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words 
 Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our Faith) 
 Held commune with that wsfcrrior-maid of France 
 Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days, 
 With Wisdom, Mother of retired Thoughts, 
 Her soul had dwelt f and she vas quick to mark 
 The good and evil thing, in human lore 
 Undisciplined. For lowly was her Birth, 
 And Heaven had doomed her early years to Toil 
 That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself 
 Unfeared by Fellow-natures, she might wait 
 On the poor Labouring man with kindly looks. 
 And minister refreshment to the tired 
 Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn Benchi 
 The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft 
 Vacantly watched the rudely pictured board 
 Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creak 
 Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid 
 Leanit more than Schools could teach : Man's shifting 
 His Vices and his Sorrows! And full oft [mind, 
 
 At Tales of cruel Wrong and strange Distress 
 Had wept and shivered. To the tottering Eld 
 Still as a Daughter would she run : she placed 
 His coli Limbs at the sunny Door, and loved 
 To hear him story, in his garrulous sort, 
 flf his eventful years, all come and gone. 
 
 So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's Form, 
 Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury 
 Had shrunk or paled." Her front sublime and broad, 
 Her flexile eye-brows wildly haired and low. 
 And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed, 
 Spake more than Woman's Thought ; and all her face 
 Was moulded to such Features as declared 
 That Pity there had oft and strongly worked. 
 And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien, 
 And like an haughty Huntress of the Woods 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. $1 
 
 In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs 
 And touched not the pollutions of the Dead. 
 
 'Twas the cold season when the Eustic's eye 
 From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 
 Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints 
 And clouds slow-varying their huge imagery ; 
 When now, as she was wont, the healthral Maid 
 Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 
 Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 
 Urged hy the indwelling angel-guide, that oft, 
 With dim inexplicable sympathies 
 Disquieting the Heart, shapes out Man's course 
 To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent 
 She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 
 The Pilgrim-Man, who long since eve had watched 
 The alien shine of unconcerning Stars, 
 Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights 
 Seen in Neufchatel's vale ; now slopes adown 
 The winding sheep-t'rack valeward • when, behold 
 In the first entrance of the level road 
 An unattended Team ! The foremost horse 
 Lay with stretched limbs ; the others, yet alive 
 But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes • 
 
 Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally 
 The dark-red dawn new glimmered ; but its gleams 
 Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused, 
 Then hailed who might bp near. No voice replied. 
 From the thwart wain at^length there reached her ear 
 A sound so feeble that it almost seemed 
 Distant : aud feebly, with slow effort pushed, 
 A miserable man crept forth : his limbs 
 The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire. 
 Faint on the shafts he rested. She, mean time. 
 Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 
 A mother and her children — lifeless all. 
 Yet lovely ! not a lineament was marred — 
 Death had put on so slumber-like a form ! 
 It was a piteous sight ; and one, a babe, 
 The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips, 
 Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand 
 Stretched on her bosom. 
 
 Mutely questioning, 
 The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
 He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
 Looked with a vacant stare, and his eyes spoke 
 The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish. 
 She shuddered : but, each vainer pang subdued. 
 Quick disentangling from the foremost horse 
 The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 
 The stiff cramped team forced homewaxd. There arrived, 
 
 D* 
 
82 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs, 
 
 And weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death 
 
 Spreads o'er his limbs ; and ere the noon-tide hour, 
 
 The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes 
 
 Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs, 
 
 With interruptions long from ghastly throes, 
 
 His voice had faltered out this simple tale. 
 
 The Village, where he dwelt an Husbandman 
 By sudden inroad had been seized and flred 
 Late on ilio yester-evening. With his wife 
 And little ones he hurried his escape. 
 They saw the neighbouring Hamlets flame, they heard 
 Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on 
 Through unfrequented roads, a weary way ! 
 But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 
 Their evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread. 
 The air dipt keen, the night was fanged with frost 
 And they provisionless ! The weeping wife 
 111 hushed her children's moans ; and still they moaned, 
 Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life. 
 They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas Death. 
 He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team. 
 Gained a sad respite, till beside the base 
 Of the high hill his foremost horso dropped dead. 
 Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 
 He crept beneath the coverture, entranced, 
 Till wakened by the maiden. — Such his tale. 
 
 Ah ! suffering to the height of what was suffered, 
 Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
 Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark ! 
 And now her flushed tumultuous features shot 
 Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
 Of misery Fancy-crazed ! and now once more 
 Naked,' and void, and fixed, and all within 
 The unquiet silence of confused thought 
 And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand 
 Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 
 To the high hill-top tracing back her steps. 
 Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stbnes ' 
 
 The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there. 
 Unconscious of the driving element. 
 Yea, swallowed up in the ominous dream she sate. 
 Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber ! a dim anguish 
 Breathed from her look ! and still with pant and sob, 
 Inly she toil'd to flee, aud still subdued, 
 Felt an inevitable Presence near. , 
 
 Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy. 
 An horror of great darkness wrapt her round. 
 And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS, so 
 
 Calming her soul, — " Oh Thou of the Most Hi^n 
 " Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven 
 " Behold expectant ' 
 
 'The following fragments were intended to form part of the Poem 
 \yheu finished.] ' , 
 
 ' "^aid beloved of Heaven ! 
 (To ber the tutelary Power exclaimed) 
 •' Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 
 " Thou seest , foul missionaries of fouJ sire, ^ 
 
 '■■ Fierce to regain thi losses of that hour 
 " When Love rose glittering, and h" gorgeous wings 
 " Over the abyss fluttered with such glad noise, 
 " As what time after lon^ and pestful calms, 
 " With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
 " Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze 
 '• Wakens the merchant-sa;il uprising. Night 
 " An heavy unimaginable inoan 
 "Sent forth, when she tne Protoplast beheld 
 " Stand beauteous en Coufusio-i's charmed wave. 
 " Moaning she fled, and entered ihe Profound 
 "That leads with downward windings to the Cave 
 " Of dirknass palpable, Desert of Death 
 '- Sunk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 
 " There many a dateless age the beldame lurked 
 " And trembled ; till engendered by fierce Hate, 
 " Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dheam arose, 
 " Shaped like a black cloud marked with streaks of fir^ 
 " It roused the Hell-Hag : she the dew-damp vriped 
 " Prom off her brow, and through the uncouth maze 
 " Retraced her steps ; but ere she reached the mouth 
 " Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused, 
 " Nor dared re-enter the diminished Gulph. 
 "As through the dark vaults of some mouldered Tower 
 " (Which, fearful to approach, the evening Hind 
 " Circles at distance in his homeward way) 
 "The winds breathe hpUow, deemed the plaining groan 
 " Of prisoned spirits ; with such fearful voice 
 " Night murmured, and the sound through Chaos went 
 " Leaped at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! 
 " A dark behest they heard, and rushed on earth ; 
 " Since that sad hour, in Camps and Courts adored, 
 " Rebels from God, and Monarchs o'er Mankind !" 
 
 From his obscure haunt 
 Shrieked Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly Dam, 
 Feverish yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow, 
 As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds. 
 Ague, the bifomi Hag! when early SpT-ing 
 Beams on the marsh-bred vapours. 
 
B4 JirVEKILE POEMS. 
 
 "Even so" (the exulting Maiden s'aid) 
 " The sainted Heralds of Good Tidings fell, 
 " And thus they witnessed God ! But now the clouds 
 " Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
 " Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 
 ' ' Loud songs of Triumph ! O ye spirits of God, 
 "Hover around my mortal agonies'!" 
 She spake, and instantly faint melody 
 Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow. 
 Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard 
 By aged Hermit in his hojy dream, i 
 
 Foretell and*8olace death r, and now they rise 
 Louder, as when with hajp and mingled voice 
 The white-robed* multitude of slaughtered saints 
 At Heaven's wide-opened»portals gratulant 
 Receive some martyr'd Patriot. The harmony 
 Entrance' the Maid, till each suspended sense 
 Brief slumher seized, and confused ecstasy. 
 
 At length awakening slow, she gazed around : 
 And through a Mist, the relict of that trance, 
 Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appeared. 
 Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs, 
 Glassed on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
 Stretched opposite, where ever and anon 
 The Plough-man, following sad his meagre team 
 Turned up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones 
 Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
 All mingled lay beneath the common earth, 
 Death's gloomy reconcilement ! O'er the fields 
 Stept a fair form, repairing all she might, 
 Her temples olive-wreathed; and where she trod, 
 Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb. 
 But wan her cheelc, her footsteps insecure, 
 And anxious pleasure beamed in her faint eye, 
 As she had newly left a couch of pain. 
 Pale Convalescent ! (Yet some tiijie to rule 
 With power exclusive o'er the willing world. 
 That blessed prophetic mandate then fulfilled 
 Peace be on Earth !) An happy while, but brief. 
 She seemed to wander with assiduous feet. 
 And healed the recent harm of chill and blight. 
 And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew. 
 
 But soon a deep precursive sound moaned hollo^w : 
 Black rose the clouds, and now, ^as in a dream) 
 
 * Revel, vi. 9, 11. And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw 
 under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of 
 God, and for the testimony which they held . And white robes were 
 given unto every one ot them; and it was said unto them, that t ey 
 should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow-servants also 
 and their brethren, that should be fcillod as they were, should be ful- 
 filled. 
 
JUVENILE POEMS. 85 
 
 Their reddening shapes, transformed to Warrior-hosts, 
 
 Coursed o'er the Sky, and battled in mid-air. 
 
 Nor did not the large blood-drops fall fi?om Heaven 
 
 Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float. 
 
 Like hideous features booming on the mist. 
 
 Wan Stains of ominous Light ! Eesigned, yet sad, 
 
 The fair Form bowed her olive-crowned Brow, 
 
 Then o'er the plain with oft reverted eye 
 
 Fled till a Place of Tombs she reached, and there 
 
 Within a ruined Sepulchre obscure 
 
 Found Hiding-place. , 
 
 The delegated Maid 
 Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones exclaimed ■ 
 " Thou mild-eyed Form ! wherefore, ah ! wherefore fled f " 
 " The::ower of Justice like a name all Light, 
 " k "lone from th- brow ; but all they, who unblamed 
 " Dwc'-t in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness. 
 " 'W '^hy, uninjured and unprofited, 
 " Shor 1 ^ ou tudes against their brethren rush ? 
 " Why sow the. guilt, still reaping Misery ? 
 "Lr .lent of earo, thy soncs, O Peace! are sweet, 
 ".*T after showers the perfumed gale of eve. 
 " That flings tho cool drops on a feverous cheek : 
 " ' Jid J, ^.y thy grassy altar iled with fruits. 
 " Bui boastn the shrine of Daemon War one charm, 
 " Save th3,t wi( many an orgie strange and foul, 
 " Dancing' arouu " with interwoven arms, 
 " The Maniac Suicide arid Giant Murder 
 ■' Exult in their fierce uni' ■ ! I am sad, 
 , '' And know not why the simple Peasants crowd 
 " Beneath the Chieftain's standard !" Thus the Maid. 
 
 To her the tutelary Spirit replied : 
 " When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores 
 " No more can rouse the appetites of Kings ; 
 " When the low flattery of their reptile Lords 
 '' Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear ; 
 " When Eunuolis sing, and Fools buffoonery make, 
 " And Dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain; 
 " Then War and all its dread vicissitudes 
 " Pleasingly agitate their stagnant Hearts ; < 
 
 " Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 
 "Inspired Royalty's keen condiment ! 
 " Therefore, uninjured and unprofited, 
 " (Victims at once and Executioners) 
 " The congregated Husbandmen lay waste 
 " The Vineyard and the Harvest. As along 
 " The Bothnio coast, or southward of the Line, 
 " Though hushed the Winds and cloudless the high Noon, 
 " Yet if LEViAi'HAlf, weary of ease, 
 " In sports unwieldy toss his Island-bulk, 
 
86 JUVENILE POEMS. 
 
 •" Ocean behind him billows, and before 
 ■' A storm of waves breaks foamy ou the strand. 
 "And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark, 
 " Short Teace shall skin the wounds oi causeless War, 
 " And Wai', his strained sinews knit anew, 
 " Still violate the unfinished works of Peace. 
 " But yonder look ! for more den)an<lB ihy view !" 
 He said : and straigbtway from the opposite Isle 
 . A Vapour sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled 
 From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence, 
 Travels thC/Sky for many a trackless league. 
 Till o'er some Death-doom land, distant in vain, 
 It^broods incumbent. Forthwith from the Plain, 
 Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose. 
 And steered its course which way the Vapour went. 
 
 The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean. 
 But long time passed.uot, ere that brighter Cloud 
 Returned mpre bright; along the Plan ..t swept ; 
 And soon from forth its bursting sides e erged 
 A dazzling form, broad-bosomed, bold of eye. 
 And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound. 
 Not move majestic stood the healing God, 
 When from his bow the arrow sped that slew 
 Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng. 
 And with them Mssed t > Locust- "ends that crawled 
 And glittered in Corruption's slimy track. 
 Great was their wr^th, f>.r short they knew their reign ; 
 And such commotion made they, and uproar, 
 As when the mad Tornad bellows through 
 The guilty islands of the western main, • 
 
 What time departing from ir native shores, 
 Eboe, or * Koromantyn's plain of Palms, 
 The infuriate spirits of the Murdered make 
 
 * The Slaves in the West Indies qonsider death as a passport to 
 their native country. This si^ntiment, is thus expressed in the in- 
 troduction to a Greeli Prize Ode on the Slave Trade, of which the 
 ideas are better than the language in which they are conveyed. 
 
 ShntoTov TTuAds, Qavare, TrpoXeiTrniv 
 Es 7ej/os tTTTGuSots v7ro^€uj^9ei' Ara- 
 Ou gecMrflqoTJ ■^evviav trTrapay^oi^ 
 
 Ouo oAoAvy/xu, 
 
 AAAa KOL kvkKoutl \opoiTviTouri 
 
 AAA' ojJLfiK EAeudepLa avvoiK^l'; 
 
 Xrvyve Tvpaw£ 1 
 
 AouTKLots €Trei 7rT€pu7e(r(rt tnjcrt 
 A! daAacnnof KaSopwi'Te? ot8/i.a 
 AtSepoTrAayTois vwo Trocrcr' ni'furt 
 
 IlaTptS* ejr' ataf. 
 
' ' JUVENILE I'OEMS. 87 
 
 Fierce luerriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven. 
 Wanned with new influence, the unwholesome Plain 
 Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the Mom : 
 The Sun that rose on Eeebdom, rose in Blood ! 
 
 " Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Hbaven!" 
 (To her the tutelary Spirit said) 
 " Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day, 
 " The stormy Morning into cloudless Noon. 
 " Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
 " But this be thy best Omen— Save thy Country 1" 
 Thus saying, ^rom the answering Maid he passed. 
 And with him disappeared the Heavenly Vision. 
 
 " Gloi'y to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! 
 "AH conscious Presence of the Universe! 
 " Nature's vast Ever-acting Energy ! 
 " In Will, in Deed, Impulse of Ail to All ! 
 " Whether thy Love with unrefraoted Eay 
 " Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if 
 " Diseasing Eealmsthe Enthusiast, wild of Thought, 
 " Scatter new Frenzies on the infected Throng, 
 " Thon Both inspiring and predooming Both, 
 " Pit Instruments and best, of perfect End : 
 "Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven!" 
 
 And first a Landscape rose, 
 More wild and waste and desolatcthan where 
 The white bear, drifting on a iield of ice. 
 Howls to her sundered cubs wi th piteous rage 
 And savage agony. 
 
 Ev9a fiatf Efmtrai Epciijuei/ijcrw' 
 Afi^i TTTjyijtriv KLTptvitiv vjt' oAcrb)!', 
 Otra VTTQ ^poTOis eirajSov jSpoToi, Ta 
 
 LITERAL TRANSLATION. 
 
 Leaving the Gates of Darkness, O Death I hasten thou to a Race 
 yoked with Misery! Thou wilt not be received with lacerations of 
 cheeks, nor with funereal ululation— but with circling dances and 
 the joy Of songs. TJiou art terrible indeed, yet thou dwellest witii 
 Liberty, stem pENros! Borne- on thy dark pinions over the swell- 
 ing of Ocean, they return to their native country. There, by the side 
 of Fountains beneath Citron^groves,'the lovers tell to tlieir beloved 
 what horro'rs, being Men, they had endured from Men. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 I.— POEMS OCCASIOSTED BY POLITICAL EVENTS 
 OR PEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 
 The Student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my country! Am I to be blamed? 
 
 But, when I think of Thee, and what Thou art. 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 But dearly must we prize thee; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark of the cause of men; - 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled. 
 
 What wonder if a poet, now and then. 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind. 
 
 Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 ODE TO THE DEPAETING YEAH.* 
 
 loif, ioVj 6i S> Koxa- 
 Yir ail fit fleti/os opdofLavreiai novos 
 STpoiSei, Tapdtrtrtov <^poi|LLiOL9, c0T]jaloi5 
 * * ' * * * 
 
 To fi4A\ov ^?et. Kai ov (tijif raxet rrapitv 
 "Ayav y a\Ti66ti-av7Lv [*.' epets. 
 
 ^SOHYii. Agam. 1235. 
 
 AEGUMENT. 
 
 The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine Providence, 
 that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time, how- . 
 ever calamitous some of them may appear to mortals.* The second 
 Strophe calls on men to suspend their private joys and sorrows, and ' 
 devote them for a while to the cause of human nature in general. 
 The first Epbde speaks of the Empress of Russia, who died of an 
 apoplexy on the 17th of November, 1796; having just concluded a 
 subsidiary treaty with the Kings combined against France. The 
 first and second Ahtistrophe describe the Image of the Departing 
 Year, &c., as in a vision. The second prophesies, in anguish of spirit, 
 the downfall of this country. 
 
 I. 
 
 Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Jime ! 
 It is most hard with an untioubled ear 
 
 * This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of De- 
 oeajber, 1796 ; and was flrst published on the last day of that year. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 89 
 
 Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
 Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging clime, 
 Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 
 
 With inward stillness, and submitted mind ; 
 
 When lo 1 its folds far waving on the wind, 
 I saw the train of the Depakting Year ! 
 
 Starling from my silent sadness 
 
 Then with no unholy madness 
 Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, 
 I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 
 
 Hither, from the recent Tomb, 
 From the Prison's direr gloom, 
 From Distemper's midnight anguish; ■ 
 And thence, where Poverty doth waste and languish; 
 Or where, his two bright torches blending. 
 
 Love illumines Manhood's maze ; 
 Or where o'er cradled infants bending 
 Hope has fixed her wishful gaze. 
 Hither, in perplexed dance. 
 Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
 By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
 Whose indefatigable sweep 
 Raises its fatefiS strings from sleep, 
 I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 
 From every private bower. 
 
 And each domestic hearth, 
 Haste for one solemn hour ; 
 And with a loud and yet a louder voice. 
 O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth, 
 
 Weep and rejoice ! • 
 Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth 
 Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell. 
 
 And now advance in saintly Jubilee 
 Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell, 
 They too obey thy name, Divinest LiBEKTy 1 
 
 I marked Ambition in his war-array ! 
 
 I heard the mailed Monarch's .troublous cry — 
 " Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stayf 
 " Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? 
 Fly, mailed Monarch, fly ! 
 
 Stunned hy Death's twice mortal mace. 
 
 No more on Murder's lurid face 
 The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye I 
 
 Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
 
 Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain! 
 Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, 
 When human ruin choked the streams, 
 
90 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
 Mid women's shrieks a&d infants' screams I 
 Spirits of the uncofflned slain, ■ 
 
 Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
 Oft, at night, in misty train, 
 
 Eush around her narrow dwelling ! 
 The exterminating fiend is fled — 
 
 (Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
 Mighty armies of the dead 
 , Dance like death-fires round her tombi 
 Then with prophetic song relate. 
 Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 
 
 rv- 
 
 Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 
 My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
 Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne. 
 Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 
 With many an unimaginable groan 
 Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 
 Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories 
 shone. 
 Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, 
 From the choired Gods advancing. 
 The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet, 
 And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 
 
 Throughout the blissful throng. 
 Hushed were harp and song : 
 Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven, 
 (The mystic Words of Heaven) 
 Permissive signal make : 
 The fervent Spirit bowed, then spread his wings and spake ! 
 " Thou in stormy blackness throning 
 
 " Love and uncreated Light, 
 " By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
 " Seize thy terrors, Arm of might T 
 " By Peace, with proffered insult scared, 
 "Masked Hate and envying Scorn ! 
 " By years of Havoc yet unborn ! 
 " And Hunger's bosom to the frost- winds bared ! 
 "But chief by Afric's wrongs, 
 
 " Stranger horrible, and foul! 
 " By what deep guilt belongs 
 " To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies !' 
 " By Wealth's insensate laugh ! by Torture's howl 1 
 " Avenger, rise ! 
 " For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
 " Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow If 
 " Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven O speak aloud ! 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 91 
 
 "Ancl on tlio darkling foe 
 'Open tbine eyo of firo fiom Bomo uncertain olond! 
 
 " O dart tbe flash! O rise and deal the blow! 
 'The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries! 
 " Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below! 
 'SEise, God of Nature ! rise. ' 
 
 The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
 Yet still I gasped arid reeled with dxead. 
 And ever, when the dream of night 
 Eenows the phantom to my sight, 
 Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 
 
 My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start,; , 
 My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
 
 Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
 And my thick and struggling breath 
 Imitates the toil of Death ! 
 No stranger agony confounds 
 
 The Soldier on tjie war-field spread, 
 When all foredone with toil and wounds. 
 
 Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ; 
 (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled. 
 
 And the night-wind clamours hoarse! 
 See ! the starting wretch's head 
 
 Lies pillowed on a brother's corse !) 
 
 Not yqt enslaved, not wholly vile, 
 O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! 
 Thy vallies, fair as Eden's bowers; 
 Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
 Thy grassy uplands' gfeutle swells 
 
 Echo to the bleat of flocks; 
 (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 
 
 Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
 And Ocean mid his uproar wild 
 Speaks safety to his islan d-chiu) ! 
 
 Hence for many a fearless age 
 
 Has social Quiet loved thy shore; 
 Nor ever proud Invader's rage 
 Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore. 
 
 Abandoned of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide, 
 At cowardly distance, yet kindling witli pride — 
 Mid thy herbs and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood. 
 And joined the wild yelling of Famine and Blood ! 
 The nations curse thee ! They with eagA wondering 
 
 Shall hear DBSTEUcnoiir, like a Vulture, scream! 
 
 Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream 
 
93 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Of central fires through nether seas upthundeiing 
 Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
 
 By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 
 If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 
 O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise. 
 
 The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap. 
 
 Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed sleep. 
 
 Away, my soul, awayl 
 In V£un, in vain the Birds of vraming sing — 
 And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey 
 Flap their lank pennons on the groaning -wind! 
 A'-ay, my soul, away! 
 I unpartaking of the evil thing, 
 With daily Jirayer and daUy toil, 
 Soliciting for food m; scanty soil, 
 Have wailod my country ^^ith a loud Lament. 
 Now I recentre my immortal mind 
 
 In the deep aal>bath of mp'^ self-content; 
 Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
 God's Image, sister of the seraphim. 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 I. 
 
 Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 
 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may controul I 
 
 Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll. 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 Ye Woods! tha listen to the night-bird's singing, 
 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, 
 Save when your own imperious Irauches swinging 
 
 Have ■' 'e a solemn music of the wind I 
 Where, like ami beloved of God, 
 Through gloom which never woo..:man trod. 
 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, 
 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of foUy. > 
 
 By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! 
 O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high! 
 
 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! 
 Thou rising Sun' thou blue rejoicing Sky! 
 
 Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
 
 Bear wiluess for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 
 With what deep worship I have still adored 
 
 The spirit of divinest Liberty. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 93 
 
 When France in wrath her giant-limbs npreared, 
 
 And with ' hat oath, which smote air, earth and sea, 
 
 St .mped her strong foot and said she would be free, 
 Bear witness for me, now I hoped and feared! 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unawfed I sang, amid a slavish band: 
 And when to whelji the disenchanted nation. 
 
 Like fiends embu,ttled by a wizard's wand, 
 The Monarclts marched in evil day, 
 And ^ itain joined the dire array ; 
 
 Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
 Though many fiiendships, ma- 7 -outhful loves 
 
 Had swoln the patriot emotion 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves ; 
 Yet still my v lice, unaltered, sang d 'eat 
 
 To all t'- it bravel tha tyrant- quelling lance, 
 And sham J too long delayed an 1 vain retreat ! 
 For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim 
 I dimmed t7iy light oTdcaiipid thy holy flame ; 
 
 But blessed the pseans of delivered France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 "And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream 
 
 " Witli that sweet music of deliveranc > -trove ! 
 
 " Though all the fierce and drunken pa; jions woye 
 " A danco more wild than e'er was uaniac's dream i 
 
 "Ye storms, that round the da ning c:ist aosembled, 
 " The Sun was rising, though yo hid his light !" 
 
 And when, to soothe my soul, Tiat hope 1 and trembled, 
 The dissonance ceased, and i 11 seemed calm i.nd bright ; 
 
 When France her front deep-scarr'd and jory 
 
 Concealed with clustering ■v/rcatha of glory ; 
 When, insupportably advancing. 
 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp; 
 While til lid loots of fury glanci:ig, 
 
 Domestic treason, ciushed beneath her fatal stamp. 
 Writhed like a wounded dragon in Lis gore 
 
 Then I reproached my fears that would not flee ; 
 "And Boon," I said, "sball Wisdom toach her lore 
 " In the low huts of them that toil and groan! 
 "And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
 
 " Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
 " Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth theit 
 
 Fprgi ve me, Freedqm ! O forgive those dreams ! 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent-— 
 
 I heai thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! 
 
94 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 I 
 
 Heroes, tliat for your peaceful country perisLecl, 
 And ye tbat, fleeing, spot yoiu' mountain-snows 
 
 With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, tliat I cherished 
 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 
 
 To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt. 
 
 Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 Of all that made the'? stormy wilds so dear ; 
 
 And with inexp able B irit 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
 O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, bhnd, 
 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
 Are these thy boasts, Champiouof human kind ; 
 
 To mix with F.ings in the low lust of sway. 
 Yell in tJie hunt, and share the murderous prey ; 
 To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
 
 From freemen torn ; to tempt and io betray ? 
 
 V. 
 
 The Sensual «nd the Dark rebel in vain, 
 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
 Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
 Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 
 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
 Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Not prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 
 
 Alike from Priestcraft' harpy minions. 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves I 
 And there I -elt thee! — on that sea-cliff's verge, 
 
 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above. 
 Had made one murmirr with the distant surge ! 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
 And shot my being through earth, sea and air. 
 Possessing all things with iutensest love, 
 O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
 February, 1797. 
 
 FEAES IN SOLITUDE. 
 
 WKITTEN IN APRIL, 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF AN 
 INVASION. 
 
 A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 No singing sky-lavk ever poised himself. 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 95 
 
 Wliich hath a gay and gorgeoue covering on, 
 All golden with the never-bloomless fujze, 
 Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell, 
 IJathed by the mist, is fresh and. delicate 
 As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, , ' 
 
 When, through its half-transparent stallss, at eve, 
 The level Sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
 Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he, 
 The humble man. who; in his youthful years, 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 H is early manhood more securely wise ! 
 Here he might lie on fern or withered heath. 
 While from the singing lark (that sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,) 
 And from the Sun, and from the breezy Air, 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 ' And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 llcligious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, 
 And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark, 
 That slngest like an angel in the clou'.la! 
 
 My God! it is a melancholy thing 
 For such a man, who would full vain preserve 
 His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
 For all his human brethren — O my God ! 
 It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
 What uproar and what strife may now be stirring; 
 This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
 And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 
 And undetermined conflict — even now, \ 
 
 Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: 
 Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sunt 
 We have ofifended. Oh ! countrymen ! 
 We have oftended very grievously, 
 And been most tyrannous. From east to west 
 A groan of accusation pierces Heaven 1 
 The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 
 Countless and vehement, the Sons of God, 
 Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on. 
 Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, 
 Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 
 And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs. 
 And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
 With slow perdition murders the whole niau. 
 His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home. 
 All individual dignity and power 
 Kn!;ulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 
 
96 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Associations and Societies, 
 
 A vain, speech-moutHng, speech-reporting Gnild, 
 
 One Bei«^efit-Club for mutual flattery. 
 
 We have drunk Up, demure as at a grace, 
 
 Pollutions from the brimiuing cup of vrealth; 
 
 Contemptuous of all honourable rule, 
 
 Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
 
 For gold, as at a market! The sweet words 
 
 Of Christian promise, vrords that even yet 
 
 Might stem destruction, vrere they vyisely preached, 
 
 Are muttered o'er by men, vyhose tones proclaim 
 
 How flat and wearisome they' feel their trade : 
 
 Bank scoffers some, but most too indolent 
 
 To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 
 
 Oh! blasphemous! the book of life is made 
 
 A superstitious ifistrument, on which 
 
 We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 
 
 For all must swear — all and in every place, 
 
 College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
 
 All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 
 
 Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 
 
 The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 
 
 All, all makeup one scheme of perjury, 
 
 That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 
 
 Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy, 
 
 Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
 
 (Portentous sight!) the owlet, Atheism, ■ 
 
 Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, 
 
 Drops his blue-fringed Eds, and holds them close 
 
 And hooting at the glorious Sun in Heaven, 
 
 Cries out, "Where is it V> 
 
 Thankless too for peace, 
 (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas) 
 Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
 To swell the war- whoop, passionate for war! 
 Alas! for ages ignorant of all 
 Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague. 
 Battle, or siegfe, or flight through wintry-snows,) 
 We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
 For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
 The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 
 Spectators and not combatants ! No Guess 
 Anticipative of a wrong unfelt. 
 No speculation or contingency. 
 However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
 To yield a justifying cause ; and forth, 
 (Stuffed out with big preamble, lioly names, 
 And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) 
 We send our mandates for the certain death 
 Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and ^lls, 
 And women, that would groan to see a child 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. §7 
 
 Pull off an inaept's leg, aU r^ad of war, 
 
 The best amusement for our morning meal I 
 
 The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 
 
 From curses, who knows scarcely words enough 
 
 To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 
 
 Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
 
 And technical in victories and deceit, 
 
 Afid all our dainty terms for fratricide , 
 
 Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 
 
 Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
 
 We join no feeling and attach no form ! 
 
 As if the soldier died without a wound ; 
 
 As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
 
 Were gorged without a pang ; as if the wretch. 
 
 Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 
 
 Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;^ 
 
 As though he had no wife to pine for him. 
 
 No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 
 
 Are coming on us, my countrymen 1 
 
 And what if all-avenging Providence, 
 
 Strong and retributive, should make us know 
 
 The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
 
 The desolation and the agony 
 
 Of our fierce doings ! 
 
 Spare us yet awhile. 
 Father and God ! Oh ! spare us yet awhile ! 
 Oh I let not English women drag their flight 
 Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes. 
 Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
 Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all 
 Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
 Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, 
 And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
 Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure! 
 Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
 Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 
 Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
 With deeds of murder; and still promising 
 Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free, 
 Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
 Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 
 And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
 Kender them back upon the insulted ocean, 
 And let them toss as idly on its waves 
 As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast 
 Swept from our shores ! And oh I may we return 
 Not with a drunkeh triumph, but with fear, 
 Eepenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
 So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 
 
 I have told, 
 O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told 
 
98 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
 
 Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-timed ; 
 
 For never can true courage dwell with them, 
 
 Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
 
 At their own vices. We have been too long 
 
 Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike. 
 
 Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
 
 All change from change of constituted power ; 
 
 As if a Governrnent had been a robe, 
 
 On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged 
 
 Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 
 
 Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
 
 A radical causation to a few 
 
 Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
 
 Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
 
 From our own folly and rank wickedness. 
 
 Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, 
 
 meanwhile, 
 Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
 Who will not fall before their images, 
 And yield them worship, they are enemies 
 Even of their country t 
 
 Such have I been deemed^ 
 But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
 Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
 To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
 A husband, and a father! who revere 
 All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
 Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
 
 native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! 
 
 How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and lioly 
 
 To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 
 
 Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 
 
 Have drunk in all my intellectual life. 
 
 All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts. 
 
 All adoration of the God in Nature, 
 
 All lovely and all honourable things. 
 
 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 
 The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
 
 There Hves nor form nor feeling in my soul 
 
 Unborrowed from my country. O divine 
 
 And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
 
 And most magnificent temple, in the whicli 
 
 1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, 
 Loving the God that made me ! 
 
 May my fears. 
 My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
 And menance of the vengeful enemy 
 Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 
 In the distant tree': which heard,- and only heard 
 In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass. 
 
SIBYLLINU LEAVES. 99 
 
 But novr the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
 The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
 The light has left the summit of the hill, 
 Though still' a sunny gleam liesbeautiful, 
 Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, 
 Fare^vell, awhile, O soft and silent spot! 
 On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
 Homeward I wind my way ; and lo! recalled 
 Prom bodings that have well nigh wearied me, 
 I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
 Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
 In such a quiet aud surrounded nook. 
 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy Main, 
 Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
 Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
 And elmy Fields, seems like society — 
 Conversing with the mind, aud giving it 
 A livelier impulse and a dance of thought! 
 And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
 Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the fourh'JBB elms 
 Clustering, which mark the mansion of my fnund ; 
 And close behind them, hidden from my view. 
 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babt. 
 And my babe's mother dwell in peace ,' With light 
 And quickened footsteps thitlierward 1 rend, 
 Eemembering thee, O green .and silent dell ! 
 And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
 And solitary musings, all my heart 
 Is softened, and made worthy to indulge 
 Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 
 Nether Stowey, April 28, 1T98. 
 
 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 A WAR ECLOGUE. 
 
 APOLOGETIC PREFACE. 
 At the house of a gentleman, who by the principles and corre- 
 sponding virtues of a sincere Christian consecrates ajiultivated 
 fenlus and the favourable aecidents oi birth, opulence^nd splen- 
 id connexions, it was my good fortuue to meet, in a dinner-party, 
 with more men of celebrity in scienct) or polite literature, than are 
 commonly found collected round thb same table. In the course of 
 conversation, one of the party reminded an illustrious Poet, then, 
 present, of some verses which he had recited that morning, and 
 which had appeared in a newspaper under the name of. a War 
 Eclogue, in which Fire, Famme, and Slaughter, were introduced as 
 the speakers. The gentleman so addressed replied, that he was 
 rather surprised that none of us shduld have noticed or heard of the 
 
 {loem, as it had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in Scotland. 
 t may be easily supposed, that my feelings were at this moment 
 not of the most comfortable kind. Of all present, one only knew, 
 or suspected me to be the author; a man who would have estab- 
 lished himself in the first rank of England's living Poets, if the 
 
ioo Sibylline leaves. 
 
 Gtenius of our country had not decreed that he should rather be 
 the first In the first rank of its Philosophers and scientific Benefac- 
 tors. It appeared the general wish to hear the lines. As my friend 
 chose to remain silent, I chose to follow his example, and Mr. ***** 
 recited the Poem. This he could do with the better grace, being 
 > known to have ever been not only a firm and active Anti- Jacobin 
 and Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, both 
 as a good man and a great Statesman. As a Poet exclusively, he 
 had been amused with the Eclogue; as a Poet, he recited it; and in 
 a spirit, which made it evident, that he would have read and 
 repeated it with the same pleasure, had his own name been attached 
 to the imaginary object or agent. 
 
 After the recitation, our amiable host observed, that m his 
 opinion Mr. ***** had over-rated the merits of the poetry; but had 
 they been tenfold greater, they could not have compensated for 
 that malignity of heart, which could alone have prompted senti-, 
 ments so atrocious, I perceived thati my illustrious friend became 
 greatly distressed on my account; but fortunately I was able to 
 preserve fortitude and presence of mind enough to take up the 
 subject without exciting even a suspicion, how nearly and painfully 
 it interested me. 
 
 What follows, is substantially the same as I then replied, but 
 dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not my intention, I 
 said, to justify the publication, whatever its author's feelings might 
 have been at the time of composing it. That they are calculated to 
 call forth so severe a reprobation from a good man, is not the 
 worst feature of such poems. Their moral deformity is aggravated 
 in proportion to the pleasure which they are capable of affording 
 to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled readers. Could it be 
 supposed, thougn for a moment, that the author seriously wisiied 
 what he has thus wildly imagined, even the attempt to palliate an 
 inhumanity so monstrous would be an insult to the hearers. But 
 it seemed to me worthy of consideration, whether the mood of 
 mind, and the general state of sensations, in which a Poet produces 
 such vivid and fantastic images, is likely to co-exist, or is even com^ 
 patible with, that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a serious 
 wish to realize thehi would pre-suppose. It had been often observed, 
 and all my experience tended to confirm the observation, that 
 prospects of pain and evil to others, and in general, all deep feel- 
 ings of revenge, are commonly expressed in a few words, ironically 
 tame, and mild. The mind under so direful and fiend-like an 
 influence seems to take a morbid pleasure in contrasting the 
 intensity of its wishes and feelings, with the slightness or levity of 
 the expressions by which they are hinted; and indeed feelings so 
 intense and soUtary, if they were not precluded (as in almost all 
 cases they would be) by a constitutional activity of fancy and asso- 
 ciation, and by the specific joyousness combined with it, would 
 assuredly themselves preclude such activity. Passion, in its own 
 quality, is the antagonist of action ; though in an ordinary and 
 natural degree the former alternates with the latter, and thereby 
 revives and strengthens it. But the more intense and insane the 
 passion isAthe fewer and the more fixed are the correspondent 
 forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an inveterate tnirsc of 
 revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies round its favorite 
 object, and exercises as it were a perpetual tautologs^ of mind in 
 thoughts and words, which admit of no adequate substitutes. like 
 a fish in a globe of glass, it moves restlessly round and round the 
 scanty circumference, which it cannot leave without losing its vital 
 element. '' 
 
 There is a second character of such imaginary representations as 
 spring from a real and earnest desire of evil to another, which we 
 often see iil real life, and might even anticipate from the nature of 
 the mind. The images, I mean, that a vindictive man places before 
 his ima^nation, will most often be taken from the realities of life : 
 fhey win be images of pain and suffering which he has himself seen 
 Inflicted on other men, and which he can fancy himself as inflicting 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 1:1 
 
 on the object of bis hatred. I will suppose that we had h<?ard at ' 
 different times two common sailors, each speaking of some one who 
 had wronged or offended him; that the first with apparent violence 
 had devoted every p^irt of his adversary's body and soul to all the 
 horrid phantoms and fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt of, 
 and this in a rapid flow of those outr^ and wildly combined execra- 
 tions, which too often with our lower classes serve for escape-valves 
 to carry off the excess of their passions, as so much superfluous 
 steam that would endanger the vessel if It were retained. The other 
 on the contrary, with Lhat sort of calmness of tone which is to the 
 ear what the paleness of an^er is to the eye, shall simply say, " If I 
 chance to be made boatswain, as I hope 1 seen shall, and can but 
 once get that feUow under my ha;nd (and I shall be upon the watch 
 for him,) I'll tickle his pretty skin I I won't hurt him 1 oh no 1 I'll 
 only cut the to the liverl " 1 dare appeal to all 
 
 § resent, which of the two they would regard as the least 
 eceptive symptom of deliberate malignity? nay, whether it would 
 surprise them, to see the first fellow, an hour or two afterward, 
 cordially shaking hands with the very man, the fractional parts of 
 whose body and soul he had been so charitably disposing- of;^or 
 even perhaps risking his life for him. What language Shakspeare 
 considered characteristic of malignant disposition, we see in the 
 speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who spoke "an infinite deal 
 of nothing more than any man in all Venice; 
 
 "Too wild, too rude and bol4 of voice!" 
 
 the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and wonja reciprocally ran 
 away wim each other; 
 
 " O be thou dalan'd, inexorable dogi 
 
 And for thy life let justice be accusedl" 
 
 and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shylock's tranquil 
 * ■ J stand here for Law. ' ' 
 
 Or, to take a case more analogous to the present subject, should 
 we hold it either fair or charitable to beUeve it to have been Dante's 
 serious wish, that all the persons mentioned by him, (many recently 
 departed, and some eyen alive at the time,) should actually suffer 
 the fantastic and horrible punishments, to which he has sentenced 
 them in his Bell and Purgatory f Or what shall we say of the 
 passages in which Bishop Jeremy Taylor anticipates the state of 
 those who, vicious themselves, have been the cause of vice and 
 misery to their fellow-creatures. Could we endure for aimoment to 
 think that a spirit, like Bishop Taylor's, burning with Christian love; 
 that a man constitutionallyoverflowingwith pleasurable kindliness; 
 who scarcely even in a casual iUustration introduces the image of 
 woman, child, or bird, but he embalms the thought with so rich a 
 tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties and fragments 
 of poetry from an Euripides or Simonides;~can we endure to think, 
 that a man so natured and so disciplined, did at the time ol com- 
 posing this horrible picture, attach a sober feelipgof reality to the 
 phrases? or that he would have described in the same tone of justi- 
 fication, in the same luxuriant flow of phrases, the tortures about to 
 be inflicted on a living individual by a verdict of the Star-Chamber? 
 or the still more atrocious sentences executed on the Scotch anti- 
 prelatists and schismatics, at the command, and in some instances* 
 under the very eye of the Duke of Lauderdale, and of that wretched 
 bigot who afterwards dishonoured and forfeited the throne of Great 
 Britain? Or do we not rather feel and understand, that these violent 
 words were mere bubbles, flashes and electrical apparitions, from 
 the magic cauldron of a fervid and ebullient fancy, constantly fuelled 
 by an unexampled opulence of language? 
 
 Were I now to have read hy myself for the first time the Poem in 
 question, my conclusion. I fully believe, would be, that the writer 
 must have been some man of warm feelings and active fancy; that 
 ^e had painted to himself the circumstE^nces that accompany war 
 
102 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 in BO many vivid and yet fantastic forms, as proved that neither the 
 images nor the feelings vfere the result of observation, or in any 
 way derived from realities. I shoula judge, that they were the_ 
 product of his own seething imag' ation. and therefore impregnated 
 with that pleasurable exultation which is experienced in all energetic 
 exertion of intellectual power; that in the same mood he had 
 generalized the causes of the war, and then personified the abstract 
 and christened it by the name which he had been accustomed to 
 hear most often associated with its management and measures. I 
 should guess that the minister was in the author's min" at the 
 moment of composition, as completely an-aSij;, avai.ii.6<TapKiK, as 
 Anacreon's grasshopper, and that ne had as little notion of a real 
 person of ilesh and blood, ^ 
 
 "Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb," 
 
 as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half person, halj 
 allegory) which he lias placed at the gates of Hell. I concluded by 
 observing, that the Poem was not calculated to excite passion in any 
 mind, or to make any impression except on poetic readers; and that 
 from the culpable levity, betrayed at the close of the Eclogue by 
 the grotesque union of epigrammatic wit with allegoric personifica- 
 tion, in the allusion to tne most fearful of thoughts, I should oon- 
 J'ecture that the " rantin' Bardie, " instead of real^ ' lieving, much 
 ess wishing, the fate spoken of in the last line, in application to 
 any liuman individual, would shrink from passing the verdict even 
 on the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor Burns, 
 
 But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
 
 Oh! wad ye tak a thought'an' men! 
 
 Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken- 
 Still hae a stake — 
 
 I'm wae to think upon yon den, 
 
 Ev'n for your sake! 
 
 I need not say that these thoughts, which are here- dilated, were 
 in such a company only rapidly suggested. Our kind host smiled, 
 and with a courteous compliment observed, that the defence was 
 too good for the cause. My voice faltered a little, for I was some- 
 what agitated; though not so much on my own account as for the 
 uneasiness tlxat so kind and friendly a man would feel from the 
 thought that he had been the occasion of distressing me. At length 
 I brought out these words: "I must now confess. Sir! that lam 
 author of that Ppem. It was vmtten some years ag(i I do not 
 attempt to justify my past self , young as 1 then was; but as little 
 as I would now write a similar poem, so far was I even then from 
 imagining, that the lines would be taken as more or less than a sport 
 of fancy. At all events, if I know my own heart, there was never a 
 moment in my existence in which I should have been more ready, 
 had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to interpose my own body, and 
 defend his life at the risk of my own." 
 
 I have prefaced the Poem with this anecdote, becanse to have 
 printed It without any remark might well have been understood as 
 implying an unconditional approbation on my part, and this after 
 many yeara consideration . But if it be asked why I re-published it 
 at all? I answer, that the Poem had been attributed at different 
 times to different other person^: and what I had dared beget, I 
 thought it neither manly nor honourable not to dare father. From 
 the same motives I should have pubUshed perfect copies of two 
 Poems, the one entitled The DeviVs Thoughts, and the other Ttie Two 
 Bound Spaces on the Tomb-Stone, but that the three first stanzas 
 of the former, which were worth all the rest of the poem, and the 
 best stanza ot the remainder, were written by a friend of deserved' 
 , celebrity; and because there are passages 'in both, which might 
 have given offence to the religious feelings r certain readers. I 
 myself indeed see no reason why vulgar supei'Stitions. and absurd 
 conceptions that deform the pure faith of a Christian, .'ihould possess 
 a. greater immunity from ridicule than stQi'ies gf witches, or thi3 
 
SIBYLLINE USAVES. 103 
 
 fablee of Greece and Rome. But there are those who deem it 
 profanenees and irreverence to call an ape an ape, if it but wear a 
 monk's cowl on its head; and I would rather reason with this 
 weakness than offend it. 
 
 The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I referred, is found in 
 his second Sermon on Christ's Advent to Judgment; which is like- 
 wise the second in his year's course of sermons. Among many 
 remarkable passages of the same character in those discourses, I 
 have selected this as the most so. " But when this Lion of the tribe 
 "of Judah shall appear, then Justice shall strike and Mercy shall 
 "not hold her hands; sh^ shall strike sore strokes, and Pity shall 
 "not break the blow. Asthereare treasures of good things, so hath 
 " God a treasure of wrath and fury, and scourges and scorpions: 
 " and then shall be produced the shame of Lust and the malice of 
 " Envy, ahd the groans of the oppressed and the persecutions of the 
 '* saints, and the cares of Covetousness and the troubles of Ambi- 
 " tion, and the insolences of traitors and the violences of rebels, and 
 "the rage of anger and the uneasiness of impatience, and the rest- 
 "lessness of unlawful desires; and by this tune the monsters and 
 " diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when God's heavy hand 
 " shall press the sanies and the intolerableness, the obliquity and 
 " the unreasonableness, the amazement and the disorder, the smart 
 "andthesorrow, the guilt and the punishment, out from all our sins, 
 " and pour them into one chalice, and mingle them with an infinite 
 " wrath, and make the wicked drink off all the vengeance, and force 
 "it down their unwilUng throats with the violence of devils and 
 "accursed spirits." 
 
 That this Tartarean drench displays the imagination rather than 
 the discretion of the compounder; that, in short, this passage 
 and others of the same kind are in a bad taste, few will deny at 
 the present day. It would doubtjess have more behoved the 
 ^ood bishop not to be wise beyond what is written, on a sub- 
 ject in which Eternity is opposed to , Time, and a death 
 threatened, not the negative, but the positive Qppositive of Life; „ 
 a subject,' therefore, which must of necessity oe indescribable 
 to the human understanding in our present state. But I can 
 neither find nor believe, that it ever occurred to any reader to 
 ground on such passages a charge against Bishop Taylor's human- 
 ity, or goodneF<! of heart. I was not aliitle surprised therefore to 
 find, in the Piirsuits of Literature and other worlcs, so horrible a'sen- 
 tence passed on Milton's moral character, for a .passage in his 
 prose-writings, as nearly parallel to this of Taylor's as two passages 
 can well be conceived to be. All his merits, as a poet, forsooth — all 
 thegiory of having written the Paradise Lost, are light in the scale, 
 nay, kick the beam, compared with theatrociousmalignity of heart 
 expressed in the offensive paragraph. I remembered, in general, 
 that Milton had concluded one of his works on Reformation, written 
 in the fervour of ^is youthful imagination, in a high >poetic strain, 
 that wanted metre only to become a lyrical poem. I remembered 
 that in the former part he had formed to himself a perfect ideal of 
 human virtue, acharacter of heroic, disinterested zeal and devotion 
 for Truth, Religion, and public Liberty, in Act and in Suffering, in 
 the day of. Triumph and in the hour of Martyrdom. Such spirits, 
 asmoreexcellent than others, he describes as having a more ex- 
 cellent reward, and as distinguished by a transcendent glovy: and 
 this reward and this glory he displays and particularizes with an 
 energy and brilliance that announced the Paradise Lost as plainly, 
 as ever the bright purple clouds in the east announced the coming 
 of the Sun. Milton then passesto the gloomy contrast, to such men 
 as from selfish ambition and the lust of pei'sonal aggrandizement 
 should, against their own light, persecute truth and the true religion, 
 and wilfully abuse the powers andgpifts entrusted to them, to bring 
 vice, blindness, misery and slavery, on their native country, on the 
 very country that hadtrusted. enriched, and honored them. Such 
 beings, »fter that speedy and appropriate removal from their sphere 
 of mischief whigh all good and &uma,ne men piust gf course desire, 
 
104 ^ SIBTLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 wiU,he takes for granted by parity of reason, meet with a punishment 
 aa ignominy, and. a retaUation, as much severer than other wicked 
 men, as their guilt and its consequences were more enormous. His 
 description ofthis imaginary punishment presents more distinct pec- 
 iwres to the fancy than the extract from Jeremy Taylor, but the 
 thoitghte in the latter are incomparably more exaggerated and hor- 
 rlflc. All this I knew ; but I neither remembered, nor by reference and 
 careftil re-perusal could discover, any other meaning, either in Mil- 
 ton cr Taylor, but that good men will be rewarded, and the impeni- 
 tent wicked punished, in proportion to their dispositions and inten- 
 tional acts in this life ; and that if the pimishment of the least wicked 
 befearflil beyond conception, all words and descriptions must be so 
 far true, that they must fall short of the pimishment that awaits the 
 transcendently wicked. Had Milton stated either liis ideal of virtue, 
 or of depravity, as an individual or individuals actually existing? 
 Certainly not I Is this representation worded historically, or only 
 hypothetically ? Assuredly the latter ! Does he express it as his own 
 wish, that after death they should suffer these tortures? or as a gen- 
 eral consequence, deduced from reason and revelation, that such 
 «;i7Jbe their fate? Again, the latter onlyl His wish is expressly 
 confined to a speedy stop being put by Providence to their power 
 of inflicting misery on others 1 But did he name or refer to any per- 
 sons, living or dead ? No I But the calumniators of Milton dare say 
 <f or what will calumny not dare say?)that he had Laud and Ptaf- 
 'FORD in his mind, while writing of remorseless persecution, and the 
 enslavement of a free country, from motives of selfish ambition. 
 Now, what if a stern anti-prelatist should dare say, that in speaking 
 of the insolencies of, traitors and the violences of rebels^ Bishop 
 Taylormust have individualized in his mind, Hamden, Hollis, Pym, 
 Fairfax, Ireton, and Milton ? And what if he should take the 
 liberty of concluding, tliat, in the after descrijption, the Bishop was 
 feeding and feasting his party-hatred, and with those individuals 
 > before the eyes of his imagination enjoying, trait by trait, horror 
 after horror, the pictureof their intolerable agonies? Yet this Bigot 
 would have an equal right thus to criminate the one ^ood and great 
 man, as these men have to criminate the other. Milton has said, 
 and I doubt not but that Taylor with equal truth could have said 
 it, "that in his whole life he never spake against a man even 
 that his skin should be grazed." He asserted this when one of his 
 opponents (either Bishop Hall or his nephew) had called upon the 
 women and children in the streets to take up stones and stone him 
 (Milton). It is known that Milton repeatedly used his interest to pro- 
 tect the royalists ; but even at a time when all lies would have been 
 meritorious against him, no charge was made, no story pretended, 
 that he had ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted in their 
 persecution. Oh ! methinks there are other and far bet^^er feelings, 
 which should be acquired by the perusal of our great elder writers. 
 When I have before me on the same table, the works of Hammond 
 and Baxter; when I reflect with what joy and dearness their 
 blessed spirits are now loving each other: It seems a mournful thing 
 that their names should be perverted to an Occasion of bitterness 
 among us, who are enjoying that happy mean which the human too- 
 much on both sides was perhaps necessary to produce. ' ' The tangle 
 of delusions which stifled and distorted the growing tree of our well- 
 being has been torn away; the parasite- weeds that fed on itsveiy 
 roots have been plucked up with a salutary violence. To us there 
 remain only quiet duties, the constant care, the gradual improve 
 ment, the cautious unhazardous labours of the industrious though 
 contented gardener— to pi-une, to strengthen, to engraft, and one 
 by one to remove from its leaves and fresh shoots the slug and the 
 caterpillar. But far be it from us to undervalue with light and sense- 
 less detraction the conscientious hardihood of our predecessors, or 
 even to condemn in them that vehemence, to which the blessings it 
 won for us leave us now neither temptation nor px'etext. We ante- 
 date the feelings, in order to criminate the authors, of our prcRoiit 
 Liberty, Light and Toleration." (The Friend, p. M.) 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 105 
 
 If ever two great men might seem, during their whole Hves, to 
 have moved ih direct opposition, though neither of them has at any- 
 time introduced the name of the other, Milton and Jeremy Taylor 
 were they. The former commenced , his career by attacking the 
 Church-Liturgy and all set forms of prayer. The latter, but far 
 more successfully, by defending both. Milton's next work was then 
 against the Prelacy and the then existing Church-Governmenfc— Tay- 
 lor's, in vindication and support of them. Milton became more and 
 more astern republican, or rather an advocate for that religious and 
 moral aristocracy which, in his day, wascttWed republicanism, and 
 which, even more than royalism itself, is the direct antipode of 
 modem jacobinism. Taylor,^as more and more sceptical concerning 
 the fitness of men in general for power, became more and more 
 attached to the prerogatives of monarchy. From Calvinism, with a 
 still decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for Church- An- 
 tiquity in general, Milton seems to have ended in an indifference, if 
 not a dislike, to all forms of ecclesiatic government, and to have 
 retreated wholly into the inward and spiritual church-communion 
 of his own spirit with the IJght, that lighteth every man that 
 cometh into the world. Taylor, with a growing reverence for author^ 
 ity, an increasing sense of the insufficiency of the Scriptures with- 
 out the aids of tradition and the consent of authorized interpreters, 
 advanced as far in his approaches (not indeed to Popeiy, out) to 
 Catholicism, as a conscientious minister of the English Church 
 could well venture. Milton would be, and would utter the same, to 
 all, on ail occasions: he would tell the truth, the whole truth, and 
 nothing but the truth. Taylor would become all/ things to all men, 
 if by any means he might benefit any; hence he' availed himself, in 
 his popular writings, of opinions and representations which stand 
 often in striking contrast with the doubts and convictions expressed 
 in his more philosophical works. He appears, indeed, not too severely 
 to have blamed the management ot truth {istam, falsitatem di^ensa- 
 titjam) authorized and exemplified by almost all thefathers: Integ- 
 rum omaino Doctoribus et coetus Christian! Antistitibus esse, ut doles 
 versent, falsa veris intermisceanfc et imprimis religionis hostes fal- 
 lant, dummodo veritatis commodis et utuitati inserviant. 
 
 The same antithesis might be carried on with the elements of 
 their several intellectual powers. Milton, austere, condensed, im- 
 aginative, supporting his truth by direct enunciation of lofty moral 
 sentiment ana by distinct visual representations, and in the same 
 spirit overwhelming what he deemed falsehood by mOral denujicia- 
 tion and a succession of pictures appalling or repulsive. In his 
 prose, so many metaphors, so many allegorical miniatures. . Taylor, 
 eminently discursive, accumulative, and (to use one of his own words) 
 dgglomerative; still more rich in images than Milton himself, but 
 images of Fancy, and presented to the common and passive eye, 
 rather than, to the eye of the imagination. "Whether supporting or 
 assailing, he makes his way either by argument or by appeals to the 
 affections, unsui-passed even by the Schoolmen in subtlety, agility 
 and logic wit, and unrivalled by the most^ rhetorical of the fathers 
 in the copiousness and vividness of his' expressions and illustrations. 
 Here words that convey feelings, and words that flash images, and 
 words of abstract notion, flow together, and at once whirl and rush 
 , onward like a streara, at once rapid and fuU of eddies; and yet still' 
 interfused here and there, we see a tongue or isle of smooth water, 
 with some picture in itof earth or sky.landseape or living group of 
 quiet beauty. 
 
 Differing,, then, so widely, and almost pontrariafttly, wherein did 
 these, great; men ag^ree? wherein did they resemble each other? 
 In Genius, in Learning, in unfeigned Piety, in blameless Purity of 
 Life, and in benevolent aspirations and purposes for the moral and 
 temporal improvement of their fellow-creatures I Both of them 
 wrote a Latin Accidence, to render education more easy and less 
 painful to children ; both of them composed hymns and psalms 
 proportioned to the capacity of common congregations ; both, 
 nearly at the same time, set the glorious example of publicly re- 
 
 E* .- 
 
106 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 commending and supporting general Toleration, and the Liberty 
 both of the Pulpit and the Press I In the writings of neither shall 
 we find a single sentence, like those meek deliverances to God^s 
 mercy, with which Laxid accompanied his votes for the mutilations ■ 
 and loathsome dungeoning of -Leighton and others ! — no where such 
 a pious prayer as we find in Bij^op Hall's memoranda of his own 
 Life, concerning the subtle and witty Atheist that so grievously 
 perplexed and gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's till he prayed 
 to the Lord to remove hirh, and behold ! his prayers were heard ; 
 for shortly afterwards this philistine-combatant went to London, 
 and there perished of the plague in great misery I In short, no 
 where shall we find the least approach; in the lives and writings 
 of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded gentleness, to 
 that sighing reluctance, with which the holy Brethren of the In- 
 quisition deliver over a condemned heretic to the civil magistrate, 
 recommending him to mercy, and hoping that the magistrate will 
 treat the erring brother with all possible mildness! — the magistrate, 
 who too well knows what would be his own fate, if he dared offend 
 them by acting on their recommendation. ' 
 
 The opportunity of diverting the reader from myself to characters 
 niore worthy of his attention, has led me far, beyond my first inten- 
 tion ; but it is not unimportant to expose the false zeal which has 
 occasioned these attacks on our elder patriots. It has been too 
 much the fashion, first to personify the Church of England, and 
 then to speak of different individuals, who in different ages have 
 been rulers in that church, as if in some strange way they^ consti- 
 tuted Its personal identity. Why should a clergyman of the present 
 day feel interested in the defence of Laud or Sheldon ? Surely it is 
 Bumcient for the warmest partizan of our estabhshment, that he 
 can assert with truth, — when our Church persecuted, it was on mis- 
 taken principles held in common by all Christendom ; and at all 
 events, far less culpable was this intolerance in the Bishops, who 
 were aintaining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit ^ 
 afterwards shewn by their successful opponents, who had no such 
 excuse, and who should have been taught mercy by theirown suf- 
 ferings, and wisdom' by the ntter failure of the experiment in their 
 own case. We can say that our Church, apostolical in its faith, 
 primitive in its cerem nies unequalled in its liturgical form ; that 
 our Church, which ha kindled and displayed more bright and 
 burning U^hts of Genius and Learning, than all other protestant 
 churches since the reformation, was (with the single exception of 
 the Times of Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant, when aU Christians 
 unhappily deemed a species of intolerance their religious duty ; 
 that Bishops of our church were among' the first that contended 
 against this error ; and finally, that since the reformation, when 
 tolerance became a fashion, the Church of England, in S, tolerating 
 age, has shewn herself eminently tolerant, and far more so, both in 
 Spirit and in Fact, than many of her most bitter opponents, who 
 profess to deem toleration itself an insult on the rights of mankind! 
 As to myself, who not only know the Church-Establishment to be 
 tolerant, but who see in it the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark 
 of Toleration, I feel no necessity of defending or palliating oppi-es- 
 sions under the two Charleses, in order to exclaim with a fuU and 
 fervent heart, esto perpetua ! 
 
 The Scene a deflated Tract in La Vendee. Famine is discovered 
 lying on the ground; to her enta- Fire and Slaughter. 
 
 Famine. 
 Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 
 
 Slaughter {to Fire). 
 I will whisper it in her ear. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. i07 
 
 FlBK. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make an holiday in Hell. 
 
 No! no! nol 
 Myself, I named him once below, 
 And all the souls, that damned be, 
 Leaped up at OQce in anarchy, 
 Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
 They no longer heeded me ; , 
 But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters 
 Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 
 
 No? no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make an holiday in Hell I 
 
 Famine. 
 Whisper it, sister! so and so! 
 In a dark hint, soft and slow. 
 
 Slaughter. 
 Letters four do form his name — 
 And who sent you ? 
 
 Both. 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Slaughter. 
 He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, 
 And I have drank the blood since then 
 Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 
 
 Both. 
 
 Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 Slaughter. 
 
 The samel the same! 
 Letters four do form his name, 
 lie let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Famine. 
 Thanks, sisters, thanks! the men have bled, 
 Their wives and their children faint for bread. 
 I stood in a swampy field of battle; 
 With bones and skulls I made a rattle. 
 To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
 And the homeless dog — ^but they would not go. 
 So off I flew : • for how could I bear 
 To see them gorge their dainty fare ? 
 I heard a groan and a peevish squall, 
 And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
 Can you guess what I saw there f 
 
IB SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Both. 
 Whisper it, sister! in our ear. 
 
 Famine. 
 A baby beat its dying mother: 
 I had starved the one and was starring the other! 
 
 Both. 
 Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 Famine. 
 
 The same! the same! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Fire. 
 Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 
 Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, - 
 I triumphed o'er the setting sun ! 
 And all the while the work was done, 
 On as I strode with my huge strides, 
 I flung back my head and I held my sides, 
 It was so rare a piece of fun 
 To see the sweltered cattle run 
 With uncouth gallop through the night. 
 Scared by the red and noisy light ! 
 By the light of his own blazing cot 
 Was many a naked Rebel shot : 
 The house-stream met the flame and hissed. 
 While crash I fell in the roof, I wist. 
 On some of those old bed-rid nurses. 
 That deal in discontent and curses. 
 
 Both. 
 
 Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 Fire. 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, HaUoo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 All. 
 He let us loose, and cried Halloo f 
 How shall we yield him hpnour due 1 
 
 Famine. 
 Wisdom comes with lack of food. 
 I'll goaw, I'll gnaw the toultitude. 
 Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 
 They shall seize him and his brood— 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. IW 
 
 SliAUGHTEH. 
 
 They shall tsar him limb from limb! 
 
 FlEE. 
 
 thankless beldames and untrue ! 
 And is this all that you can do 
 For him, who did so much for yon ? 
 Ninety months he, by my troth! 
 Hath richly catered for yon both ; 
 And in an hour would you repay 
 
 An eight years' work ? — Away I Away I 
 
 1 alone am faithful! ' I / 
 Cling to him everlastingly. 
 
 1796. 
 
 RECANTATION. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY THE STORY OP THE MAD OX^ 
 
 An Ox, long fed with musty hay, 
 
 ' And work'd with yoke and chain, 
 Was turn'd out on an April day. 
 When fields are in their best array. 
 And growing grasses sparkle gay. 
 At once with sun and rain. 
 
 The grass was fine, the sun was bright. 
 
 With truth I may aver it, 
 The Ox was glad, as well he might, 
 Thought a green meadow no bad fight. 
 And frisk'd to show his hugs <lelight, 
 
 Much like a beast of spirit. 
 
 Stop, neighbours ! stop ! why these alarms f 
 
 T'he Oxia only glad — 
 But still they pour from cots and farms. 
 Halloo! the parish i^ up in arms, ' 
 
 (A hoaxing hunt has always charms) 
 
 Halloo ! the Ox is mad 1 
 
 The frighted beast scamper'd about, 
 
 Plunge! through the hedge he drove— 
 
 The mob pursue with hideous rout, 
 
 A bull-dog fastens on his snout, 
 
 He gores the dog, his tongue hangs out- 
 He's mad, he's mad, by Jove! 
 
 "Stop, neighbours, stop !" aloud did call 
 
 A sage of sober hue. 
 But all at once on him they fall, 
 Old women shriek and children squall, 
 " What, would yon have him toss us all 2 
 
 And damme ! who are you ?" 
 
 " You'd have him gore the parish-priest 
 And run against the altar — 
 
110 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 You fiend !" The sage his -warmngs ceased, 
 And north and south and west and east, 
 Halloo ! they follow the poor beast — 
 Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob, and Walter. 
 
 The frighted beast ran through the town 
 
 All followed, boy and dad, 
 Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown. 
 The publican rushed from the " Crown," 
 Halloo! hamstring him ! cut him down ! 
 
 Ihey drove the poor Ox mad. 
 
 Should you a rat to madness teaze, 
 
 Why, even a rat would plague you : 
 There's no philosopher but sees 
 That rage and fear are one disease — 
 Though that may bum and this may freeze, 
 They're both alike the ague. 
 
 And so, this Ox, in frantic mood, 
 
 Faced round like any Bull — 
 The mob turn'd tail and he pursued 
 Till they with fright and fear were stew'd, 
 And not a chick of all this brood 
 
 But had his belly-full. 
 
 Old Nick's astride the beast, 'tis clear — 
 
 Old Nicholas to a tittle ! 
 , But aU. agree, he'd disappear, 
 Would but the parson venture near. 
 And through his teeth right o'er the steer. 
 
 Squirt out some fasting spittle.* 
 
 Through gardens, lanes, and fields new-plough'd, 
 Through his hedge and through her hedge, 
 
 He plung'd and toss'd and beSlow'd loud. 
 
 Till in his madness he grew proud, 
 I .To see this helter-skelter crowd 
 
 That had more wrath than corurage. 
 
 But here once more to view did pop 
 
 The.man that kept his senses. 
 And now he cried, " Stop, neighbours, stop ! 
 The Ox is mad, I would not swop. 
 No, not a school-boy's farthing top 
 
 For all the parish fences. 
 
 " The Ox is mad!' Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat ! 
 What means this coward fuss ? 
 
 * According to a superstition of the West Countries, if you meet 
 the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or you may 
 cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his horns. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. Ill 
 
 Ho! stretch this rope across the plat, 
 'Twill trip him up, ^r if not that, 
 Why, damme ! -we must lay him flat — 
 See, here's my blunderbuss !" , ' • 
 
 " A lying dog ! Just now he said 
 
 The Ox was only glad, 
 Let's break his presby terian head I" — 
 '' Hush !" quoth the sage, " you've been misled, 
 No quarrels now, Jet's all make head — 
 
 ¥ou drove the poor Ox mad !" 
 
 As thus I sat in careless chat, 
 
 With the morning's wet newspaper, '• 
 
 In eager haste, without his hat. 
 As blind and blundering as a bat, 
 In came that fierce aristocrat, 
 
 Our pursy -woollen-draper. 
 
 And so my Muse perforce drew bit, 
 
 As in he rushed and panted ;— 
 "Well, have you heard ?" — "No, not a whit." 
 " What, han't you heard ?"— " Come, out -with it I" 
 " That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt, 
 
 And Sheridan's recanted !" 
 
 n.— LOVE POEMS. 
 
 Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in eevo. 
 
 Perlegis hie lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acut^ 
 
 Ille puer puero fecit milii cuspide vulnus, 
 
 Omnia paulatim consumit longior ffitas, 
 
 Vivendoi^ue slmul morimur, rapimurquR manendo. 
 
 Ipse raihi coUatus eulm non ille videbor: 
 
 Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova naentis imago, 
 
 Voxque aliud sonat — 
 
 Pectore nunc gelido calidosmisereraur amantes, 
 
 Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tunlultus 
 
 Mens horret relegensque alium putat.ista locutum. 
 
 Petearch. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OP THE DARK 
 LADIE. 
 
 In Coleridge's early publication, and in the Frencli edition copied 
 from it, these verses -were united with those now printed separately 
 called **Love," beginning "-4H thoughts^ allpassions, all delights^ 
 and the whole was called as above, with the following note pre- 
 fixed. 
 
 (The following poem is intended as the introduction to a some- 
 what longer one. The use of the old ballad word Ladie for Lady 
 is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale 
 of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable 
 antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps 
 be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection 
 
If2 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 may be adduced against the authpr, that in these timeE: of fear and 
 expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he 
 should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned 
 love: and five years ago, I own I should have felt the force of this 
 objection. But alas, explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, 
 that novelty Itself ceases to appear new, and it is possible that now 
 even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, 
 may And some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those 
 who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest 
 whispering becomes distinctly audible.) S. T. C. 
 
 Deo. 21, 1799. 
 
 O LEAVE the lily on its step, 
 O leave the rose upon the spray ; 
 
 O leave the elder-bloom, fair. maids I 
 And listen to my lay. 
 
 A cypress and a myrtle bougli 
 This morn around my harp you twined, 
 
 Because it fashioned mournfully 
 Its murmurs to the wind. 
 
 And now a tale of Love and Woe, 
 
 A woeful tale of Love I sing ; 
 Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs 
 
 And trembles on the string. 
 
 But most my own dear Genevieve, 
 It sighs and trembles most for thee I 
 
 come and hear what cruel wrongs 
 
 Befel the Dark Ladle. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 And now once more a tale of woe, 
 
 A woeful tale of Love I sing : 
 For thee, my Genevieve ! it sighs, 
 
 And trembles on the string. 
 
 When last I sang the cruel scorn 
 That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, 
 
 And how he roamed the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day or night, 
 
 1 promised thee a sister tale 
 Of man's perfidious cruelty ; 
 
 Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong 
 Befel the Dark Ladie. 
 
 LEWTI, OE THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT. 
 
 At midnight by the stream I roved, 
 To forget the form I loved. . 
 Image of Lewti! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 113 
 
 The Moon was liigh, the moonlight gleam 
 
 And the shadow of a star 
 Heaved upon Tamaha'a stream : 
 
 But the rock shone brighter far, 
 The rook half sheltered fi'om my view 
 By pendent boughs of tressy yew — 
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair. 
 Gleaming through her sable hair. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart, for Levrti is not kind. 
 
 I saw a cloud of palest hue, 
 
 Onward to the Moon it passed ; 
 Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
 With floating colours not a few, 
 
 Till it reached the Moon at last : 
 Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
 With a rich and amber light ! 
 And so with many a hope I seek 
 
 And with such joy I find my Lewti; 
 And even so my pale wan cheek 
 
 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, . 
 If Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 The little cloud — ^it floats away. 
 
 Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
 Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey — 
 
 Away it passes from the Moon ! 
 How mournfully it seems to fly, 
 
 Ever fading more and more. 
 To joyless regions of the sky — 
 
 And now 'tis whiter than before! 
 As white as my poor cheek will he, 
 
 When, Lewti I on my couch I lie, 
 A dying man for love of thee. 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind— 
 And yet, thou did'st not look unkind. 
 
 I saw a vapour in the sky. 
 
 Thin, and white, and very high; 
 I -ne'er beheld so thin sL cloud : 
 
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 
 
 Now below and now above, 
 Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 
 
 Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
 For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
 From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
 For Lewti ne-.'er will be Ivind. 
 
114 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Hush I my heedless feet from under 
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever: 
 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 
 The river-swans have heard my cread, 
 
 And startle from their reedy bed. . 
 
 O beauteous Birds! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune! 
 
 beauteous Birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
 To see you move beneath the Moon, 
 
 1 would it were your true delight 
 To sleep by day and wake all night. 
 
 I know the place where Lewti lies, 
 When silent night has closed her eyes : 
 
 It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
 The Nightingale sings o'er her head: 
 
 Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
 That leafy labyrinth to thread, 
 And creep, like thee, with soundless treadj 
 I then might view her bosom white 
 Heaving lovely to my sight, 
 As these two swans together heave 
 On the gently swelling wave. 
 
 Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 
 And dreamt that I had died for care ! 
 
 All pale and wasted I would seem, 
 Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 
 
 I'd die indeed, if I might see. 
 
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 
 
 Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind! 
 
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
 1795 
 
 THE PICTURE, OE THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION; 
 
 Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood 
 I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
 O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, witlj wild foot 
 Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen. 
 Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves. 
 The soared snake rustles. Onward still I toil, 
 I know not, ask not whither 1 A new joy. 
 Lovely as light, sudden as summer-gust. 
 And gladsome as the first-bom of the spring. 
 Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
 Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled, 
 I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
 The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak. 
 Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 115 
 
 vault 
 a distant sea. 
 
 Soar np, and form a melancholy 
 High o'er me, muimaring like a 
 
 Here AVisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; 
 
 Here too the love-lorn Mau who, sick in soul 
 
 And of this busy human heart aweary, 
 
 Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
 
 In tree or wild-flower. — Gentle Lunatic ! 
 
 If so he might not wholly cease to be, 
 
 He would for rather not be that, he is ; 
 
 But would be something, that he knows not Of, 
 
 In winds or waters, or among the rocks ! 
 
 But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion here '. 
 No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves ' 
 ■Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood 
 He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
 His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn 
 Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
 Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
 Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
 And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn 
 The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 
 You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
 The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. 
 Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, 
 The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed->- 
 Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless Damp, 
 Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
 Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes! 
 With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
 His little Godship, making him perforce 
 Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back. 
 
 This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
 With my own fancies play the merry fool. 
 And laugh awa.y worse folly, being free. 
 Here will I seat myself, beside this old. 
 Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine 
 Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch my limbs, 
 Close by this river, in this silent shade, 
 As safe and sacred from the step of man 
 As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 
 And listening only to the pebbly brook 
 That murmurs with a dead, yet bell-like soufad. 
 Tinkling, or bees, that in the neighbouripg trunk 
 Make honey-hoards, The breeze, that visits me. 
 Was never Loye's accomplice, never raised 
 The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow. 
 And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
 Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed 
 The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
 
116 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Eye-poisons for s me love-distempered youth. 
 Who ne'er h ceforth may see an aSj^en-grove 
 Shiver i i uns ne, but his eeble Jeart 
 Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 
 
 Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
 Liftfest the feathers of the robin's ^reast, 
 That swells its little breast, so full of song, 
 Singing above me, on the mouniaiu-ash. 
 And thou too, desert Stream ! no pool of thine. 
 Though lear as lake in latest summer-eve, 
 Did e'er fleet the stately virgin's robe, 
 The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
 Contempl tlve! Behoid! her OTien palm 
 Presses h oueek and bi'ow ! her ei jow rests 
 On ' h > hurt branch of ijalf-uprooted tree, 
 That cans t wards ts mirror! Who, erewhile 
 Who froLi her countenance turned, or looked by stealth, 
 (For fea.r j . true love's cruel nurse,) he now, 
 With .. ieadfast gaze and unoffending eye, 
 Worships '' e watery idol, dreaming hopes 
 Delicious to he soul, but fleeting, vain, 
 E' as thai ,^ihantom-world on which he gazed, 
 Bu:^ not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see, 
 The sporti e tyrant with her left hand plucks 
 The b..ads of taU flowers that behind her grow, 
 Lycliuis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells: 
 And sudde-'y, as one that toys with time. 
 Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm 
 Is urokeu — all that phantom- world so fair 
 V^n^jhes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 , And each rais-shape the other. Stay awhile. 
 
 Poor youth. Who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes ! 
 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 
 The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
 
 An soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 
 Come tremblinjj back, unite, and now once more 
 
 The pool bee m s a m rror j and . ehold 
 
 Each wildflower on the m .r^e inverted there. 
 
 And there the half-uprootod tree- ut where, 
 
 O where the virgin' sno y .rm, that leaned 
 
 On its hare branch H turn , jid she is gone! 
 
 Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze 
 
 Which he shall see' in vain. I'1-fated youth! 
 
 Go, day*by day, and waste thy manly prime 
 
 In mad Love-yeaming by the vacant brook. 
 
 Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
 
 Behold'st her shadow still abiding there, 
 
 The Naiad of the Mirror! 
 
 Not to thee, 
 wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale : 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 117 
 
 Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
 Spir from thy shores, and stretch across thy hed, . 
 Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : 
 Save mien the shy king-fishers build their nest 
 
 thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream ! 
 
 This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
 F^om passion's dreams, a freeman, aud lone, 
 
 1 ris and trace its devious course. O lead, ^ ' 
 Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
 Lo stealing through the canopy of firs 
 
 How fair the sunshuie spots that mossy rock, 
 
 Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
 
 Dart off asunder witl an angry sound. 
 
 How soon to re-unite ! And see I they meet, 
 
 Each in the other lost and found: and see 
 
 Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 
 
 ThroVoijg ■ ithin them, Heart at once and Eye! 
 
 With its s ■ ft eighbourhood of filmy clouds, 
 
 The stains ad shadings f forgotten tears, 
 
 Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour 
 
 Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds I 
 
 And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 
 
 I pass forth into light — I find myself 
 
 Beneath a' weeping birch (most beautiful 
 
 Of for st-trees, the Lady of the woods,) 
 
 Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 
 
 That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 
 
 Th^ landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills 
 
 Fold in behind each other, and so make 
 
 A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 
 
 Witn brooi>. and bridge, and grey stone cottages, 
 
 Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, 
 
 The hurtle-berries are bedewed with spray. 
 
 Dashed i^pwards by the furious waterfall. 
 
 How s lemnly the pendent ivy-mass 
 
 Swings in its winuow! All the air is calm, 
 
 Thj srao' e from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light, 
 
 Eises i colmnns : from tliis house alone, 
 
 Close y the waterfall, the column slants. 
 
 An " feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this t 
 
 That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 
 
 And close beside its porch a sleeping child. 
 
 His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog — 
 
 One arm between its fore legs, and the hand 
 
 Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
 
 Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths. 
 
 A curious picture, with a master's haste 
 
 Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skiu, 
 
 Peeled from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 
 
 You bark her canvas, and those purple berries 
 
 Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 
 
118 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 
 
 And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch — 
 
 The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch I 
 
 For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun, 
 
 Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
 
 Upon thy purple bells I O Isabel! 
 
 Daughter of genius 1 stateliest of our maids I 
 
 More beautiful than whom Alcseus wooed 
 
 The Lesbian woman of immortal song! 
 
 G child of geniusl stately, beautiful, 
 
 And fuU of love to all, save only me, 
 
 And not uijgentle e'en to me ! My heart. 
 
 Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood 
 
 Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 
 
 On to her father's house. She is alone ! 
 
 The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — 
 
 And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 
 
 Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 
 
 To kee • the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 
 
 The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 
 
 The nicture in my hand which she has left; 
 
 She cannot blame me that I followed her : 
 
 And I may be her giiide the long wood through. 
 
 THE NIGHT-SCENE : 
 a dramatic fragment. 
 Sandoval. 
 You loved the daughter of Don Manriq^ue ? ■ 
 
 Loved t 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Once I loved 
 
 Sandoval. 
 Did you not say you wooed her f 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Her whom I dared not woo ! 
 
 Sandoval, 
 
 And wooed, perchance, 
 One whom you loved not ! 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 
 Oh ! I were most base, 
 Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her. 
 Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
 Met my advances with impassioned pride, 
 That kindled love with love. And when hei sire, 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 119 
 
 Who in his dream of hope already grasped 
 
 The golden circlet in his hand, rejected 
 
 My suit with insult, and in memory 
 
 Ot ancient feuds poured curses on my head, 
 
 Her blessings overtook and baffled them! 
 
 But thou art stem, and with unkindly countenance 
 
 Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me. 
 
 • Sandoval. 
 
 Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
 But Oropeza — 
 
 Earl Henry. 
 Blessings gather round her! 
 Within this wood there winds a secret passage, 
 Beneath the walls, wh^ch opens out at length 
 Into the gloomiest covert of the Garden — 
 The night ere my departure to the army, 
 She, nothing trembUng, led me through that gloom, 
 And to that covert by a silent stream, 
 Which, with one star reflected neai its marge, 
 Was tlie sole object visible around me. 
 No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry ; 
 So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
 No leaflet stirred ; — yet pleasure hung upon 
 The gloom and stillness of the balmy night air. 
 A little further on an arbour stood. 
 Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember 
 What an uncertain felimmer in the darkness 
 Their snow-white blossoms made — thither she led me, 
 To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza trembled — 
 I heard her heart beat — ^if 'twere not my own. 
 
 Sandoval. 
 A rude and scaring note, my friend ! 
 
 Earl Henet. 
 
 Oh! no! 
 I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
 The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
 Still flowing, still were lost iu those of love : 
 So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
 Fleeing from Pain, sheltered herself in Joy. 
 The stars above our heads were dim and steady. 
 Like eyes sufifused with rapture. Life was in us : 
 We were all life, each atom of our frames 
 A living soul — I vowed to die for her: 
 With the faint voice of one who, having spoken, 
 Eelapses into blessedness, I vowed it : 
 That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 
 A murmur breathed against a lady's ear. 
 Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure, 
 J)eep s"ll-possession, an intense repose. 
 
120 I SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Sandotal {wifh a sarcastic smile). 
 
 No other than as eastern sages paint, 
 The 6od, who floats upon a Lotos leaf, 
 Dreams for a thousand' ages ; then awaking, 
 Creates a world, and smUing at the huhble, 
 Belapses into bliss. 
 
 Earl Henry, 
 
 Ah ! was that bliss ■ 
 Feared as an alien, and too vast for man 1 
 For suddenly, impatient of its silence, 
 ■ Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 
 
 I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on them. 
 
 Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, 
 
 Oh ! what if all betray me 1 what if thou f 
 
 I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed 
 
 The purpose and the substance of my being, 
 
 I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
 
 I would exchange my unblenched state with hers. — 
 
 Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower 
 
 I now will go — all objects there will teach me 
 
 Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
 
 Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her — 
 
 Say nothing of me-^I myself will seek her — 
 
 Nay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment 
 
 And keen inquiry of tiat soanniiig eye. — 
 
 lEarl Henry retires into the wood. 
 
 Sandovai, {alone). 
 
 O Henry ! always striv'st thou to be great 
 
 By thine own act — yet art thou never great 
 
 But by the inspiration of great passion. 
 
 The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
 
 And shape themselves: &om Earth to Heaven they stand, 
 
 As though they were the pillars of a temple. 
 
 Built by Omnipotence in its own honour ! 
 
 But the blast pauses, and their shapiug spirit 
 
 Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand, 
 
 And lazy snakes trail o'er the level rains ! 
 
 TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, 
 
 WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER 
 INNOCENCE. 
 
 Myktle-leap that, ill besped. 
 
 Finest in the gladsome ray, 
 SoUed beneath Hie common tread. 
 
 Far from thy protecting spray ! 
 
glBYLLlNE LEAVE&. 121 
 
 When the Partridge o'er the sheaf 
 
 Whirred along the yellow vale, 
 Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf! 
 
 Love the dalliance of the gale. 
 
 Lightly didst thou, foolish thing ! 
 
 Heave and flutter to his si^hs, 
 While the flatterer, on his wing, 
 
 Wooed and whispered thee to rise. 
 
 ISaily from thy mother-stalk 
 
 Wert thou danced and wafted high — 
 
 Soon on this unsheltered walk 
 Flung to fade, to rot and die. 
 
 TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE 
 THEATRE. 
 
 Maidek, that with sullen brow 
 Sittest- behind those virgins gay. 
 
 Like a scorched and mildewed Dough, 
 Leafless 'mid the blooms of May T 
 
 Him who lured thee and forsook. 
 Oft 1 watched with angry gaze^ 
 
 Fearful saw his pleading look, 
 Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 
 
 Soft the glances of the youth, 
 Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; 
 
 But no sound like simple truth, 
 But no true love in his ey^. 
 
 Loathing thy polluted lot, 
 Hie the ?, Maiden, hie thee hence ! 
 
 Seek thy weeping Mother's cot. 
 With a wiser innocence. 
 
 Thou hast known deceit and folly. 
 Thou has felt that vice is woe : 
 
 With a musing melancholy 
 Inly armed, go, Maiden ! go. 
 
 Mother sage of Self-dominion, 
 Firm thy steps, O MelaUofioly ! 
 
 The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
 Is the memory of past folly. 
 
i;2 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, 
 
 While she moults the flrstling plumes> 
 
 That had skimtned the tender corn, 
 Or the hean-field's odorous hlooms. 
 
 Soou with renovated wing ^ 
 
 Shall she dare a loftier flight, 
 
 Upward to the day-star spring 
 And emhathe in heavenly light. 
 
 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCEKT-EOOM. 
 
 Nob cold, nor stem, my soul! yet I detest 
 These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng. 
 
 Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast, 
 In intricacies of laborious, song. 
 
 These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
 To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; 
 
 But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain 
 Bursts in a squall — they gajie for wonderment. 
 
 Hark ! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate ! 
 
 Scornful, yet envious, with self torturing sneer 
 My lady eyes some maid of humbler state 
 
 While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, 
 
 Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 
 O give me, from this heartless scene released, 
 
 To hear our old musician, blind and grey, 
 (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I liissed,) 
 
 His Scottish tuues and warlike marches play, ■ 
 By moonshine, on the babny summer-night, 
 
 The while I dance amid the tedded hay 
 With merry maids, whose riu£"ets toss in light. 
 
 Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
 Of the cahn glossy lake, O let me hide 
 
 Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees. 
 For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied. 
 
 On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 
 And while the lazy boat sways to and fro. 
 
 Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 
 That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 
 
 But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, 
 And the gust pelting on the out-liouse shed 
 Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow. 
 To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, 
 Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead, 
 Whom his own true-love buried in the sands I 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 123 
 
 Thee, gentle -woman, for thy voice remeasures 
 Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
 
 The Things of Natni'e utter ; birds or trees 
 Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves. 
 Or where the stlflf grass mid the heath-plant waves, 
 
 Murmur and music thin of sudden hreeze. 
 
 ' THE KEEP-SAKE. 
 
 ♦ 
 The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil. 
 The tedded hay and com- sheave. iU one field, 
 Shew summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 
 Sheds ils loose purple bells, or in the gust. 
 Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark, 
 Or mountain-finch ali.p;htjug. And the rose 
 (In vain the darling of successful love) 
 Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years. 
 The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
 Nor -an I find, amid my lonely walk 
 By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side. 
 That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook^ 
 Hope gentle gem, th sweet Fobcbt-me-not !* 
 So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 
 With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 
 Has worked, (the flowers which mos she knewl loved,) 
 And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 
 
 In the cool morning twilight, early waked i 
 By her full bosom's joyless restlessness, 
 Softly she rose, and lightly stole aloiig, 
 Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower. 
 Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
 Over their dim faat-movitig shadows hung, 
 Making a quiet image of disquiet 
 In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
 There, in that bower where first she owned her love, 
 And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
 From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched 
 The silk upon the frame, and worked her name 
 Between the Mpss-RosE a..d Forget-me-not — 
 Her own dear name: with her own auburn hair ! 
 That forced to wander till sweet Spring return, 
 I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, 
 ller voice, (that even in her mirthful mood 
 Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) 
 
 * One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the 
 Myosotis Scorpioides Palitstris, a flower from six to twelve inches 
 high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same 
 name over the whole Empire of Germany (Virgissmein nicht) and 
 we believe, in Denmark apd Sweden. ^ 
 
124 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss 
 With which she promised, that when spriug returned,' 
 She would resign one half of that dear name, 
 And own thenceforth no other name hut mine 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. 
 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
 How glad I am to see you here, 
 
 A lovely convalescent ; 
 Bisen from the bed of pain, and fear. 
 
 And feverish heat incessant. 
 
 The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, 
 The little Birds that warble high, 
 
 Their vernal loves commencing, 
 Will better welcome you than I 
 
 With their sweet influencing, 
 
 Believe me, while in bed you lay, 
 Your danger taught us all to pray 
 
 You made us grow devouter ! 
 Each eye looked up and seemed to say, 
 
 How can we do without her ? 
 
 Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, 
 They have no need of such as you 
 
 In the place where you were going 
 This World has angels all too few, 
 
 And Heaven is overflowing I 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 WITH EAXCONER's "SHIPWRECK." 
 
 Ah I not hy Cam or Isis, famous streams, 
 In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice'; 
 
 Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams, 
 To harp and song from lady's hand and voice; 
 
 Nor yet while gazing in suhTimer mood 
 
 On cltfiF, or cataract, in Alpine dell; 
 Nor in dim cave with oladdery sea- weed strewed,^ 
 
 Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 125 
 
 Our sea-bard sang this song ! whicli still he sings, 
 And^ sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, Pity, hark! 
 
 Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings. 
 Now groans, and sliivers, the replunging Bark ! 
 
 " Cling to the shrouds !" In vain ! The breakers roar — 
 Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clau 
 
 Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, 
 No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man I 
 
 Say then, what muse inspired these gbnial strains, 
 
 And lit his spirit to so bright a flams ? 
 The elevating thought of suffered pains. 
 
 Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the name 
 
 Of Gratitude I Remembrances of Friend, 
 Or absent or no more ! Shades of the Past, 
 
 ■Which Lpve makes Substance ! Hence to thee I send, 
 O dear as long as life and memory last! 
 
 I send with deep regards of heart and head, 
 Sweet maid, for friendship formed ! this work to thee: 
 
 And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed 
 A tear for Falconbk, wilt remember me. 
 
 HOME-SICK. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GEEMANT. 
 
 'Tl8 sweet to him, who all the week 
 Through city-crowds must push his way, 
 
 To stroll alone throngh fields and woods, 
 And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day. 
 
 And sweet it is, in Summer bower, 
 
 Sincere, affectionate and gay, 
 One's own dear children feasting round, 
 
 To celebrate one's marriage-day. 
 
 But what is all, to his delight, 
 Who having long been doomed to roam, 
 
 Throws off the bundle from his back, 
 Before the door of his own home ? 
 
 Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; 
 
 This feel I hourly more and more : 
 There's Healing only in thy wings, 
 
 Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore! 
 
126 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GBRMANT. 
 
 If I had but two little wings, 
 And were a little feathery bird, 
 To yon I'd fly, my dear ! 
 But thoughts like these are idle things. 
 And I stay here. 
 
 But in mj- sleep to you I fly : 
 I'm always with you in my sleep! 
 The world is aU one's own. 
 But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
 All, all alone. 
 
 Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
 So I love to wake ere break of day :, 
 . For though my sleep be gone, 
 Yet> while 'tis dark, one shuts one's Uds, 
 And still dreams on. 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say ? The Spartow, the Dove, 
 
 The Linnet and Thrush say, " I love and I love !" 
 
 In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong ; 
 
 What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, 
 
 And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
 
 But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love. 
 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
 
 That he sings, and he sings ; and forever sings he, 
 
 " I love my Love, and my Love loves me !" 
 
 THE VISIONARY HOPE. 
 
 Sad lot, to have no Hope ! Thoiigh lowly kneeling 
 
 He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, 
 
 Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, 
 
 That his sick body might have ease and rest ; 
 
 He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 
 
 Against his will the stifling load revealing, 
 
 Though Nature forced ; though like some captive guest, 
 
 Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, 
 
 An alien's restless mood but half concealing, 
 
 The sternness on his gentle brow confessed 
 
 Sickness within and miserable feeling : 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 127 
 
 Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, 
 And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, 
 Each night was scattered by its own lond screams : 
 Yet never could his heart command, though fain, 
 One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 
 
 That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, 
 AVhieh wane* and died, yet ever near him stood, 
 Though changed in nature, wander where he would — 
 For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost ! 
 For this one hope he makes his hourly moan. 
 He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
 Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams 
 (So the love-stricken visionary deems) ■ 
 Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, 
 Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower I 
 Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give 
 Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. 
 
 THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Oft, oft methinks, the while vsdth Thee 
 I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
 And dedicated name, I hear 
 
 A promise and a mystery, 
 A pledge of more than passing life, 
 Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 
 
 A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 
 
 A feeling that upbraids the heart 
 
 With happiuesss beyond desert, 
 That gladness half requests to weep ! 
 
 Nor bless I not the keener sense - 
 
 And unalarming turbulence 
 
 Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
 
 From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
 
 But bom beneath Love's brooding wing, 
 And into tenderness soon dying. 
 
 Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
 
 Eesign the soul to love again 
 
 A more precipitated vein 
 Of notes, that eddy in the flow 
 Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 
 
 And leave their sweeter understrain 
 Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
 That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 
 
iga SIBYLLINE LEAVES 
 
 ON EE-VISITING THE SEA-SHOEE, AFTER -LONG 
 
 ABSENCE, 
 
 UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATiqfT NOT TO BATHE. 
 
 Gob be with thee, gla480ine Ocean ! 
 
 How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
 Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, 
 
 AjiA men rejoicing on thy shore. 
 
 Dissuading spake the mild Physician, 
 " Those briny waves for thee are Death 4^' 
 
 Bnt my soul fulfilled her mission, 
 And lo ! I breathe untroubled breath ! 
 
 Fashion's pining Sons and Daughters, 
 That seek the crowd they seem to fly. 
 
 Trembling they approach thy wEiters : 
 And what cares Nature, if they diet 
 
 Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 
 A thousand recollections bland. 
 
 Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, 
 Revisit on thy echoing strand : 
 
 Dreams, fthe Soul herself forsaking,) 
 Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 
 
 Silent adorations, making 
 A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 
 
 O ye hopes, that stir within me, 
 Health comes with you from above I 
 
 God is with me, God is in me ! 
 I cannot die, if Life be Love. ' 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 How warm this woodland wild Recess ! 
 
 Love surely hath beeii breathing here. 
 
 And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
 Swells up, then sinks with faint caress. 
 
 As if to have you yet more near. 
 
 n. 
 
 Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
 On sea-ward Qnantook's heathy hills. 
 Where q^uiet sounds from hidden rills 
 
 Float here and there, like things astray. 
 And high o'er head the sky-lark shriQlB. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 129 
 
 No voice as yet had marie the air 
 Be music with your name ; yet why 
 That asking look ? that yearning sigh t 
 
 That sense ofpromise every where? 
 Beloved ! flew your spirit by? 
 
 IV. 
 
 As when a mother doth explore 
 The roee-mark on her long-lost child, 
 I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 
 
 As whom I long had loved befora— 
 So deeply, had I been beguiled. 
 
 V. 
 You stood before me like a thought, 
 
 A dream Temembered in a dream. 
 
 But when those meek eyes first did seem 
 To tell me. Love within you wrought— 
 
 O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 
 
 Has not, since then7 Love's prompture deep, 
 NHas not Love's whisper evermore, 
 
 Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 
 Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 
 
 Dear under-song in Clamor's hour. 
 
 THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS. 
 
 Cupid, if storying legends tell aright. 
 
 Once named a rich elixir of delight. 
 
 A chalice o'er love-kmdled flames he fix'd. 
 
 And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd : 
 
 With these the magic dews which evening brings, 
 
 Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings : 
 
 Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd, 
 
 Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind — 
 
 Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow, 
 
 And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe. 
 
 The eyeless Chemist heard the ijrocess rise, 
 The steamy chalice' bubbled up in sighs; 
 Sweet sounds transpired as when th°enamor'd dove 
 Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love. 
 The fimsh'd work might Envy vainly blame. 
 And " Kisses '' was the precious compound's name. 
 With half, the god his Cyprian 'ootber blest, 
 Anil spread on Sara's loveliei lips the rest 1 
 
130 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 m.— MEDITATIVE POEMS, 
 
 IN BLANK VERSE. 
 
 Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived. 
 Who seelcs a Heart in the unthinking Man. 
 Like shadows on a stream, the forms of Jilo 
 Impress their characters on the smooth lorehead: 
 Nought sinlfs into the Bosom's silent depth. 
 Quick Sensibility of Pain and Pleasure 
 Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul 
 Warmeth the inner frame. 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUN-EISE, IN THE VALE OP 
 CHAMOUNY. 
 
 Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources 
 in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its , 
 sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana MalDV 
 grows ill immense numbei'S, with its "flowers of loveliest blue." ' 
 
 Hast tliou a charm to stay the Morning-Star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 
 Risost from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, 
 How silently! Around thee and above 
 Deep is' the air and dark, substantial, black, 
 An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, 
 As with a wedge! But when I look again. 
 It is thine own calm home, thy chrystal shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 
 
 1 woishipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 Ttiou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, 
 Yea, with my Life and Life's own seci et Joy : 
 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused. 
 Into the mighty Vision passing — ^there 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise , 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake. 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
 Green Vales and icy Clifis, all join my Hymn. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 131 
 
 I Thou first and cliief, sole Sovereign of the Vale ! . 
 
 O struggling -with the IJarkness all the night, 
 
 And visited all niglit by troops of stars, 
 
 Or -srhpn they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 
 Companion of the Morning-Star at Dawn, 
 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the Dawn 
 
 Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
 
 ■Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
 
 Who filled thy Countenance with rosy light ? 
 
 Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ? ^ 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rooks 
 For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came,) 
 Here let the Billows stiffen, and have Eest f 
 
 Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the Mountain's brow 
 
 Adown enormous Bavines slope amain — 
 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! ' 
 
 Motionless Torrents! silent Cataracts! 
 
 Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven 
 
 Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun 
 
 Clothe you with Eainbows? Who, with living flowers 
 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet f — 
 
 Gob ! let the Torrents, like a Shout of Nations' 
 
 Answer ! and let the Ice-plains echo, God ! 
 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
 
 Ye Pine-groves, with j'our sofi and soul-like sounds! 
 
 And they too have a vofce, yon piles of Snow, ' 
 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eteriial Frost! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the Eagle's nest ! 
 Ye Eagles, play-mates of the Mountain Storm ! 
 Ye Lightnings, the dread arrows of the Clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the HiUs with Praise! 
 
 Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing Peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure Serene 
 Into the depth of Clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy Base 
 
132 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Slow travelling -with dim eyes suffused witli t^ears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
 Else like cloud of Incense, from the Earth f 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the Hills, 
 Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, 
 / And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising Sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WKITTEN IN THE ALBUM ATBLBINGBBODE, IN THE HAKTZ 
 FOREST. 
 
 I STOOD on Brocken's " sovran height,, and saw 
 
 Woods crowding upon woods, hills, over hills, 
 
 A surging scene, and only limited 
 
 By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
 
 Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore. 
 
 Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 
 
 Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,. 
 
 The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound; 
 
 And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, 
 
 Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 
 
 From many a note of many a waterfall. 
 
 And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 
 
 The dingy kidUng with its tinkling bell 
 
 Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
 
 Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 
 
 In low and languid mood :t for I had found 
 
 That outward Forms, the loftiest, still receive 
 
 Their finer influence from the Life within : 
 
 Fair Cyphers of vague import, where the Eye 
 
 Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read 
 
 History or Prophecy of Friend, or Child, 
 
 Or gentle Maid, our first and early love, 
 
 Or Father, or the venerable name 
 
 Of our adored Coilntry! O thou Queen, 
 
 Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 
 
 O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 
 
 • The highest mountaia in the Hartz, and indeed in North Qep- 
 many. 
 
 t When I have gazed 
 
 From some high eminence on goodly vales, 
 And cots and villages embowered below, 
 The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
 Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot 
 Where my tired mind might rest, arid call it home. 
 
 Southby's Hymn to the Penates. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 133 
 
 Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 
 Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 
 
 My native Land ! 
 Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud. 
 Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view 
 From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, 
 Floated away, like a departing dream. 
 Feeble and tUm! Stranger, these impulses 
 Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane. 
 With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 
 That man's subliiner spirit, who can feel 
 That God is everywhere! the God who framed 
 Mankind to he one mighty Family, 
 Himself our Father, and the World our Home. 
 
 THE EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 COMPOSED AT CLBVEpON, SOMEKSETSHIKE. 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
 
 Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
 
 To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
 
 With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved 
 
 Myrtle, 
 (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
 And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light. 
 Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
 Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
 Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
 Snatched from yon bean-field ! and the world so hushed 1 
 The stilly murmur of the distant Sea 
 Tells us of Silence. 
 
 And that simplest Lute, 
 Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
 How by the desultory breeze caressed, 
 Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 
 It pours such sweet upbraiding, as miist needs 
 Tempt to repeat the wrong! Ajid now, its strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise, 
 Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
 Where melodies round honey-dropping flowers. 
 Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
 Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! 
 O the one life within us and abroad. 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
 A light in sound, a sound-like power in light 
 Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where — 
 
134 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 MotMulvS, it should, have been impossible 
 'Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air, 
 is Music slumbering on her instrument. 
 
 . And thus, my love ! as on the midway slox'e 
 
 Of ycjnder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
 
 Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold 
 
 The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, 
 
 And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
 
 li'uU many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
 
 And many idle flitting phantasies. 
 
 Traverse mj; indolent and passive brain. 
 
 As wild andVarious as the random giles 
 
 That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 Be but organic harps diversely framed, ' 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
 Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
 At once the Soul of each, and God of all ? 
 
 But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
 Darts,'0 beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
 Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, 
 And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
 Meek daughter iu the family of Christ! 
 Well hast thou said and hoUly dispraised 
 These shapings of the unregenerate mind; 
 Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
 On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
 For never guiltless' may I speak of him, 
 The Incomprehensible I save when with awe 
 I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; 
 Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
 A sinful and most miserable Man, 
 Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
 Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honoured Maitl ! 
 
 ON OBSEEVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST 01' 
 FEBEUAEY, 1796. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem 
 Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort 
 This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month 
 Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee 
 With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 
 These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
 Perchance, espaped its unknown polar cave, 
 p'en now the keen North-East is on its way. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. Ife 
 
 Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
 To some sweet girl of too too rapici growth 
 Nipped by Consumption 'mid untimely charms ? 
 Or to Bristowa's Baxd,* the wondrous boy ! 
 An Amaranth, which Earth scarce seemed to own, 
 Blooming 'mid po-s erty's drear wintry waste, 
 I'll! Disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
 Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief 
 Shall I compare thfee to poor Poland's Hope, 
 Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud ? 
 Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate bo thine 
 And mock my boding Dim similitudes 
 Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 
 From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master ! 
 , And the warm wooiugs of this sunny day 
 Tremble along my frame and harmonize 
 The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts 
 Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
 Played deftly on a 86ft-ton^d instrument. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF 
 EETIEEMENT. 
 
 Sermoni propriora. — HoR. 
 
 Low was our pretty Cot ; our tallest Eoae 
 Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear 
 At silent noon, and eve, and early mom, 
 The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
 Our Myrtles blossomed ; and across the Porch 
 Thick jasmins twiaed: the little landscape round 
 Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
 It was a spot which you might aptly call 
 The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
 A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
 Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calmed 
 His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
 With -wiser feelings : for he paused, and looked 
 With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, 
 Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again. 
 And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed Place. 
 And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones ' 
 I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
 " The inobtrusivo song of Happiness, 
 
 * Chattertoa. 
 
136 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 " Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
 
 " When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is bushed, 
 
 " And the Heart listens !" 
 
 But the time when iirst 
 From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount 
 I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top, 
 Oh ! what a goodly scene I Here the Bleak Mount, 
 The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
 Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ; 
 And River, now with bnshy rooks o'erbrowed, 
 Npw winding bright and full, with naked banks : 
 And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey, and the Wood, 
 And Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire : 
 The Channel there, the Islands And white Sails, 
 Dim Coasts, and cloud-like HiUs, and shoreless Ocean- 
 It seemed like Omnipresence ! God, methought, 
 Had built him there a Temple : the whole World 
 Seemed imaged in its vast circumference. 
 No wish profaned my overwjielmed Heart. 
 Blest hour ! It was a Luxury, — to be ! 
 
 Ah ! quiet dell I dear cot, and mount sublime! 
 I was constrained to quit you. Was it right, 
 While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, 
 That I should dream away the entrusted hours 
 On rose-leaf Beds, pampering the coward Heart 
 With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
 Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
 Drops on the cheek of One he lifts from Earth : 
 And He that works me good with unmoved face, 
 Does it but half: he chills me while he aids. 
 My Benefactor, not my Brother Man ! 
 Yet even this, this cold Beneficence 
 Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou scanu'st 
 The Sluggard Pity's vision-weaving Tribe ! 
 Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 
 Nursing in somo delicious solitude 
 Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies ! 
 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and band. 
 Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
 Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ. 
 
 Yet oft when after honourable toll 
 Eests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream. 
 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
 Thy Jasmin and thy window-peeping Rose, 
 And Myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
 And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet Abode ! 
 Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
 It might be so—but the time is not yet. 
 Speed it, O Father ! Let tliy Kiogdom couiq 1 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 137 
 
 TO THE EEV. GEOEGE COLEEIDGE OF OTTEEY 
 
 ST. MAEY, DEVON. 
 
 WITH SOME POEMS. 
 
 Notus in f ratres animi patemi. 
 
 Hob. Carm. lib. i. 2. 
 
 A BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed 
 
 His youth and early manhood in the stir 
 
 And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, 
 
 With cares that move, not agitate the Heart, 
 
 To the same Dwelling where his Father dwelt ; 
 
 And haply views his tottering little ones 
 
 Emhrace those aged knees and climb that lap, 
 
 On which first kneeling his own Infancy 
 
 Lisped its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend! 
 
 Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 
 
 At distance did ye 'climb Life's upland road, 
 
 Yeii cheered and cheering : now fraternal Love 
 
 Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days 
 
 Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 
 
 To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
 A different fortune and more different mind — * 
 Me ii-om the spot where first I sprang to light 
 Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
 Its first domestic loves : and hence through Life 
 Chasing chance-started. Friendships. A brief while 
 Some have preserved me from Life's pelting ills ; 
 But, like a Tree with leaves of feeble stem, 
 If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
 Euffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
 Dropped the collected shower ; and some most false, 
 False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, 
 Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
 E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps, 
 Mixed their own venom with the rain from Heaven, 
 That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 
 Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
 Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend, 
 Beneath the impervious covert of one Oak, 
 I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
 Of Husband and of Father; nor unhearing 
 Of that diyine and nightly-whispering Voice, 
 Which' from my childhood to maturer years 
 Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
 Bright with no fading colors ! 
 
 Yet at times 
 My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life 
 Still most a Stranger, most with naked heart 
 
Ill SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 At mine owtt home and birth-place : chiefly then, 
 When I remember thee, my earliest Frienti! 
 Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth ; 
 Didst trace my wanderings with a Father's eye ; 
 And boding evil yet still hoping good 
 Eebuked each fault, and over all my woes 
 Sorrowed in Silence ! He who counts alone 
 The beatings of the solitary heart, 
 That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, 
 Loved as a brother, as a Son revered thee I 
 Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight, 
 To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 
 Of the shrill winter, rattling o-or rude sash. 
 Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 
 Or when as now, on some delicious eve. 
 We in our sweet sequestered Orchard-Plot 
 Sit on the Tree crooked earth- ward ; whose old boughs. 
 That hang above us in an arborous roof. 
 Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 
 Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 
 
 • 
 Nor dost not tJioa sometimes recall those hours. 
 When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear 
 To my wild iirstling-lays. Since then my song 
 Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
 Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind, 
 ®r such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
 Cope with the tempest's swell ! ' 
 
 These various strains, 
 Which I have framed in many a various mood. 
 Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance 
 Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
 If aught of Error or intemperate Truth 
 Should meet thine ear, think then that riper age 
 Will calm it down, and let thy Love forgive it! 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. 
 
 This Sycamore, oft musical with Bees, — 
 
 Such Tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed 
 
 May all its aged Boughs o'er-canopy 
 
 The small rouiid basin, which this jutting stone 
 
 Keeps pure from faUing leaves ! Long may the Spring, 
 
 Quietly as a sleeping Infant's breath. 
 
 Send up cold waters to the Traveller 
 
 With soft and even Pulsel Nor ever cease 
 
 Yon tiny cone of Sand its soundless Dance, 
 
 Which at the Bottom, like a Faii^'s Page, 
 
 As merry and no taller, dances still. 
 
 Nor wrinkles the smooth Surface of the Fount. 
 
• SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 139 
 
 Here T\rilight is and Coolness : here is Moss, 
 A soft Seat, and a deep and ampl^ Shade, 
 Thou may^'st toil far and find no second Tree. 
 Drink, Pilgrim, here I Here rest! and if thy Heart 
 Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 
 Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle Sound, 
 Or passing Gale or Hum of murmuring Bees ! 
 
 A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 
 
 'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 
 
 (So call him, for so mingling Blame with Praise 
 
 And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest fiiends. 
 
 Masking his birth-name, wont to character 
 
 His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 
 
 'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths 
 
 And honouring with religious love the Great 
 
 Of elder times, he hated to excess, 
 
 With an unquiet and intolerant scorn. 
 
 The hollow puppets of an hollow Age, 
 
 Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
 
 Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time, 
 
 (Too much of all) time wasting in vain war 
 
 Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, 
 
 Whole years of weary days; besieged him close, 
 
 Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
 
 But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm. 
 
 And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
 
 The Citadel unconquered, and in joy 
 
 Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 
 
 For not a hidden Path, that to the Shades 
 
 Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads, 
 
 Lurked undiscovered by him; not a rill 
 
 There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 
 
 But he had traced it upward to its 8oui;ce, 
 
 Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell, 
 
 Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled 
 
 Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, 
 
 Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, 
 
 The haunt obscure of old Philosopliy, 
 
 He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 
 
 Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 
 
 Of odorous Lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 
 
 O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
 
 O studious Poet, eloquent lor truth ! 
 
 PhiloBoplier! contemning wealth and death, 
 
 Yet docile, childlike, fall of Life and Love! 
 
 Here, rather than on monumental stone. 
 
 This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, 
 
 Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 
 
140 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 THIS LIME-TEEE BOWER MY PRISON. 
 
 In the June of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid a visit (o 
 the Author's Cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met 
 ■with an accident, which disabled him from walJdng during tli« 
 whole time of their stay. One Evening, when they ha,d left him for 
 a few hours, he composed the following lines in the Garden-Bower. 
 
 "Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 
 
 This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison I I have lost 
 
 Beauties and Feelings, such as would have been 
 
 Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 
 
 Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile. 
 
 Friends, whom 1 never more may meet again, 
 
 On springy heath, along the hill-top edge, 
 
 Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, 
 
 To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
 
 The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep. 
 
 And only speckled by the mid-day Sun ; 
 
 Where its slim trunk, the Ash from rock to rock 
 
 Flings arching like a bridge; — that branchless Ash, 
 
 Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
 
 Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,' 
 
 Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my friends 
 
 Behold the dark green file of long lank Weeds.* 
 
 That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
 
 Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
 
 Of the blue cU^y-stone. 
 
 Now, my Friends emerge 
 Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again 
 The many-steepled track magnificent 
 Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea. 
 With some fair bark, perhaps, whose Sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isies 
 Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on 
 In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
 And hungered after Nature, many a year. 
 In the great City pent, winning thy way 
 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
 And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 
 Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb 
 Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! 
 And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my Friend ^ 
 Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, 
 Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round 
 
 * Of long lank Weeds.] The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in 
 some countries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Harr's Tongue; 
 but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue us the trivial name of tha 
 Ophioglossum l-u.j'. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 141 
 
 On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
 Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues 
 As veil the Almighty Spirit, -when he malses 
 Spirits perceive his presence. 
 
 A delight 
 Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
 As 1 myself were there 1 Nor in this bower. 
 This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked 
 Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
 Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched 
 Some broad and sunny l^a^ and loved to see 
 The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
 Dappling its sunshine ! And that Walnut-tree 
 Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
 Full on the ancient Ivy, which usurps 
 Those fronting elms, and now with blackest mass 
 Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
 Through the late twilight : and though now the Bat 
 Wheefi silent by, and not a Swallow twitters. 
 Yet still the solitary humble Bee 
 Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure. 
 No Plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ , 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 
 That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate 
 With lively joy the joys we caunot sbare. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last Eook 
 Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
 Homewards, I bleat it! deeming, its black wing 
 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
 Had crossed the mighty Orb's dilated glory. 
 While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still, 
 *Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
 No Sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 Who "HAD DECLARED HIS rNTENTTON OF WEITLNG KO 
 MORE POETRY. 
 
 Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe I ween 
 That Genius i>Iunged thee in that wizard fount 
 
 * Flew Cbbeeiho.] Some months ^fter I had written this linp, it 
 gave me pleasure to observe that Baitram had observed the same 
 circumstance of the Savanna Crane. "When these Birds move 
 their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and regular; 
 and even when at a considerable distance or high above us, we 
 plainly hear the quill-feathers; their shafts and webs upon one an- 
 other creek as the joints or worl^ing of a ressel in a tempeetuouB 
 
142 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Higlit Castalie; and (sureties of thy faith) 
 That Pity and Simplicity stood by, 
 And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 
 The world's low cares and lying ranities. 
 Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, 
 And washed and sanctified to Poesy. 
 Yes^-thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand 
 Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior Son : 
 And with those recreant unbaptized Heels 
 Thou'rt flying from thy bonnden Ministeries — 
 So sore it seems and burthensome a task 
 To weave unwithering flowers ! But talie thou heed : 
 For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed Boy, 
 And I have arrows* mystically dipped, 
 Sucli .18 may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead? 
 And shall he die unwept, and sink to Earth, 
 " Without the meed of one melodious tear ?" 
 Thy Bums, and Nature's own beloved Bard, 
 Who to the " lUustrioust of his native Land 
 " So properly did look for Patronage." 
 Ghost of Mjecenas! hide thy blushing face ! 
 They snatched him from the Sickle and the Plough- 
 To gauge Ale-Firkins. 
 
 Oh ! for shame return ! 
 On a bleak Eock, midway the Aonian mount, 
 There stands a lone and melancholy trfee, 
 Whose aged branches to the midnight blast 
 Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough, 
 Ere yet the unwholesome Night-dew be exhaled, 
 And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's Tomb. 
 .Then iu the outskirts, where pollutions grow, 
 Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers 
 Of night-shade, or its red and tenapting fruit. 
 These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand 
 Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine 
 The Illustrious Brow of Scotch Nobility. 
 
 1796. 
 
 TO A GENTLEMAN. 
 (W. Wordsworth.) 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE -NIGHT APTER HIS RECITATION OF 4 
 POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDrVTpUAL MIND. 
 
 Friend of the Wise! and 'Teacher of the Good! 
 Into my heart have I received that Lay 
 More than historic that, prophetic Lay 
 
 • Vide Find. Olym. ii. 1^ 156. 
 
 t Verbatim from Burns's dedication o( his Poem to the Nobility 
 and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. -, 143 
 
 Wherein (high theme by thee fii'st sung aright) 
 Of the foundations and the building up 
 Of the Human Spirit, thou hast dared to tell 
 What may be told, to the understanding mind 
 Eevealable ; and what within the mind 
 By vital Breathings, like the secret soul 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the Heart 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 
 
 , Theme hard as high 1 
 Of, smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears 
 (The first-born they of Reasori and twin-birth) 
 Of tides obedient to external force, 
 Aud currents self-determined, as might seem. 
 Or by some inner Power ; of moments awful, 
 Now in thy inner life and now abroad, 
 When Power streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
 The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 
 Of Fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
 Hy blean murmurs of Poetic Thought 
 Industrious in its Joy, in Vales and Glens, 
 Native or outland. Lakes and famous Hills ! 
 Or on the lonely High-road, when the Stars 
 Were rising ; or by secret Mountain-streams, 
 The Guides and the Companions of thy way I 
 
 Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
 Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man, 
 Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating 
 Even as a Bark becalmed beueath the Burst 
 Of Heaven's immediate Thunder, when no cloud 
 Is visible, or shadow on the Main. 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded. 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 Amid a mighty nation jubilant. 
 When from the general Heart of Human kind 
 Hope sprang forth like a fuU-bom Deity ! 
 
 Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, 
 
 So summoned homeward, thenceforth' calm and sure 
 
 From the dread Watch-Tower of man's absolute Self, 
 
 With light unwaniug on her eyes, to look 
 
 Far on— herself a glory to behold. 
 
 The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
 
 Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,- 
 
 Action and Joy ! — An orphic song indeett, 
 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts, 
 
 To their own Music ohaunted ! 
 
 great Bard ! 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
 With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
 Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great 
 
144 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Have all one age, and from one visible space 
 Shed influences ! They, both in power and act, 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with theni, 
 Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred Koll, than those of old. 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
 Among the Archives of Mankind, thy work 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
 Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay. 
 Not leamt, but native, her own natural notes I 
 
 ' Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn 
 
 5 The pulses of my Being beat anew : 
 
 And even as Life returns upon the Drowned, 
 Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of Pains — 
 Keen Pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
 And Fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of Hope 5 
 Aud Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear; 
 Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain, 
 And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain ; 
 And all which I had culled in Wood-walks wild, 
 And all which patient toil had reared, and all. 
 Commune with thee had opened out — but Flowers 
 Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my Bier, 
 In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems it me. 
 Who came a welcomer in Herald's Guise, 
 Singing of Glory, aud Futurity, 
 To wander back on such, unhealthful road. 
 Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And iU 
 Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
 Strewn before thy advancing 1 
 
 Nor do thou. 
 Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour 
 Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
 By Pity or Grie^ already felt too long 1 
 Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
 The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh 
 Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
 Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, 
 The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal Hours 
 Already on the wing. 
 
 Eve following eve, 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
 la sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
 And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
 In silence listening, like a devout child, 
 Mjr soul lay passive, by thy various straia 
 ■driven as in surges now beneath the stars. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 145 
 
 With momentary Stars of my own birth, 
 Fair consteUated Form,* stUl darting off 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea, 
 Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. 
 
 And when — friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
 Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength — 
 Thy long-sustained song finally closed, 
 And thy deep voice hath ceased — yet thou thyself 
 Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
 That happy vision of beloved Faces — 
 Scarce conscious) and yet conscious of its close 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 (Thought was it ? or Aspiration ? or Resolve?) 
 Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound-^ 
 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE : 
 
 A CONVERSATION POEM. 
 ■WRITTEN IN iPEIL, 1798. 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 
 Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
 
 Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge I 
 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 
 
 But hear no mumuring : it flows silently. 
 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 
 A balmy nightl and though the stars be, dim, 
 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 And hark ! t^e Nightingale begins its song, 
 
 " Most musical, most melancholy " Bird !t 
 
 A melancholy Bird? Oh ! idle thought! 
 
 In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 
 
 pierced 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
 
 * "A beautiful white cloud of Foam at momentary intervals 
 coursed by the side of the Vessel with a Roar, and little stars ot 
 flame danced and sparkled and went out in it : and every now and 
 then light detachments of this whitp cloud-h'ke foam darted off 
 from the vessel's side, each with its own small const ellation, over 
 the Sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar Troop over a Wilder 
 ness."— The Friend, p. 320. 
 
 + "Most Musical, most melancholy."] This passage in Milton 
 possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description. 
 It is spoken in the character of the melancholy man, and has there- 
 fore a dramatic propriety. The -author makes this remark, to 
 rescue himself from the charge of haying alluded with levity to a 
 line in Milton : a charge than which none could be more painful to 
 him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed bis Bible. 
 
146 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 
 (And 80 poor Wretch ! tilled all things -with himself, 
 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 
 Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, 
 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain : 
 
 And many a poet echoes th^ conceit ; 
 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 
 When he had better far have stretched his limbs 
 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
 
 By Sun or Moon-light, tp the inflnxes 
 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
 
 Should share in Nature's immortality, 
 
 A venerable thing! and so his song 
 
 Should make .11 Natnre lovelier, and itself 
 
 Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 
 And youths and maidens most poetical. 
 
 Who lose the deepening twilights f the spring 
 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 
 Full of meek sympathy must have their sighs 
 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt 
 A diiferent lore : " e may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joy ance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, anid precipitates 
 With fast thi k warble his delicious notes, 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, ,and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
 And the trim walks are broken xip, and grass, 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many Nightingales ; and far and near. 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
 They answer and provoke each other's song, 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 
 And one low piping Sound more sweet than all — 
 Stirring the air with such an harmony, 
 fhat should you close your eyes, you might almost 
 Forget it was not day ! On Moonlight bushes, 
 Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 147 
 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full. 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle Maid, 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 ( Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes. 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
 What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, 
 Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon 
 Emerging, hath awalsened earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and these wakeful Birds 
 Have all burst forth in Choral minstrelsy, 
 As if some sudden Gale had swept at once 
 An hundred airy harps! And she hath watched 
 Many a Nightingale perched giddily 
 On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song 
 Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 
 
 Farewell, O Warbler ' till to-morrow eve, 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
 We have been. loitering long and pleasantly, 
 And now for our dear homes. — That strain again? 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
 And bid us listen! And I deem it wise 
 To make him Nature's Play-mate. He knows well 
 The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's drpam) 
 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
 And he beheld the Moon, and, hushed at once. 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
 While his fair eyes, that swam with undro'pped tears 
 Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! — 
 It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
 He may associate joy ! Once more farewell. 
 Sweet Nightingale! Once more my friends ! farewell. 
 
14a SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's ray 
 Came loud— and hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude, -which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hiU, and wood, 
 This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings on of life. 
 Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
 Making it a companionable form. 
 To which the living spirit in our frame, 
 That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, 
 Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will. 
 
 How oft, at school, with most beUeviug mind, 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
 To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt. 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gaied I, till the soothing things, 1 dreamt, 
 Lulled me to sleep, and. sleep prolonged my dreams ! 
 And so I'brooded all the folliiwing mom. 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fixed with mock study on my swimming boot : 
 Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up. 
 For still I hoped to see the e*ranger'a face. 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sistex more beloved. 
 My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! 
 
 Dear Babe, that sleepest i^radled by my side. 
 Whose gentle breathings, bsard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of ;^he thought! 
 My Babe so beautiful! it t """tills my heart 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 149 
 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid Cloisters dim, 
 And saw nought lo-^ely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my bahe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so slialt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
 Great universal Teacher! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. ^ 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer'clothe the general eartli 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eve-dro; 3 fall 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 
 
 rV.— ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS Iv-EMS. 
 
 THE THEEE GRAVES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A SHXTQN'S TALV ,, 
 
 [The Author has i)ublished the IjoIIowing humb', j fragment, en 
 couraged by the decisive recominendalion of morf than one of our 
 most celebrated living Poets. The language vraji intended to l>e 
 dramatic: that is suited to the narrator; and the rr.etre corresponds 
 to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefopfj presented as the 
 fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common Ba, lad-tale. Whether 
 this is sufflcient'to justify the adoption of such t^ style, in any metri- 
 cal composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in 
 some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in 
 no way connected with the Author's judgmf/4t concerning Poetic * 
 diction. Its merits, if any. are exclusively- Psychological. The 
 story which must be supposed to have been uarr|ited in the first and 
 second part is as follows. 
 
 Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her bqjgnm- 
 fi'iend Mary, and commences an acquai'. tance, which ends in a 
 n^utuat attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their 
 common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to 
 Mary's Mother, a widow-woman borderiiLg on her fortieth year, and 
 from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and 
 from having had no other children but Mary and another daughter 
 (the Father died in their infanc.y;)retai'iing. for the greater part, her 
 personal attractions and comeUness t.f appearance, but a won^aQ 
 
150 SIBYLLmE LEAVES. 
 
 of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at 
 once returned to Edward's application was remarkable— " Well, 
 Edward I you are &, handsome young fellow, and you shall have 
 my Daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the 
 Mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her 
 future Son-in-law, and practised ever^ art, both of endearment 
 and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to 
 herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive Facts, and of no 
 very distant date, though the author has purposely altt^red the 
 names and the scene or action, as well as invented, the characters 
 of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, 
 though perplexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's 
 
 food qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistaking 
 er increasing fondness for motherly affection ; she at length, 
 overcome by her -miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's 
 temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion — 
 O EdT^ard indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you— she has not a 
 heart to lovs you as you deserve. It is I that love you 1 Marry 
 fne, Edward 1 and I will this very day settle all my property on 
 you.— The Lover's eyes wei-e now opened, and thus taken by sur- 
 prise, wh(?ther from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting 
 as It were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first 
 moment he lost the sense of guilt of the proposal in the feeling 
 of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from hinj and burst 
 into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the 
 woman fell on her'knees, and in a loud voice that approached to 
 a Fcream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on her own 
 - CJ;iId. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard 
 Eilward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous prayer and fainted 
 away. He, hearing the fall, ran upstairs, and taking her in his 
 arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and aftet* some fruitless 
 attempts on her' part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she 
 we^s married to him.— And here the third part of the Tale begins. 
 
 1 was not led to chuse this story from any^ partiality to tragic, 
 much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed 
 the verses, somewhat , more than twelve years ago, I was less, 
 averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a 
 striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an 
 Idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I nad been reading 
 Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby Witchcraft on 
 the Negroes in the West-Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting 
 Anecdotes of similar workings on the ima^nationof the Copper 
 Indians (those of my Readers who have it in their power will be 
 well repaid 'for the trouble of referring to those works for the 
 passages alluded to) and I conceived the design of shewing that 
 instances of this kind are not ijeculiar to savage or barbarous tribes. 
 and of illpstrating the mode in which the naind is affected in these ■ 
 cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on 
 the fancy from the beginning. 
 
 The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country ^ 
 church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by ' 
 the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of 
 whicn there were grave-stones. On vhe first of these was the 
 nam-*", and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a 
 date* , fl>nd the words, The Mercy of God is infinite.] 
 
 The Grapes upon the Vicar's wall 
 Were ripe as ripe could be : 
 
 And yellow leaves in Sun and Wind 
 Were falling from the Tree. 
 
 On the hedge-elms In the narrow lane 
 Still swung the spikes of corn ; 
 
SIBYLLIXE LEAVES. 151 
 
 Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
 Young Edward's marriage-morD. 
 
 Up through that wood behind the church, 
 
 There leads from Edward's door 
 A mossy track, all over boughed, 
 
 For half a mile or more. 
 
 And from their house-door by that track 
 
 The Bride and Bridegroom went ; 
 Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, 
 
 Seemed cheerful and con tent. 
 
 But when they to the churchyard came, 
 
 I've heard poor Mary say, 
 As soon as she stepped into the Sun, 
 
 Her heart it died away. 
 
 And when the Vicar joined their hands, 
 
 Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 
 But when they prayed, she thought she saw 
 
 Her mother on her knees. 
 
 And o'er the church-path they returned— 
 
 I saw poor Mary's back. 
 Just as she stepped beneath the boughs 
 
 Into the mossy track. 
 
 Her feet upqn the mossy track 
 
 The married maiden set : 
 That moment — I have heard hei say — 
 
 She wished she could forget. 
 
 The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat — 
 
 Then came a chill like death : 
 And when the merry bells rang out. 
 
 They seemed to stop her breath. 
 
 Beneath the foulest Mother's curse 
 
 No child could ever thrive : 
 A Mother is a Mother still, 
 
 The holiest thing alive. 
 
 So five months passed : the Mother still 
 
 "Would never heal the strife ; 
 But Edward was a loving man 
 
 And Mary a fond wife. 
 
 "My sister imay not visit us, 
 My mother says her nay : 
 
 Edwajd ! you are all to me, 
 
 1 wish Tor your sake I conld be 
 More lifesome and more gay, 
 
 I'm dull a^d sad ! indeed, indeed '"; 
 
 I know I have no reason ! ''i 
 
 Perhaps I afti not well in health, ' • 
 
 And 'f.s a gloomy season." 
 
152 SIBYLLDTE LEAVES. 
 
 'Twas a drizzly time — ^no ice, no snow 1 
 And on the few fine days 
 ' She stirred not out, lest she might meet 
 Iler Mother in the ways. 
 
 But Ellen, spite of miry ways 
 And weather dark and dreary, 
 
 Ttudged every day to Edward's house, 
 And made them all more cheery. 
 
 Oh! Ellen was a faithful Friend, 
 
 More dear than any Sister ! 
 As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
 And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, 
 
 And then they always missed her. 
 
 And now Ash-Wednesday came — that day 
 
 But few to Church repair: 
 For on that day you know we read 
 
 The Commination prayer. 
 
 Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 
 
 Once, Sir, he said to me, 
 He wished that service was clean out 
 
 Of our good Liturgy. 
 
 The Mother walked into the church — 
 
 To Ellen's seat she went : 
 Though Ellen always kept her church 
 
 All church-days during Lent. 
 
 And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
 With courteous looks and mild : 
 
 Thought she " what if her heart should melt, 
 And all be reconciled !" 
 
 The day was scarcely like a day — 
 The clouds were black outright : 
 
 And many a night, with half a Moon, 
 I've seen the church more light. . 
 
 The wind was wild ; against the glass 
 The rain did beat and bicker ; 
 
 The church-tower swinging over head. 
 You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 
 
 And then and there the Mother knelt, 
 And audibly she cried — , 
 
 " Oh I may a clinging curse consume 
 This woman by my side ! 
 
 O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven, 
 
 Although you take my life — 
 O curse this woman, at whose house 
 
 Young Edward woo'd his wife. 
 
 By night and day, in bed and bower, 
 let her cursed be ! ! ! " 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 153 
 
 So having prayed, steady and slow, 
 
 Shfe rose up from her knee ! 
 And left the church, nor e'er again 
 
 The church-door entered she. 
 
 I saw poor Ellen kneeling still, 
 
 So pale ! I guessed not why : 
 When she stood up, there plainly, was 
 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 And when the prayers were done, we all 
 
 Came round and asked her why : , 
 
 Giddy she seemed, and, sure, there was 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 But ere she from the church-door stepped 
 
 She smiled and told us why : 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse," 
 
 Quoth she, " and what care I ?" 
 
 She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 
 
 Ere from the door she stept — 
 But all agree it would have been 
 
 Much better had she wept. 
 
 And if her heart was not at ease. 
 
 This was her constant cry — 
 "It was a wicked woman's curse — 
 
 God's good, and what care I ?" 
 
 There was a hurry in her looks, 
 
 Her struggles she redoubled : 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse. 
 
 And why should I be troubled ?" 
 
 These tears will come — I dandled her 
 
 When 'twas the merest fairy — 
 Good creature 1 and she hid it all : 
 
 She told it not to Mary. 
 
 But Mary heard the tale : her arins 
 
 Eound Ellen's neck she threw ; 
 " Oh Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, 
 
 And now she hath cursed you!" 
 
 I saw young Edward by himself 
 
 Stalk fast adown the lee. 
 He snatched a stick from every fence, 
 
 A twig from every tree. 
 
 He snapped them still with hand or knee, 
 
 And then away they flew ! 
 As if with his uneasy Iimt>s 
 
 He knew not what to do ! 
 
 You see, good sir ! that single hill f 
 His farm lies underneath : 
 G* 
 
154 ■ SIBYLLINE LE'AVES. 
 
 He heard it there, he heard it all. 
 And only gnashed his teeth. 
 
 Now Ellen was a darling love 
 
 In all his joys and cares : 
 And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
 Fast-linked they both together came, 
 
 Whenefer he said his prayers. 
 
 And in the moment of his prayers 
 
 He loved them both alike : 
 Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 
 
 Upon his heart did strike ! 
 
 He reach'd his home, and by his looks 
 
 They saw his inward striite : 
 And they clung round him with their arms, 
 
 Both Ellen and his wife. 
 
 And Mary could tiot check her tears, 
 
 So on his breast she bowed; 
 Then Frenzy melted into Grief, 
 
 And Edward wept aloud. 
 
 Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 
 
 But closelier did she cling. 
 And turned her face and looked as if 
 
 She saw some frightful' thing. 
 
 PABT rv. 
 
 To see a man tread over Graves 
 
 I hold it no good mark ; 
 'Tis wicked in tlie Sun and Moon, 
 
 And bad luck in the dark ! 
 
 You see that Grave ? The Lord he gives, 
 
 The Lord, he takes away : 
 O Sir ! the child of my old age 
 
 Lies there as cold as clay. 
 
 Except that grave, you scarce see oes 
 
 That was not dug by me ; 
 I'd rather dance upon 'em all 
 
 Than tread upon these three I 
 
 "Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale." 
 
 You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
 This month I'm in my seventieth year, 
 
 And still it makes me sad. 
 
 And Mary's sister told it me. 
 For three good liours and more ; 
 
 Though I had heard it, in the main, 
 From Edward's self, before. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 155 
 
 Well ! it passed off! the gentle Ellen 
 
 Did well uigli dote on Mary ; 
 And she ■went oftener than before, 
 Afid Mary loved her more and more : 
 
 She managed all the dairy. 
 
 To market she on market-days, 
 . To church on Sundays came ; 
 All seemed the same : all seemed bo, Sir\ 
 But all was not the same ! 
 
 Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 
 
 But she was seldom cheerful ; 
 And Edward looked as if he thought 
 
 That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 
 
 When by herself, she to herself 
 
 Must sing some merry rhyme ; 
 She could not now be glad for hours, 
 
 Yet silent all the time. 
 
 And when she soothed her friend, through all 
 
 Her soothing words 'twas plain 
 She had a sore grief of her own, 
 
 A haunting in her brain. 
 
 And oft she said, I'm not grown thin ! 
 
 And then her wrist she spanned : 
 And once when Mary was down-cast. 
 
 She took her by the hand, 
 And gjized upon her, and at first 
 
 She gently pressed her hand ; 
 
 Then harder, till her grasp at length 
 
 Did gripe like a convulsion ! 
 Alas ! said she, we ne'er can be 
 
 Made happy by compulsion ! 
 
 And once her both arms suddenly 
 
 Eound Mary's neck she flung, 
 And her heart panted, and she felt < 
 
 The words upon her tongue. ) 
 
 She felt them coming, but no power 
 
 Had she the words to smother; 
 And with a kind of shriek she cried, 
 
 "Oh Christ! you're like your Mother!" 
 
 So gentle Ellen now no more 
 
 Could make this sad house cheery; 
 And Mary's melancholy ways 
 
 Drove Edward wild and weary. 
 
156 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Lingering he raised his latch at eve. 
 Though tired in heart and limb : 
 
 He loved no other place, and yet 
 Home was no home to him. 
 
 One evening he took np a book, 
 
 And nothing in it read ; 
 Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 
 
 " Oh ! Heaven ! that I were dead." 
 
 Mary looked up into his face, 
 
 And nothing to him said ; 
 She tried to smile, and on his arm 
 
 Mournfully leaned her head. 
 
 And he burst into tears, and fell 
 
 Upon his knees in prater : 
 " Her heart is broke ! O God ! my grief. 
 
 It is too great to bear ! " 
 
 'Twas such a foggy time as makes 
 
 Old Sextons, Sir ! like me, 
 Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 
 
 Was late uncommonly. 
 
 And then the hot days, all at once, 
 They came, we knew not how : 
 
 You looked about for phade, when scares 
 A leaf was on a bough. 
 
 It happened then ('twas in the bower 
 
 A furlong up the wood : 
 Perhaps you know the place, and yet 
 
 I scarce know how you should) 
 
 No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 
 To any pasture-plot ; 
 " But clustered near the chattering brook 
 Lone hollies marked the spot. 
 
 Those hollies of themselves a shape 
 
 As of an arbour took, 
 A close, round arbour ; and it stands 
 
 Not three strides from a brook. 
 
 Within this arbour, which was still 
 
 With scarlet berries hung, 
 Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 
 
 Just as the first bell rung. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear the Sabbath-bell , 
 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, 
 
 Deep in a woody dell. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 157 
 
 His limbs along the moss, his head 
 
 Upon a mossy heap. 
 With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
 That hrook e'en on a working day 
 
 Might chatter one to sleep. 
 
 And he had passed a restless night, 
 
 And was not well in health ; 
 The women sat down by his side, 
 
 And talked as 'twere by stealth. 
 
 " The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 
 
 See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
 'Tis in the leaves, a little Sun, 
 
 No bigger than your ee ; 
 
 A tiny Sun, and it has got 
 
 A perfect glory too : 
 Ten thousand threads and hairs of light. 
 Make up a glory, gay and bright, 
 
 Bound that small orb, so blue." 
 
 And then they argued of those rays, 
 
 "What colour they might be : 
 Says this, " they're mostly green ;" says that, 
 
 " They're ambei'-like to me." 
 
 So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts. 
 
 Were troubling Edward's rest ; 
 But soon they heard his hard quick pants. 
 
 And the thumping in his breast. 
 
 "A Mother, too!" these self-same words 
 
 Did Edward mutter plain ; 
 His face was drawn back on itself, 
 
 With horror and huge pain. 
 
 Both groaned at once, for both knew well 
 What thoughts were in his mind ; 
 
 When he waked up, and stared like one 
 That hath been just struck blind. 
 
 He sat upright ; and ere the dream 
 
 Had had mme to depart, 
 " O God, forgive me 1'' (he exclaimed) 
 
 " I have torn out her heart." 
 
 Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst 
 
 Into ungentle laughter ; 
 And Mary shivered, where she sat 
 
 And never she smiled after. 
 
 Carmen reliqnum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow I 
 and To-morrow 1 and Tomorrow 1 
 
158 . SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 DEJECTION: 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 With the old Moon in her arms; ' 
 And I fear, I fear, my Master deaipl 
 We shall have a deadly storm. 
 
 Ballad of Sik Patrick Spencb, 
 
 I. 
 
 WElil If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
 This night, so tranquil now, wiU not go hence 
 Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
 Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flates, 
 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
 Upon: the strings of this iEolian lute, 
 Which better far were mute. 
 For lo I the New-moon winter-bright ! ■ 
 And overspread with phantom light, 
 (With swimming phantom light o'erspread • 
 But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
 • The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
 And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling. 
 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, 
 
 And sent my soul abroad. 
 Might now perliaps their wonted impulse give, 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. 
 In word, or sigh, or tear — 
 
 Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd. 
 
 All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
 Have I been gazing on the western sky, 
 
 And its peculiar tint of yellow green: 
 And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds, in flakes and bars, 
 That give away their motion to the stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always ,seen : 
 You crescent Moon as fixefl as it it grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
 
 1 see them all so excellently fair 
 
 I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 
 
SIBYLLINE XEAVH >, ♦ 159 
 
 My genial spirits fail, 
 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift the smothering weight frora ot' my breast ? 
 
 It were a vain endeavour, 
 
 Though I should gaze for ever 
 On that green light that lingers in thi> west : 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the lifd, whose fount lins are within. 
 
 Oh Lady! we receive but what we gi re, 
 
 And in our life alone does nature live : 
 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours he;; shroud ! 
 
 And would we aught behold, of higher worth. 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowod 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crow d, 
 
 Ah ! from the spul itself must issue larth, 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 , Enveloping the Earth — 
 And from the sovS itself must there be ?ent 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
 Of ail sweet sounds the life and elemeu t ! 
 
 O ]^tire of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may be ! 
 What, and wherein it doth exist, 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. 
 This beautiful a.nd beauty-making power. 
 
 Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given. 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 
 Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and Shower, 
 Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power. 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower 
 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamtof by the sensual and the proud — 
 Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 
 
 We in ourselves rejoice ! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight. 
 
 All melodies' the echoes of that voice, 
 All colours a suffusion from that light. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was rough, 
 This joy within me dallied with distress. 
 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : 
 
 For. hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 
 
 And fruits, and foliage not my own, seemed mine. 
 
ISO glfiYLLlNE LEAVES. 
 
 But now afflictions bow me down to earth ; 
 Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, 
 
 But oh ! each Tisitation 
 Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 
 
 My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
 For not to think of what I needs must feel, 
 
 But to be stiU and patient, all I can ; 
 And hajily by abstruse research to stea^ 
 
 From my own nature all the natural Man — 
 
 This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
 rill that which suits a part infects the whole, 
 And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul. 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 
 
 EeaUty's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you and listen to the wind, 
 
 Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthened out 
 That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest without, 
 
 Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
 Or lonely house,- long held the witches' home, 
 Methiuks were fitter instruments for thee. 
 Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, 
 Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
 Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, ' 
 The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 
 
 Thou Actor, periect in all tragic sounds ! 
 Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold 1 
 What tell'st thou, now about ? 
 'Tis of the Rushing of an Host in rout, 
 With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! 
 But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! 
 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
 With groans, and tremulous shudderiugs — all is over- 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! 
 A tale of less affright, 
 And tempered with delight, * 
 
 As Otway's self had framed the tender lay-^ 
 'Tis ofa little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother 
 hear. 
 
 • Taim is a small lake, generally it not always applied to the lakes 
 up in the mountains, and which are the feedei-s of those in the 
 vallies. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extra%'agant 
 to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous couniry. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 161 
 
 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend sueh vigils keep I 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing, 
 
 And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 
 
 Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth I 
 With light heart may she rise, 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice : 
 To her may all things live, from Pole to Polo, 
 Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 
 
 O simple spirit, guided from above, 
 Dear Lady ! Mend devoutest of my choice, 
 Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 
 
 ODE TO GEOEGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIEE. 
 
 ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HEB " PASSAGE OVEB 
 MOUNT GOTHAKD." 
 
 " And hail the Chapell hail the Platform wild. 
 
 Where Tell directed the avenging Dart, 
 With well strung arm, that flrstpreservedhis Child, 
 
 Then aimed the arrow at the Tyrant's heart." 
 
 Splendour's fondly fostered child ! 
 And did you hail the Platform wild, 
 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ? 
 O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure I 
 Whence learnt you that heroic measure T 
 
 Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, 
 From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man 
 Far, far removed I from want, from hope, from fear t 
 Enchanting music lulled your infant ear. 
 Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart: 
 
 Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, 
 With many a bright obtrusive form of art,. 
 
 Detained your eye from nature : stately vests. 
 That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, 
 Bich viands and the pleasurable wine, 
 Were yours unearned by toil : nor could you see 
 The unenjoying toiler's misery. 
 And yet, free Nature's uucorrupted child, 
 You hailed the Chapel and^he Platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 
SIBYLLINE L:^AVES. 
 
 O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Whence learnt you that heroic measure 1 
 
 There crowd your finely-fibred frame, 
 
 All living faculties of bliss ; 
 And Genius to your cradle came, 
 His forehead wreathed with lambent flame. 
 And bending low, with godlike kiss 
 Breath'd in a more celestial life; 
 But boasts not many a fair compeer 
 
 A heart as sensitive to joy and fear ? 
 And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, 
 Some fe-w, to nobler being wrought, 
 Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
 Yet these delight to celebrate 
 Laurelled War and plumy State ; 
 Or in verse and music dress 
 Tales of rustic happiness- 
 Pernicious Tales! insidious Strains! 
 That steel the rich man's breast, 
 And mock the lot unblest. 
 The sordid vices and the abject pains. 
 Which evermore must be 
 The doom of Ignorance and Penury ! 
 But you, free Na,ture'8 uncorrupted child. 
 You hailed the chapel and the Platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Where learnt you that heroic measure ? , 
 
 1 
 You were a Mother ! That most holy name, 
 
 Which Heaven and Nature bless, 
 ■ I may not vilely prostitute to those 
 Whose Infants Owe them less 
 Than the poor Caterpillar owes 
 Its gaudy Parent Fly. 
 You were a Mother ! at your bosom fed 
 
 The Babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye 
 Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, 
 Which you yourself created. Oh! delight! 
 A second time to be a Mother, 
 
 Without the Mother's bitter groans : 
 Another thought, and yet another, 
 By touch, or taste, by looks or tones 
 O'er the growing Sense to roll. 
 The Mother of your infant's Soul ! 
 The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides 
 
 His chariot-planet round the goal of day, 
 All trembling gazes oh the Eye of God, 
 
 A moment turned his awful face away ; 
 A«ad as he viewed you, from his aspeit tr.veet 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 1G3 
 
 New influences in your bejng rose, 
 Blest Intuitions and Commuiiions fleet 
 With living Nature, in her joys and woes! 
 Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see 
 The shrine of social Liberty ! 
 O beautiful I O Nature's child ! 
 'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Thence learnt you that heroic measure. 
 
 ODE TO TEAJS^QUILLITY. 
 
 Tranquillity! thou better name 
 
 Than all the family of Fame I 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
 
 To low intrigue, or factious rage : 
 
 For oh 1 dear child of Thoughtful Truth, 
 
 To thee I gave my early youth. 
 And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore. 
 Ere yet the Tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
 
 Ou him but seldom, power divine. 
 
 Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 
 And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
 I Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
 
 And dire Eemembrance interlope, 
 To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 
 
 But me thy gentle hand will lead 
 At morning through the accustomed mead ; 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 Will build me up a mossy seat. 
 And when the gust of Autumn crowds 
 And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, > 
 
 Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, 
 Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon, 
 
 The feeling heart, the searching soul, 
 
 To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
 
 And while within myself I trace 
 
 The greatness of some future race, 
 
 Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
 
 The present works of present man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 
 
164 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. 
 COMPOSED IN 1796. 
 
 . A MOUNT, not ■wearisome and bare and steep, 
 
 But a mreen mountain variously up-piled, 
 Where o'er the jutting rooks soft mosses creep, 
 Or coloured lichens with slow oosing weep ; 
 
 Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ; 
 And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
 Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash ; 
 
 Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguiled, 
 Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep ; 
 
 Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, 
 That rustling on the bushy clift above, 
 With melanSioly bleat of anxious love, 
 
 Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb : 
 
 Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, 
 E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness — 
 How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless 
 
 The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime 
 Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round, 
 Wide and more wide, increasing without bound 1 
 
 O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark 
 The berries of the half-uprooted ash 
 Dripping and Iwight; and list the torrent's dash, — 
 
 Beneath the cypress, or tlie yew more dark, 
 Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ; 
 In social silence now, and now to unlock 
 The treasured heart ; arm linked in friendly arm. 
 Save if the one, his muse's witching charm 
 Muttering brow-bent, at uawatched distance lag; 
 
 Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears, 
 ' And from the forehead of the topmost crag 
 
 Shouts eagefly : for haply there uprears 
 That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, 
 
 Which latest shall detain the enamoured sight 
 Seen from below, when eve the valley dims. 
 
 Tinged yellow with the rich departing light ; 
 
 And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, 
 A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears. 
 Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale ! 
 
 Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, 
 Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine, 
 
 And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, 
 Ah ! dearest youth ! it were a lot divine 
 To cheat our noons in moralizing mood. 
 While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed : 
 
 Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 165 
 
 To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, 
 Where smiling with blue eye, domestic Bliss 
 Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss ! 
 
 Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore. 
 The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ; 
 That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, 
 And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour 
 
 To glad, and fertilize the subject plains; 
 That hill with secret springs, and nodks untrod. 
 And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 
 
 Where Insmkation, his diviner strains 
 Low murmuring, lay ; and starting from the rocks 
 Stiff evergreens, whose sjfreading foliage mocks 
 Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, 
 And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! 
 O meek retiring spirit! we will cUmb, 
 Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime ; 
 
 And from the stirring world up-lifted high, 
 (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind. 
 To quiet musings shall attune the mind, 
 
 And oft the melancholy theme supply) 
 
 There, while the prosiject through the gazing eye 
 
 Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, 
 We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smileat fame. 
 Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same. 
 
 As neighbonriug fountains image, each the whole : 
 Then when the mind hath drank its fill of truth, 
 
 We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, 
 Bekindling sober joy's domestic flame. 
 They whom I love shall love thee. Honoured youth I 
 
 Now may Heaven reaUze| this vision bright I 
 
 LINES TO W. L., ESQ. 
 whim; he sang a song to pubcell's music. 
 
 While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 
 And I have many friends who hold me dear : 
 L ! methinks, I would not often hear 
 
 Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
 
 All memory of the wrongs and sore distress. 
 For which my miserable brethren weep I 
 But should uuoomforted misfortunes steep 
 
 My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
 
 And if at death's dread moment I should Ue 
 With no beloved face at my bedside, 
 
 To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 
 Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide^ 
 
 Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, 
 Mix with the blest, nor knovy^ that I h»4 died ! 
 
166 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 ADDREWiED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUlSrE, 
 
 WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT 
 AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hence tliat fantastic wantonness of woe, 
 
 O Yontli to partial fortune vainly dear! 
 To plundered Want's half-sheltered hovel go, 
 
 Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hear 
 
 Moan haply in a dying Mother's ear : 
 Or when the cold and dismal fog- damps brood 
 O'er the rank chureh-yard with sear elm-leaves strewed, 
 Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 
 
 Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs 
 The flocking flesh-birds.ecreamed ! Then, while thy heart, 
 
 Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, 
 Know (and the truth shall kindle thy. young mind) 
 What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 
 
 O abject ! if, to sickly dreams resigned, 
 All effortless thou leave life's common-weal 
 
 A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind. 
 
 SONNET TO THE EIVEK OTTER. 
 
 Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West I 
 How many \arious-fated years have past, 
 What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
 I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 Numbering its light leaps I yet so deep imprest 
 Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 
 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray, / 
 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise. 
 
 Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey. 
 And bedded sand that veined with various dies 
 Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way. 
 
 Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 
 Ah ! ' that once more I were a careless child ! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ro A FKIBNB WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE 
 FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. 
 
 Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
 
 I scanned that face of feeble infancy : 
 For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 
 
 All I had been, and all my child igiight be ! 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 167 
 
 But ■when I saw it on its Mother's arm, 
 And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
 Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
 
 Then I was thrilled and melfed, and most warm 
 
 Impressed a Father's kiss : and all beguiled 
 Of dark remembrance and presstgef ul fear, 
 I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 
 
 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
 So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, 
 
 And dearer was the Mother for the Child. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 COMPOSED ON A JOUKNBT HOMEWABD ; THE AUTHOH HAV- 
 ING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, 
 
 SEPTEMBER 80, 1796. 
 
 Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 
 Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) 
 Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, 
 Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul 
 Self-questioned in her sleep : and some have said * 
 • We lived, ere yet this robe c - Flesh we wore. 
 
 my sweet baby ! when I reach my door. 
 If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, 
 (As sometimes, throur h excess of hope, I fear) 
 
 1 think that I should struggle to believe 
 Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 
 
 Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
 Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick re- 
 prieve, 
 While we wept idly o'er thy little bier t 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Its balmy lips the Infant blest 
 
 Relaxing from its Mother's breast, 
 
 How sweet it heaves the happy sigh ' 
 
 Of innocent Satiety I 
 
 And such my Infant's latest sigh ! 
 O tell, rude stone ! the passer by, 
 That here the pretty babe doth lie, 
 Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. 
 
 * He JTOV jjfittiv ij 'fnixv nptv ev TwSe Tta avQptmnvia etjet yeveffflai. 
 
 Plat, in Vbmvod. 
 
168 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 THE VIKGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN. 
 
 COPIED FEOM A PKINT OF THE VIRGIN, IN A CATH01» 
 VILLAGE m GERMANY. 
 
 DORMi, Jesu ! Mater ridet, 
 Quae tarn dulcem Bomnum videt, 
 
 Dormi, Jesul blaurlgle! 
 Si non doimis, Mater plorat, 
 Inter flla cantans orat 
 
 Blande, veni, somnule. 
 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 Sleep, sw^et babe I my cares beguiling : 
 Motner sits beside thee smiling : 
 
 Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 
 ' If thoii sleep not, mother moumetb, 
 
 Singing as her wheel she tumeth : 
 
 Come, soft slumber, balmily I 
 
 TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 IMITATED PROM STOLBERG. 
 I. 
 
 Mark this holy chapel well I 
 The Birth-place, this, of William Tell. 
 Here, where stands God's altar dread, 
 Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 
 
 II. 
 
 Here first, an infant toiler breast. 
 Him his loving mother prest ; 
 And kissed the babe, and blessed the day, 
 And prayed as mothers used to pray. 
 
 m. 
 
 " Vouchsafe him health, O God ! andgive 
 The Child thy servant stiU to live !" 
 But God had destined to do more 
 Through him, than through an armed power. 
 
 IV. 
 
 God gave him reverence of laws. 
 
 Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause — 
 
 A spirit tahis rocks akin, 
 
 The eye of the Hawk, and the fire therein 1 
 
 V. 
 To Nature and to Holy writ 
 Alone did God the boy commit 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. .169 
 
 Where flashed and roared the torrent, off 
 His soul found wings, and soared aloft! 
 
 VI. 
 
 The straining oar and chamois chase 
 Had formed nis limbs to strength and grace : 
 On wave and wind the boy would toss,, 
 Was great, nor knew how great he was! 
 
 VII. 
 
 He knew not that his chosen hand, 
 Made strong liy God, his native land 
 Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
 Of Slavery ^the which he broke 1 
 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 A FBAGMENT. 
 
 Stretch'd on a mouldered Abbey's broadest wall 
 Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep — 
 Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall, 
 Had MELANCHOLY mus'd herself to sleep. , 
 
 The fern was press'd beneath her hair. 
 The dark green Adder's Tongue* was there ; 
 And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, 
 The long lank leaf bowed fluttering o'e? her che,ek. 
 
 That pallid cheek was flushed : her eager loot 
 Beamed eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought. 
 
 Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook. 
 And her bunt forehead worked with troubled thought. 
 
 Strange was the dream 
 
 A CHEISTMAS CABOL. 
 
 A£,C 
 
 I. 
 
 The Shepherds went their hasty way, 
 
 And found the lowly stable-shed 
 Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 
 
 And now they checked their eager tread ; 
 For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
 A Mother's song the Virgin Mother sung. 
 
 II. 
 They told her how a glorious light, 
 Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
 
 * A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here descrlhes 
 is called the Hart's Tongue; 
 H 
 
170- . SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Ai'ound them shone, suspending night ! 
 While sweeter than a Mother's song, 
 Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth, 
 Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 
 
 lU. 
 
 She listened to the tale divine, 
 
 And closer still the Babe she pressed ; 
 And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
 The milk rushed faster to her breast : 
 Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
 Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is bom 
 
 IV. 
 Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 
 
 Poor, 'simple, and of low estate ! 
 That Strife should vanish. Battle cease, 
 O why should this thy soul elate f 
 
 Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, 
 
 Didst thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory f 
 
 And is not War a youthful King, 
 
 A stately Hero clad in Mail ? 
 Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
 Him Earth's majestic monarcbs hail 
 Their Friend, their Playmate ! and his bold bright eye 
 Compels the maiden's love^confessing sigh. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Tell this in some more courtly scene, 
 
 " T6 maids and youths in robes of state ! 
 " I am a woman odr and mean, 
 " And therefore is my Soul elate. 
 " War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, 
 " That from the aged Father tears his child I 
 
 4 
 
 VII. 
 
 " A mufderous fiend, by fiends adored, 
 
 " He kills the Sire and starves the Son ; 
 " The Husband kills, and from her board 
 " Steals all his Widow's toil had won ; 
 " Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
 " AH safety from the Night, all comfort from the Day; , 
 
 " Then wisely is my soul elate, 
 
 " That Strife should vanish. Battle cease : 
 " I'm poor and of a low estate, 
 " The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
 "Joy nses in me, like a summer's mom : 
 "Peace, Peace on Earth, the Prince of Peace is born." 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 17] 
 
 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 ON THE DENIAIi OF liWMORTALITY. 
 
 If flead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 
 
 Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
 As summer-gusts, of sudden birth aud doom, 
 
 Whose sound and motion not alone declare, 
 But arf their whole of being ! If the Breath 
 
 Be Life itself, and not its Task and Tent, 
 If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 
 
 O Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, 
 Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 
 
 Surplus of nature's dread activity, 
 Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase, 
 Retreating slow, with meditative pause, 
 
 She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
 Blank accident ! nothlug's anomaly ! 
 
 If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state. 
 Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, 
 The counter- weights ! — Thy Laughter and thy Tears 
 
 Moan bat themselves, each fittest to create, 
 And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 
 
 Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 
 
 Why cowl thy face beneath the Mourner's hood. 
 Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 
 
 Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, 
 That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ? 
 Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 
 
 These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? 
 Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
 Thou hast no reason why ! Thou canst have none, 
 Thy being's being is contradiction. 
 
 THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 
 
 IMITATED FROM SCHIIXBR. 
 
 Never, believe me, 
 Appear the Immortals, 
 Never alone : 
 Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguUer, 
 lacchus ! bat in came Boy Cupid the Smilerr 
 Lo ! Phcebus the Glorious descends from his Throne! 
 They advance, they float in, the Olympians all! 
 With Divinities fills my k 
 
 Terrestrial Hall! 
 
 How shall I yield yon 
 Due entertainment, 
 Celestial Qaue f 
 
172 ' SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of upbuoyance 
 Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance 
 That the roofe of Olympus may echo my lyre I 
 Hah! wo mount! on their pinions they waft up my boui I 
 
 O give me the Nectar ! 
 
 fill me the Bowl! 
 Give him the Nectar ! 
 Pour out for the Poet! 
 Hebe! pourftee? 
 QuickeU his eyes with celestial dew, 
 That Styx the detested no more he may view, 
 And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be! 
 Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it ! lo Psean, I cry I 
 The Wine of the Immortals 
 Foibida me to die I 
 
 ELEGY, 
 
 IMITATED FROM ONE OP AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 Near the lone pile with ivy overspread. 
 Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading soUnd, 
 
 Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed — 
 O humbly press that consecrated ground! 
 
 For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! 
 
 And tliere his spirit most delights to rove : 
 Young Edmund ! famed for each harmonious strain, 
 
 And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. 
 
 Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide. 
 And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume. 
 
 His manhood blossomed ;■ till the faithless pride 
 Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. 
 
 But soon did righteous Hp > ' en her guilt pursue ! 
 
 Where'er with wilderea step she wandered pale. 
 Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view. 
 
 Still Edmand's voice accused her in each gale. ' 
 
 With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, 
 Amid the pomp of afSuence she pined ; 
 
 Nor all iSiat lured her faith from Edmund's arms 
 Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 
 
 Go, Traveller! tell the, tale with sorrow fraught : 
 Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth. 
 
 May hold it in romembrance ; and be taught 
 That Riches cannot pay for Lov« oi Truth. 
 
PEOSE IN EHYME: 
 
 EPIGRAMS, MORALITIES, AND THINGS "WITHOUT 
 
 A NAME. 
 
 *Ep(ii9 act AaAi^fipo? eTOupoc* 
 
 In manr ways does the full heart reveal 
 
 The presence of the love it would conceal ; 
 
 But ir far more th' estranged heart lets know, 
 
 The absence of the lore, which yet it fain woind shew. 
 
 DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE, 
 
 THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE. 
 A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Unchanged within to see all changed without, 
 la a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
 Yet why at others' Wanings shouldst thou fret t 
 Xhen only might'st thoufeel ajust regret, 
 Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid^hy light 
 tp. selfis - forethought of neglect ancfl^light. 
 ,0 wiseljer then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
 TTfttrey^and on whom,, thoii may'st — shine on! nor heed 
 Whether the object by reflected light 
 Eetnrn thy radiance or absorb it quite : 
 And tbo' thou notest from thy safe recess 
 Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, 
 Love them for what they are : nor love them less, 
 Because to thee they are not what they were. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle wreath, 
 Love IS a sword that cuts its sheath, 
 And thro' tho clefts, itself has mad^ 
 We spy the flashes of the Blade ! 
 
 But thro' the clefts, itself had made. 
 We likewise see Love's flashing blade 
 By rust consumed or snapt in twain: 
 AJad only Hilt and Stump remain. 
 
Ai WORK A\'rrHOUT HOPE. 
 
 PHANTOM OE FACT? 
 
 a dialogue in vbese 
 
 Author. 
 
 A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 
 And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
 A tender LoTe so pure from earthly leaven 
 That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven 
 Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
 But ah ! the change — It had not stirr'd, and yet 
 Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ? 
 That shrinking back, like one that had mistook! 
 That weary, wandering, disavowing Look! 
 'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame, 
 And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 
 
 Feiend. 
 
 This riddling Tale, to what does it belong ? 
 
 Is't History f Vision ? or an idle Song ? 
 
 Or rather say at once, within what space 
 
 Of Time this wild disastrous change took place ? 
 
 Author. 
 
 Call it a moment's work (and such it seems; 
 This Tale'sjfc Fragment from the Life of Dreams ; 
 But say, that years matur'd the silent strife, 
 And 'tis a Record from the Dream of Life. 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 lines composed 2l8T PKBEUAET, 1827. 
 
 All Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair — 
 
 The bees are stirringT-birds are on the wing, 
 
 And Winter slumbering in the open air, 
 
 Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 
 
 And I, the while, the sole unbnsy thing, 
 
 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
 
 Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow. 
 Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
 Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
 For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
 With lips unbrightened, wresthless brow, I stroll : 
 And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul f 
 Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
 And HOPE without au object cannot live. 
 
A DAY DREAM. 175 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Verse, a Breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a maying 
 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young I 
 When I was young ? — Ah, woeful when ! 
 Ah for the Change 'twixt Now and Then I 
 This breathing House not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery Cliffs and glittering Sands, 
 How lightly then ilj flashed along : — 
 Lilse those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. 
 On winding Lakes and Eivers wide, 
 That ask no aid of Sail or Oar, 
 That fear no spite of Wind or Tide I 
 Nought cared this Body for wind or weather 
 When Youth and I liv'd in't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 O the Joys, that came down shower-like. 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, . ' 
 
 Ere I was old! 
 Hre I was old ? Ah woeful Ere, 
 Which tells me, Youth's no longer here I 
 
 Youth! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 
 It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
 Thy Vesper bell hath not yet toU'd : 
 And thou wert aye a Masker bold! 
 What strange Disguise hast now put on. 
 To make believe that thou art gone ? 
 
 1 see these Looks in silvery sSps,. 
 This drooping Gait, this altered Size : 
 But Springtide blossoms on thy Lips, 
 And Tears take sunshine from thine eyes 1 
 Life is but Thought : so think I will 
 That Youth and I are House-mates still. 
 
 A DAY DREAM. 
 
 My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : — 
 
 I see a Fountain, large and fair, 
 A Willow and a ruined Hut, 
 And thee, and me and Mary there. 
 O Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
 IJeud o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green Willow 1 
 
116 LINES SUGGESTED, &C. 
 
 A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, 
 
 And that and summer well agree: 
 And, lo! where Mary leans her nead, 
 Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
 And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
 Our sister and our Mend will both be here to-morrow. 
 
 'Twas Day I But now few, large, and bright 
 
 The stars aie round the crescent moon ! 
 And now it is !a dark warm Night, 
 The balmiest of the month of June : 
 A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
 Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweat 
 fountain. 
 
 O ever — ever be thou blest ! 
 
 For dearly, Asra ! love I thee ! 
 This brooding warmth across my breast. 
 This depth of tranquil bliss — ah me ! 
 ■ Fount, Tree and Shed are gone, I know not whither, 
 But in one quiet room we three are still together. 
 
 The shadows dance upon the wall. 
 
 By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
 And now they slumber, moveless all! 
 And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
 But not from me shall this mUd darkness steal thee : 
 I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee 1 
 
 Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 
 
 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow 1 
 But let me check this tender lay 
 Which none may hear but she and thou ! 
 Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, 
 Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women I 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF 
 BEEENGAEIUS. 
 
 OB. ANNO DOM. 1088. 
 
 No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope 
 Soon shall I now before my God appear, 
 By him to be acquitted, as I hope; 
 By him to be condemned, as I fear.— 
 
 REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE. 
 
 Lynx amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed. 
 Be of good cheer, meek soul I I would have said: 
 I see a hope spring ftom that humble fear. 
 All are not strong alike through storms to steer 
 
TO A LADY. 177 
 
 Eight onward. What ? though dread of threatened death 
 And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath 
 Inconstant to the truth within thy heart ? 
 That truth, from -which, through fear, thou twice didst 
 
 start, 
 Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife. 
 Or not so vit?il as to claim thy life : 
 And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew 
 Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true ! 
 
 Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own. 
 Judge him who won them when he stood alone, 
 And proudly talked of recreant Berengakb — 
 O first the age, and then the man compare ! 
 That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 
 No host of ftiends with kindred zeal did bum ! 
 No throbbing hearts awaited his return ! 
 Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, 
 He only disenchanted from the spell. 
 Like the weak worm that gems the starless night. 
 Moved in the scanty circlet of his light : 
 And was it strange if he withdrew the ray 
 That did but guide the night-birds to their prey? 
 
 The ascending Day-star with a bolder eye 
 Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn! 
 Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry 
 The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn ; 
 Lest so we tempt th" approaching Noon to scorn 
 The mists and painted vapours of our Morn. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 OFFENDKD BY A 8P0ETIVE OBSERVATION THAT WOMEK 
 HAVE NO SOUI.S. 
 
 Nat, dearest Anna ! why so grave ? 
 
 I said, you have no soul, 'tis true ! 
 For what you are, you cannot have : 
 
 'Tis I, that have one since I first had you S 
 
 I have heard of reasons manifold 
 Why Love must need be blind. 
 
 But this the best of all I hold — 
 His eyes are in his mind. 
 
 What outward form and feature are 
 
 He guesseth but in part ; 
 But what within is good and fair 
 He seeth with the Ueart, 
 B* 
 
178 THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 From his brimstone bed at break of day ■' 
 
 A-walking the Devil is gone, 
 
 To visit his little snug farm of the earth 
 
 And see how his stock went on. 
 
 Over the hill and over the dale 
 
 And he went over the plain, 
 
 And backward and forward he swished his long tail 
 
 As a gentleman swishes his cane. 
 
 And how then ■v^as the Devil drest ? 
 
 Oh! he was in his Sunday's best 
 
 His jacket was red and his reeches were blue, 
 
 And there was a hole where 'he ail came through. 
 
 He saw a Lawyer killing a ". Iper 
 
 On a dunp-heap beside his stable, 
 
 And the Devil smiled for it put him in mind 
 
 Of Cain and Ms brother, Abel. 
 
 A PoTHECARY On a white horse 
 
 Eode by on his vocations. 
 And the Devil thought of his old Friend 
 
 Death in the Revelations. 
 
 He saw a cottage with a duoble coaeh-house, 
 
 A cottage of gentility ! ^ 
 And the Devil did grin, for bis darling sin. 
 
 Is pride that apes humility. 
 
 He went into a rich bookseller's shop. 
 Quoth he ! we are both of one college. 
 
 For I myself sate like a cormorant once 
 Fast by the tree of knowledge.* 
 
 * And all amid them stood the tree op lifb 
 
 High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
 
 Of vegetable go|d (query paper-mojiej/;) and next to life 
 
 Owe Death, the i'kee of kno'wi.edge, grew fast bv 
 
 *■* #. * * ** •' 
 
 ******* 
 
 So clomb this firet grand thief 
 
 Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life 
 
 Sat like a cormorant.— Par. Lost. IV. 
 The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various readinqs 
 obtamed from coUatmg the MMS. one might expect to And it noted 
 that for "life" Cod. quid habent, "Trade," Though indeed the 
 TRADE, i. p., the bibliopolic, so called kot' jfoyij" may be regarded is 
 Life sensu eminentiori, a suggestion which I owe to a young re- 
 tailer in the hoisiery line, who on hearing a description of the net 
 
 profits, dinner parties, country houses, &o., of the trade exclaimed 
 "Ayl that's what I call Life nowl"— This "Life, our Death" is 
 thushappily contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.— Sic nos'non 
 nobis melliflcamus Apes. 
 Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine and Slaughter first 
 
CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 179 
 
 Down the river there plied, with wind and tide, , 
 
 A pig, with vasi celerity, 
 And'the DevUlook'd wise as he saw how the while. 
 It cut its own throat. There ! quoth he wilh a smile, 
 
 Goes " England's oommeroial prosperity." 
 
 Ashe went throngh Cold-Bath Fields he saw 
 
 A solitary cell. 
 And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 
 
 For improving his prisons in Hell. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 General — ; — burning face 
 
 Ho saw with consternation. 
 And back tp hell his way did he take. 
 For the devil thought by a slight mistake 
 
 It was general conflagration. 
 
 THE ALIENATED MISTEESS : 
 a madrigal. (fkom an unfinished melodrama.) 
 Lady. 
 If Love be dead >(and you aver it ! ) 
 Tell me. Bard I where Love lies buried. 
 
 Poet. 
 Love lies buried where 'twas bom 
 Ah faithless nymh ! think it no scorn 
 If in my fancy I presume 
 To name thy bosom poor Love's Tomb; 
 And on that Tomb to read the line, 
 Here lies a Love that once was mine, 
 But took a chill, as I divine. 
 And died at length of a decline. 
 
 CONSTANCY TO AJST IDEAL OBJECT. 
 
 Since all, that beat about in Nature's range, 
 Or veer or vanish ; why should'st thou remain 
 The only constant in a world of change, 
 O yearning thought, that liv'st but in the brain? 
 
 appeared in the Morning Post, the three first stanzas, which are 
 worth an the rest, and the ninth, were dictated by Mr. Southey. 
 See Apologetic Preface, p. 99. Between the ninth and the conclud- 
 ing stanza, two or three are omitted, as grounded on subjects that 
 have lost their interest — and for better reasons. 
 
 If any one should ask who General meant, the Author begs 
 
 leave to inform hina that he did once see a red-facef^'person in a 
 dream whom by the dress he took fora General; but ht, might have 
 been mistaken, and most certainly he did not hear any names 
 
 mentioned, '- ~' — ' .-i- i,-- ...-, •— 
 
 Indeed 
 
 ned. In simple verity, the Author neveijpieant any one, or 
 anything but to put a concluding stanza'to his doggerel. 
 
180 THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. 
 
 Call to the houks, that in the distance play, 
 
 The faery people of the future day — r- 
 
 Fond THOUGHT I not one of all that shining swarm 
 
 Will breathe on fhee with life-eukindling breath, 
 
 Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm-, 
 
 Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! 
 
 Yet still thou haunt'st me: and though well I see, 
 
 ■She is not thou, and only thou art she, 
 
 Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, 
 
 Some living Love before my eyes there stood 
 
 With answering look a ready ear to lend, 
 
 I mourn to thee and say — "Ah ! loveliest Friend! 
 
 " That this the meed of all my toils might be, 
 
 " To have a home, an English home, and thee ! 
 
 "Vain repetition I Home and Thou art one. 
 
 " The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, 
 
 " Lulled by the Thrush and wakened by the Lark 
 
 " Without thee were but a becalmed Bark, 
 
 " Whose Helmsman on an Ocean waste and wide 
 
 " Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside." 
 
 And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 
 The woodman winding westward up the glen 
 At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
 The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze. 
 Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 
 An image* with a glory round its head : 
 The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues. 
 Nor knows, he makes the shadow, he pursues! 
 
 THE SUICIDE'S AEGITMENT. 
 
 Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no 
 No question was asked me — it could not be so ! 
 If the life was the question, a thing sent to try 
 And to live on be Yes : what can No be ? to die. 
 
 nature's answer. 
 
 Is't retupied as 'twas sent ? I'st no worse for the wear ? 
 Think first, what you are I Call to mind what you were ! 
 
 * This pheenomenon, which the Author has himself experienced, 
 and of which the reader maly find a description in one of the earlier 
 volumes of the Manchester Philosophical Transactions, is apphed 
 figuratively in the following passages of the Aids to Reflection: 
 
 •'Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of music, 
 on different characters, holds equally true of Genius; as many as 
 are not delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The be- 
 holder either recognizes it as a projected form of his own Being, 
 that moves before liiTn with a Gtoi-y rourt^ its head, or recoils from 
 it as a spectre." — Aids to Reflection, p. 220. 
 
BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE-TKEB. 181 
 
 I gave you innocence, I gave you liope, 
 Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. 
 Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair? 
 Make out the Inveut'ry ; inspect compare I 
 Then die — if die you dare! 
 
 THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE-TREE. 
 
 a' I.AMENT. 
 
 I SEEM to have an indistinct recollection o( having read either in 
 one of the ponderous tomes o£ George of Venice, or in some other 
 compilation firom the uninspired Hebrew Writers, an Apologue or 
 Rabbinical Tradition to the following purpose; — 
 
 While our first parents were yet standing before their offended 
 Maker, and the last words of the .sentence were yet sounding in 
 Adam's ear, the guileful false serpent, a counterfeit and a usuiper 
 from the beginning, presumptuously took on himself the character 
 of advocate or moderator, and pretending to intercede for Adam, 
 exclaimed: " Nay, Lord, in thy jjistice, for the Man was the least in 
 fault. Rather let the Woman return at once to the dust, and let 
 Adam remain here all tiie days of his now mortal life, and enjirp'the 
 respite thou mayest grant him, in this thy Paradise wliich Thou 
 gavest to him, and hast planted with every tree pleasant to the 
 sight of man and of delicious fruitage." And the word of the Most 
 High answered Satan: " The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. 
 Treacherous Fiend 1 guilt deep as thine could not be, yet tbe love of 
 kind not extinguished. But if having done what thou hast done, 
 thou bad'st yet the heart of man within thee, and the yearning of 
 the soul for its answering image and completing counterpart, O 
 spirit, desperately mcked I the sentence thou counsellest had been 
 thy own . " 
 
 The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact mentioned 
 by Linnseus, of a Date.tree in a nobleman's garden which year after 
 year had put forth a full show of blossoms, but never produced 
 fruit, till a branch from a Date-tree had been couvCTed from a dis- 
 tance of some hundred leagues. The first leaf Of the MS. from 
 which the poem has been transcribed, and which contained the two 
 or three introductory stanzas, is wanting: and the author has in 
 vain taxed his memory to repair the loss. But a rude draught of 
 the poem contains the substance of the stanzas, and the reader is 
 requested to receive it as the substitute. It is not impossible, that 
 some congenial spirit, whose years do not exceed those of the author, 
 at the time the poem was written, may find a pleasure in restoring 
 the Lament to its original integrity by a reduction of the thoughts 
 to the requisite Metre. 
 
 • S. T. C. 
 
 1. 
 
 Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks 
 are the Thrones of Frost, through the absence of objects to 
 reflect the rays. "What no one with us shares, seems 
 scarce our own." The presence of a one, 
 
 The best belov'd, who loveth me the best, 
 is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for 
 the hoUow globe with its suspended oar. Deprive it of 
 this, and all without that would have buoyed it aloft even 
 to the seat of the gods, becomes a burthen and crushes it 
 into flatness, 
 
182 BLOSSOMING OF A SOLITAEY DATE-TREE. 
 
 The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, and 
 the fairer and the lovelier the object presented ta the 
 sense; the more exquisite the individual's capacity of joy, 
 and the more ample his means, and opportniiities of <mi- 
 joyment, the more heavily will he feel the ache of solitari- 
 ness, the more unsubstantial becomes the feast spread 
 around him. What matters it, whether in fact the viiiDds 
 and the ministering graces are shadowy or real, to him 
 who has not hand to grasp nor arms to embrace them f 
 
 m. 
 
 Hope, Imagination, honourable Aims, 
 Free Commune with the choir that cannot die. 
 Science and Song, delight in little thihgs. 
 The buoyant child surviving in the man, 
 Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky, 
 With all their voices mute — O dare I accuse 
 My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen. 
 Or call my niggard destiny ! No ! no ! 
 It is her largeness, and her overflow. 
 Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 
 
 For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, 
 
 Buv. tim'rously beginning to rejoice 
 
 Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start 
 
 In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. 
 
 Beloved I 'tis not thine ; thou art not there ! 
 
 Tlien melts the bubble into idle air, 
 
 And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 
 
 The mother with anticipated glee, ■ 
 
 Smiles o'er the child, that standing by her chair 
 
 And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee. 
 
 Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 
 
 To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight 
 
 She hears her own voice with a new delight; 
 
 And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright 
 
 Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 
 
 But should disease or chance the darling take. 
 
 What then avails those songs, which sweet of yore 
 
 Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 
 
 Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee 
 
 Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 
 
 "Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me T 
 
THE TWO FOUNTS. 183 
 
 FAJ^CY IN NUBIBUS, 
 
 OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 O ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 
 
 Just after snnset, or by moonlit skies, 
 To make the shifting clouds he what you please, 
 
 Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
 Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould > 
 
 Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
 And cheek aslant see' rivers flow of gold 
 'Twixt crimson hanks ; and then, a traveller, go 
 From mount to mount, through Clqudland, gorgeous 
 land! 
 
 Or listening to the tide, with closed sight. 
 Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 
 
 By those deep sounds possessed with inward light 
 Behold the Iliad and the Odyssee 
 
 Else to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 
 
 THE TWO FOUNTS. 
 
 STAUZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY WITH 
 UNBLEMISHBD LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OP PAIN. 
 
 'TwAS my last waking thought,, how it could be. 
 That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure : 
 When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he 
 Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. 
 
 Methought he fronted me vfrith peering look 
 Fix'd on my heart ; and read aloud in game 
 The loves and griefs therein, as from a book ; 
 And uttered praise like one who wished to blame. 
 
 In every heart fquoth he) since Adam's sin 
 
 Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ; 
 
 That to let forth, and this to keep within ! i 
 
 But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, 
 
 Of PLEASURE only will to all dispense. 
 That Fount alone unlock, by no distress 
 Choked or turned inward ; but still issue thence 
 Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness. 
 
 As on the driving cloud the shiny Bow, 
 That gracious thing made up of tears and light, 
 Mid the vyild rack and rain that slants below 
 Stands smiling forth, unmOYed and freshly bright : 
 
184 THE WANDEEINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, 
 Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, 
 Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers. 
 Had buUt a bridge to tempt the angels down. 
 
 Ev'n so, Eliza ! on that face of thine, 
 
 On that benignant face, whose look alone 
 
 (The soul's translucence through her chrystal shrine !) 
 
 Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own. 
 
 A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, 
 But with a silent charm compels the stem 
 And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring 
 To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 
 
 Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
 In passion, spleen, or strife,) the fount of pain 
 O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, 
 And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain ? 
 
 "Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam 
 On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, 
 Had passed : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, 
 Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream : 
 
 Till audibly at length I cried, as though 
 Thou had'st indeed been present to my eyes, 
 
 sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so, 
 
 1 pray thee, be leas good, less sweet, less wise ! 
 
 , In every look a barbed arrow send, 
 
 On those soft lips let scorn and anger live! 
 Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend ! 
 Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give! 
 
 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 A PROSE composition, one not in metre at least, seems prima facie 
 to require explanation or apology. It was written in the year 1798, 
 near Nether StoJ'-y in Somei'setehire, at which place {sanctum et 
 amabile nomen/ rich by so many associations ana recollections) the 
 Author had tdken up his resi ence in order to enjoy the society and 
 close neighbourhood of a r'ear and honoured fnend, T. Poole, Esq. 
 The work was to have been written in concert with another, whose 
 name is too venerable within the precincts of genius to bo unneces- 
 s6,rily brought into connection with such a trifle, and who was then 
 residing at a small distance from Nether Stowey. The title and 
 subject were suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the 
 scheme and the contents for each of the three books or cantos, 
 of which the work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be 
 informed, was to have been finished in one night I My partner 
 undertook the first canto; I the second: and whichever nad done 
 first, was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed 
 oy; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than a 
 smile moot the question which of the two things was the more imprac- 
 
' ticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another man^s 
 thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to 
 imitate the !Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and noble 
 countenance as at the moment when having dispatched my own 
 portion of the task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my 
 manuscript— that look of humorous despondency fixed on bis almost 
 blank sheet of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of 
 failure struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of 
 the whole scneme— which broke up in a laugh: and the Ancient 
 Mariner was written instead. 
 
 Years afterward, however, the draft of the Flan and proposed 
 Incidents, and the portion executed, obtained favour in the eyes of 
 more than one person, whose judgment on a poetic work could not 
 but have weighed with me, even though no parental partiality had 
 been thrown into the same scale, as a make- weight : and I deter- 
 mined on commencing anew, and composing the whole in stanzas, 
 and made some progress in realizing this intention, when adverse 
 gales drove my bark ofC the "Fortunate Isles" of the Muses; and 
 then other and more momentous interests prompted^ a different 
 voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried 
 to recover the lines from the Palimpsest tablet of my memory: and 
 I can only offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed 
 to writing for the purpose of procuring a frien I's judgment on the 
 metre, as a specimen. 
 
 Ehcinctured with a twine of leaves, 
 That leafy twine his only dress I 
 A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, 
 By moonlight, in a wilderness. 
 The mom was bright, the air was free, 
 And fruits and flowere together grew 
 On many a shrub and many a tree: 
 And all put on a gentle hue, 
 Hanging^ in the shadowy air 
 Like a picture rich and rare. 
 It was a climate where, they say, 
 The night is more belov'd than day. 
 But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd. 
 That beauteous Boy to linger here? 
 Alone, by night, a little child, 
 In place so silent and so wild- 
 Has he no friend, no loving Mother near ? 
 
 I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease of 
 the "Wanderings of Cain, a poem,"— intreating, however, my 
 Headers not to think so meanly of my judgment as to suppose that 
 I either regard or offer it as any excuse for the publication of the 
 following fragment, (and I may add, of one ot* two others in its 
 neighbourhood) in its primitive crudity. But I should find still 
 greater difficulty in forgiving myself, ivere I to record ""pro tcedio 
 publico a set of petty mishaps and annoyances which I myself wish 
 to forget. I must be content therefore with assuring the friendly 
 Reader, that the less he attributes its appearance to the Author's 
 will, choice, or judgment, the nearer to the truth he will be. 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little further, and 
 "we. shall come into the open moonlight." Their road was 
 through a forest of fir-trees ; at its entrance the trees stood 
 at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and 
 the moonlight, and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, 
 and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon 
 
18G THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 the path winded and became narrow ; the sun at high noon 
 sopietimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was ' 
 dark as a cavern. 
 
 "It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the path 
 under our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come 
 out into the open moonlight." 
 
 " Lead on,my chUd!" said Cain : "guide me,little child!" 
 And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand 
 which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided 
 his father. "The fir branches drip upon thee, my son." 
 " Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to briug 
 thee the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. 
 How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir trees! 
 they.leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play 
 round their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yester- 
 day at noon, O my father, that I might play with them, 
 but they leapt away from the branches, even to tue slender 
 twigs did they leap, and in a moment I beheld them 
 on another tree. Why, O father, would they not play with 
 me ? I would be good to them as thou art good to me : 
 and I groaned to them even as thou groanest when thou giv- 
 est me to eat, aud when thou coverest me at evening, and 
 as often as I staud at thine knee and thine eyes look at 
 me!" Tlieu Cain stopped, and stifling his groans he sank 
 tothe earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness be- 
 side him. 
 
 A,nd Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and 
 said, " The mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side 
 aud on that ; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the 
 sand-blast he passeth through me ; he is around me even 
 as the air! O that I might be' utterly no more ! I desire 
 to die— yea, the things that never had life, neither move 
 they upon the earth — behold ! they seem precious to mine 
 eyes. O that a man might live without the breath of his 
 nostrils. So I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and 
 an empty space ! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, 
 neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in 
 tie den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his 
 heal whilst he sleepeth; For the torrent that roareth far 
 oft' hath a yoice ; and the clouds in heaven look terri- 
 bly on me ; the Mighty One who is against me speaketh iu 
 the wind of the cedar grove ; and in silence am I dried 
 up." Then Enos spake to his father, " Arise, my father, 
 arise, we are but a little way from the place where I found 
 the cake and the pitcher." And Cain said, " How know- 
 est thou?" and the child answered — "Behold the bare 
 rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest ; and 
 while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I liear4the 
 echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if he 
 would raise him : and Cain being faint and feeble rose slow- 
 ly on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a 
 iir, and stood upright and followed the child. 
 
THE "WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 187 
 
 The path was dart till within three strides' length of its 
 termination, -when it turned suddenly; the thick black 
 trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared 
 for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and 
 stood in the open air ; and when Cain, his father, emerged 
 ft^m the darkness, the child was affrighted. For the 
 mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire ; his hair 
 was as the matted curls on the Bison's forehead, and so 
 glared his fierce and sullen eye beneath: and the black 
 abundant locks on either side, a rank and tangled mass, 
 were stained and scorched, as though the grasp of a burn- 
 ing iron hand had striven to rend them ; and bis counte- 
 nance told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that 
 had been, and were, and were still to continue to be. 
 
 The scene around was desolate : as far as the eye could 
 reach it was desolate : the bare rocks faced each other, and 
 left a long and wide interval of thin white sand. You 
 might wander on and look round and round, and peep into 
 the crevices of the rooks and discover nothing that ac- 
 knowledged the influence of the seasons. There was no 
 spring, no summer, no autumn : and the winter's snow, 
 that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks 
 and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised him- 
 self over this desert ; but the huge serpent often hissed 
 there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture 
 screamed, his winga imprisoned within the coils of the 
 serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges 
 of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and 
 seemed to prophesy mutely of things that then were not ; 
 steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As 
 . far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the 
 brook, there was one rock by itself at a. small distance 
 from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there per- 
 haps by the groan which the Earth uttered when our 
 first father fell. Before you approached, it appeared to 
 lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, 
 and })etween its point and the sands a tall man might 
 stand upright. It^ was here that Enos had found the 
 pitcher ana cake, and to this place he led his father. But 
 ere they had reached the rock they beheld a human shape ; 
 Ms back was towards them, and they were advancing un- 
 perceived, when they heard him smite his breast and cry 
 aloud, " Wo, is me ! wo, is me ! I must never die agsiin, 
 and yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger." 
 
 Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the 
 heavy-sailing Night-cloud, became the face of Cain ; but 
 the child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his Father's 
 robe, and raised his eyes to his Fatljer, and listening 
 whispered, "Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my 
 father, that I heard that voice. Have not I often said that 
 I remembered a sweet voice. O my father ! this is it :" 
 and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet in- 
 
188 THE WANDEEmas OF CAIK. 
 
 deed, but it was thin and querulous like that of a feeble 
 Slave ill misery, who despairs altogether, yet cannot re- 
 feAia himself from weeping and lamentation. And, lic- 
 Siold ! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round the 
 base of the rook, stood before the stranger, and looked U3 
 into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, 
 and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were 
 those of his brother Abel whom he had killed ! And Caiu 
 stood like one who struggles in his sleep because of the 
 exceeding terribleness of a dream. 
 
 Thus Ee stood in silence and darkness of Soul, the 
 Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried 
 out with a bitter outcry, " Thou eldest bom of Adam, whom 
 Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me ! I 
 was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of 
 quiet rivers, and thou kiUedst me; and now I am in 
 misery." Then Cain closed his eyes, aud hid them with 
 his hands ; and again he opened his ey^s, and looked around 
 him, and said to Enos, "What beholdest thou? Didst 
 thou hear a voice, my son V " Yes, my father, I beheld a 
 man in unclean gJirments, and he uttered a sweet voice, 
 full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up the Shape 
 that was like Abel, and said, " The Creator of our father, 
 who had respect unto thee, aud unto thy offering, where- 
 fore hath he forsaken thee ?" Then the Shape shrieked 
 a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin 
 was like the white sands beneath their feet; aud he 
 shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face 
 upon the sand that was black with the shadow of tlie 
 rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by 
 his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three 
 under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that 
 was like Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child ; 
 " I know where the cold waters are, but I may not drink, 
 wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher ?" But 
 Cain said, " Didst thou not find favour in the sight of the 
 Lord thy God V The Shape answered, " The Lord is God 
 of the living only, the dead have another God." Then the 
 child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed; but Caiu re- 
 joiced secretly in his heart. " Wretched shall they be all 
 the diys of their mortal life,'' exclaimed the Shape, " who 
 sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God of 
 ■the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, 
 for I was well beloved by the God of the living, and crupl 
 wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away from 
 his power and his dominion." Having uttered these 
 words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands ; and Cain 
 said in his heart, "The curse of the Lord is on me; but 
 who is the God of the dead?" and he ran after the Shape, 
 and the Shape fled shrieking over the sands, and the 
 sands rose like white mists behind the steps- of Caiu, but 
 the feet of him that was like Abel di&turb<»l witi the sands.- 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 189 
 
 He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he ■wheeled 
 round, and came again to the rock where they had been 
 sitting, and where Enos still stood ; and the child caught 
 hold of his garment as he passed by, and he fell upon the 
 ground. And Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, 
 "he has passed into the dark -woods," and he walked 
 slowly back to the rooks; and when he reached it the 
 child told him that he had caugbt hold of hia garment as 
 he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon the 
 ground ; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said, 
 " Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the 
 spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme 
 agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy 
 pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thon lovedst, that 
 thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God 
 of the dead ? where doth he make his dwelling f what 
 sacrifices are acceptable unto him t for I have offered, but 
 have not been received; I have prayed, and have not 
 been heard ; and how can I be afBicted more than I already 
 am V" The Shape arose and answered, " O that thou 
 hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow 
 me, Son of Adam 1 and bring thy child with thee !" 
 
 And they three passed over the white sands between the 
 rocks, silent as the shadows. 
 
 / 
 
REMOESE. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 Marqtjis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, and Donna 
 
 Teresa^s Guardian. 
 Bon Alvar, the eldest son. 
 Don Ordonio, thd youngest son. 
 MoNviEDRO, a Dominican and Inquisitor. 
 ZuLiMEZ, the faithful attendant on Alvar. 
 Isidore, a, Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian. 
 Familiars oe the Inquisition. 
 Naomi. 
 
 Moors, Servants, &o. 
 • Donna Teresa, an Orphan Heiress. 
 Alhadra, Wife to Isidore. 
 
 rime.— 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 for-, 
 bade the wearing of Moresco apparel under pain of death. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCEiSTE I. — The Sea-sliore on the Coast o£ Granada.^Dos- 
 Alvae, wrapt in a boat cloak, and Zdlimbz (a Moresco), 
 loth as just landed. 
 
 Zul. No sound, no face of joy to -tvelcome us! 
 
 Alv. 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 countiy, and our (jirth place. 
 Hail, Spain ! Granada, hail ! once more I press 
 Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers ! 
 
 Zul. 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 ! 
 
 Alv. Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother, 
 Injured indeed ! O deeply injured! yet ' 
 Ordonio's brother. 
 
 Zul. Nobly minded Alvar ! 
 
 This sure but gives his guilt a blaclier dye. 
 
 Alv. The more behoves it, I should ronse within bim 
 EemoeseI that I should save him from himself. 
 
 Zul. Eemokse is as tlie heart in which it grows: 
 
EEMOESE. < 191 
 
 If lliat 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 ! 
 
 A Iv. 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 — 
 
 Zul. You have thrice told already 
 
 ^ The years of absence and of secrecy, 
 To which a forced path bound you : if in truth 
 A suborned murderer have the power to dictate 
 A binding oath — 
 
 Alv. My long captivity 
 
 Left me no choice : the very Wish too languished 
 , With the fond Hope that nursed it ; the si ok 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 nim 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 — 
 
 Zul. Hea-^y presumption! 
 
 Alv. It weighed not with me — Hark ! I will tell thee all ; 
 As we passed by, I bade thee mark the base 
 Of yonder cliff — 
 
 Zul. That rocky seat you mean, 
 
 Shaped by the billows ? — 
 
 Alv. There Teresa met me 
 
 The morning of the day of my departure. 
 We were aloue : the purple hue of dawn, 
 Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us, 
 And blending with the blushes on her cheek 
 Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light. 
 There seemed a glory round us, and Teresa 
 The angel of the vision ! [ Then with agitation. 
 
 Had'st thou seen 
 How in each motion hermost innocent soul 
 Beamed forth and brightened, thou thyself wOuld'st tell me, 
 Guilt is a thing impossible in her ! 
 She must be innocent ! 
 
 Zul. (with a aiqh). Proceed, my Lord ! 
 
 Alv. A portrait which she had procured by stealth, 
 (!"or even then it seems her heart foreboded 
 Or kneV Ordouio's moody rivalry) 
 A portrait 6f herself with thrilling hand 
 She tied around my neck, conjuring me 
 
192 KEMOESE. 
 
 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 sboald e'er behold it 
 Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew — 
 Knew that which none but she could have disclosed. 
 
 Zul. A damning proof ! 
 
 Alv. ' My own life wearied me ! 
 
 And but for the imperative Voice within 
 With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen. 
 Tliat 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 fullness 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 fixed resolve : I'll linger here 
 In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain. — 
 The Moorish robes ? — 
 
 Zul. All, all are in the sea-cave, 
 
 Some furlong hence. I hade our mariners 
 Secrete the boat there. 
 
 Alv. Above all, the picture 
 
 Of the assassination — 
 
 Zul. ' Be assured 
 
 That it remains uninjured. 
 
 Alv. ' Thus disguised 
 
 I will first seek to meet Ordonio's — wife I 
 If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk, 
 And this the hour; her words, her very looks 
 Will acquit her or convict. 
 
 Zul. Will they not know yon? 
 
 Alv. With your aid, friend, I shall nnfearingly 
 Trust the disguise ; and as to my complexion. 
 My long imprisonment, the scanty food. 
 This soar, — and toil benea'th a burning sun, 
 Have done already half the business for us. 
 Add too my youth, when last we saw each other. 
 Manhood has Bwolu my chest, and taught my voice 
 A hoarser note — Besides, they tliink me dead : 
 And what the mind believes impossible. 
 The bodily sense is slow to recognize. 
 
 Zul. 'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey. 
 Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock, ' 
 
EEMOESE. • 193 
 
 Where having shaped you to a, Moorish ctiieftain, 
 I will seek our mariners ; aud in the dusk 
 Transport whate'er we need to the small dell 
 In the Alpuxarras— there where Zagri lived. 
 
 Alv. I know it well : it is the ohscurest haunt 
 Of all the mountains — [_Boih stand lisiening. 
 
 Voices at a distance ! 
 Let us away ! {_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Mnter Teresa and Y/asEZ. 
 
 Ter. I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son 
 And Alvar's brother. 
 
 Vol. Love him for himself, 
 
 Nor make the living wretched for the dead. 
 
 Ter. 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. 
 
 Val. Heaven knows Vith what delight I saw your loves, 
 And could^ny 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 feiut 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. 
 
 Ter. There are woes 
 
 111 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 deligljt ! 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 self^same tune 
 He used to play, and listened to the shadow 
 Herself had made)— if this be wretchedness, 
 
 * [Here Valez bends back, and smiles at her wildness, which 
 Teresa noticing, checks her enthusiasm, and in a sootliinfr halt- 
 playful tone anrl manner, apolosizcs for her fancy, by the Uttle tale 
 in the parenthesis,] 
 
194 • EEMOESE. 
 
 Andif indeed it be a wretched thing ' ■, 
 
 To trick out mine own death bed, and imagine ",4 
 
 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 1 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! \_Clasping her foreliead. 
 
 Vol. A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty 
 thought. 
 The very week he promised his return— 
 
 Ter. {abruptly). Was it not a busy joy? to se^. him. 
 After those three years' travels ! we had no feais — 
 The frequent tidings, the ne'er-failing letter. 
 Almost endeared his absence ! Yet the gladnes8,x 
 The tumult of our joy ! What then if now 
 
 Val. 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 — ^ 
 
 Ter. {with great tenderness). My father! 
 
 Val. 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 captorsj 
 
 Ter. Oh no ! he did not ! 
 
 Val. • Captured in sight of 1 and ! 
 
 From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower 
 We might have seen — 
 
 Ter. ' His capture, not his death. 
 
 Val. 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 : 
 Gallan;t Ordonio ! {pauses, then tenderly) 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. 
 
 Ter. For mercy's sake 
 
 Press me no more ! I have no power to love him. 
 His proud forbidding eye, and his daii brow. 
 Chili me like dew damps of the unwholesome night: 
 
EEMORSE. , 195 
 
 My love, a timorous and tender flower, . 
 Closes beneath Ms touch. 
 
 Val. You wrong him, maiden ! 
 
 You ■wrong liim, by my sonl I Nor was it well 
 ' To cbaracter by such unkindly hrases 
 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 her6ic fearlessness of danger 
 He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar. . ; 
 
 It was not well — You have moved me even to tears. 
 
 Tei: Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez ! pardon me ! 
 It was a foolish aid 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 fether 1 
 A six years' absence is ^ heavy thing, 
 Yet still the hope survives 
 
 Val. (looking forward.) Hush', 'tis Monviedro. 
 
 Ter. The Inquisitor ! on what new scent of blood ? 
 
 Enter Monviedeo with Alhadba. 
 Mon. (having first made his obeisance to Valdez and Tere- 
 sa.) Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Loru, 
 My present need is with your son. [_LooM,nii forward. 
 
 We have hit the time. Here comes he ! Yes, 'tis he. 
 
 Enter from the opposite side Don Okdonio. 
 My Lord Ordonro, this Moresco woman 
 (Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you. 
 Ord. Hail, reverend father ! what may be the business * 
 Mon, My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse 
 To his false creed, so recently abjured, 
 The secret servants of the inquisition 
 Have seized lier»husbaiiii, 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 lessened by experience what small trust 
 The asseverations of these Moors deserve. 
 Yet still the deference to Ordoiiio's name, 
 Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour 
 The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers. 
 
 Thus fax prevailed with me tjiat 
 
 Ord. Eeverend father, 
 
 I am much beholden to your high opinion, 
 Which so o'erprizes my light services. [Then to Alhadba, 
 I would that I could serve you ; but in truth 
 Your face is new to me. 
 
196 EEMORSE. 
 
 Man, My mind foretold me, 
 
 That Buch would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez, 
 'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio, 
 That your illustrious son, who fou^t so bravely 
 Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors, 
 Should prove the patron of this infidel ! 
 The guarantee of a Moresco's faith ! 
 Now I return. 
 
 Alh. My Lord, my husband's name 
 Is Isidore. (Okdonio starts.) — You may remember it: 
 Three years ago, three years this very week, 
 You left him at Almeria. 
 
 Mon. 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 Al var ! 
 
 [Teresa looks at Monviedro with disgust and lior- 
 ror. Ordonio's appearance to he collected from 
 what follows. 
 
 Mon. {ToYaivrz and pointing at Okdonio.) What is he 
 ill, my Lord ? how strange he looks ! 
 
 Vol. {angrily.) You pressed upon him too abruptly, father. 
 The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted. 
 
 Ord. {starting as in sudden agitation.) O Heavens ! I? — I 
 doted? [Then recovering himself . 
 
 Yes ! I doted on him. 
 
 [Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, YAUi^z fol- 
 lows, soothing him. 
 
 Tear, (her eye following Okdonio.) 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! 
 
 Mon. 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! 
 
 Alh. (to Teresa.) O gentle lady! make the father stay, 
 iTntil my lord recover. I am sur^ 
 That he will say he is my husband's friend. 
 
 Ter. Stay, father! stay! my lord will soon recover. 
 
 Ord. {as they return to Vaidbz. ) Strange, that this Mon- 
 viedro 
 Should h^ve the power so to distemper me ! 
 
 Val. Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, sou ! 
 
 Mon. My lord, I truly grieve 
 
 Ord. 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 »s a Christian. 
 
 Mon. I hope, my lord, your merely human pity 
 Doth not prevail 
 
 Ord, 'Tis certain that he was a catholic; 
 
EEMOESE. 197 
 
 What changes may have happened iu 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. 
 
 Mon. Your zeal, my lord 
 
 And your late merits in this holy warfare 
 Would authorize an ampler trust — you have it. 
 
 Ord. I will attend you home -within an hour. 
 
 Val. Meantime return with us and take refreshment. 
 
 Alh. Not till my husband's free! I may not do it. 
 I will stay here. 
 
 2er. (aside.) Who is this Isidore ? 
 Val. Daughter! 
 
 T(T. With your permission, my dear lord, 
 I'll loiter yet awhile t'enjoy the sea breeze. 
 
 lExeunt Valdez, MO!rviEDRO, and Ohdonio. 
 
 4lh. Hah! there he goes' a bitter curse go with him, 
 A scathing curse ! 
 
 (then 03 if recollecting herself, and with a timid look.) 
 You hate hun, don't you, lady? 
 
 Ter. (perceiving that Alhabra is conscwus she has spoken 
 imprudently.) Oh fear not me ! my heart is sad for you, 
 
 Alh. 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-: — 
 
 Ter. ' Be mcwe calm, I pray you. 
 
 A Ih. 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 babe^ 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 ! • 
 
 Ter. Hush ! hush for shame ! 
 
 Where is your woman's heart t 
 
 Alh. . O gentle lady ! 
 
 You hfive no skill to guess my many wrongs, 
 Many and strange! Besides, (ironically) I am a Christian, 
 And Christians never pardon — 'tis their faith ! 
 
 Ter. Shame fall on those who so have shewn it to thee I 
 
 Alh. 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. 
 
 Ter. What might your crime be f 
 
 Alh. I was a Moresco! ^ 
 
 They cast me, then a«youn^ 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, 
 
198 EEMOESE. 
 
 Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed 
 One human countenance, the lamp's red flame 
 Cowered as it entered, and at once sunk down. 
 Oh miserable ! by that lamp to see 
 My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread 
 Brought daily : for the littl j wretch was sickly — 
 My rage had dried away it, 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, 
 
 ^er. O Heaven ! it i.s too hcJrrible to heir. 
 
 AUi. What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right 
 That such as you should hoar it. — Know you not, 
 What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal ! 
 Great Evils ask great Passions to redress them, 
 And Whirlwinds titliest scatter Pestilence. 
 
 Ter. You were at length released ? 
 
 Alh. 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, Ijady, 
 A trMiice comes on which makes me o'er again 
 All 1 then was— my knees hang loose and drag, 
 And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, 
 That you would start and shudder! 
 
 Ter. But your husband— 
 
 Alh. A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady. 
 
 Ter. Alas, poor man ! 
 
 AXk. 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 hsU and valley, 
 Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all — 
 
 Bnter Alvar disguised as a Moresoo, and in Moorish garmeuU. 
 
 Ter. Know you that stately Moor ? 
 
 Alh. .1 know him not : 
 
 But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain, 
 Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras. 
 
 Ter. The Alpuxarras ? does he know his danger, 
 So near this seat 1 
 
 Alh. He wears the Moorish robes too, 
 
 As in defiance of the royal edict. ' 
 
 L Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has wallced to the hack 
 of the stage, near the rocks. Tehksa drops her veil. 
 
 Alk. Uu,Iiant Moresco ! An inqnisitor, 
 Jrlonviodro, of known hatred to oui race ■ 
 
REMORSE. 199 
 
 Ah, {interrupting her.) You have mistaken me. lama 
 Christian. 
 
 Alh. He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him : 
 Speak to him, Lady — none can hear you speak, 
 And not believe you inuocient of guile. 
 
 Ter. If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir — 
 
 Alh. He trembles strangely. 
 
 [ Alvak sinks down,and hides his face inhis robe. 
 
 Ter. So -we have disturbed him. 
 
 [ Approaches nearer to hirrn 
 I pray you think us friends — ^uncowl your face. 
 For you seem faint, and th > night breeze blows healing. 
 I pray you think us friends ! 
 
 Alv. ( 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 ! 
 
 Ter. Let us retire, (haughtily to Aimadhx.) 
 
 I They advance to the front of the Stage. 
 
 Alh. (with scorn.) He is indeed a Christian. 
 
 Alv. (aside.) She deems me CestA, yet wears no mouining 
 garment ! 
 Why should my brother' — wife — wearmouming garments f 
 (To Teresa.) Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturbed 
 
 you: 
 1 had just started from a fri ,btful dream. 
 
 Ter. Drlsams tell but of the past, and yet, 'tis said. 
 They prophecy — 
 
 Alv. The Pf t lives o'er again 
 
 In its effects and to the _ ailty spirit 
 The ever frowning Present is its image. 
 
 Ter. Traitress! {the, aside:) 
 What sudden spell 'ermasters me ? 
 Why seeks he me, si inning the Moorish woman ? 
 
 [Teresa looksround uneasily, hut gradually becomes 
 attentive as AI.YAR proceeds in the next speech. 
 
 Alv. 1 dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant 
 With blindest trust, and a betrothed 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 m the assassins' hearts! they made their terms. 
 And thanked me forledeemiiig them from murder. [Lady ! 
 
 Alh. You are lost in thought : hear him no more sweet 
 
 Ter. From morn to night I am myself a dreamer. 
 And slight things bring on me the idle mood ! . 
 Well sir, what happened then ? 
 
200 , EEMOESE. 
 
 Alv On a rude root, 
 
 A rook, 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 nigbt 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 havoot. 
 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 Ebmorsb might fasten on their hearts, 
 And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable 
 As the gored lion's Mte ! i 
 
 Ter. {shuddering.) A fearful curse! [killed them? 
 
 Alh. lUeroely.) But dreamt you not that you returned and 
 Dreamt you of no revenge ? 
 
 Alv. (hia voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress.) 
 She would have died. 
 Died in her guilt— perchance by her own hands! 
 And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds, 
 1 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 ! 
 
 Alh. And you dreamt all this ? 
 
 Ter. My soul is full of visions all as wild ! 
 
 Alh. There is lio room in this heart for puling love tales. 
 
 Ter. (lAfis 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, wilduess — 
 You have my sympathy, and so farewell ! 
 But if some undiscovered wrongs oppress you, 
 And you need strength to drag them iuto light. 
 The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio, 
 Have arm and will to aid a nobler sufferer. 
 Nor shall you want my favonfable pleading. 
 
 [Exeunt Teresa and Alhadra. 
 
 Alv. (alone.) 'Tis strange! It cannot be! mj Lord 
 Ordonio ! 
 
EEMOESE. 201 
 
 Her Lord Ordonio I Nay, I ■will not do it ! , 
 
 1 cursed him once — and one curse is enough ! j 
 
 How sad slie looked, and pale ! but not like guilt — 
 
 And her calm tones — sweet as a song of mercy 1 
 
 If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice, 
 
 Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocentf 
 
 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 ftim. 
 
 If it were truth ? Ordonio would not tell him. 
 
 Yet why one lie? all else, I J;«om), was truth. 
 
 No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience 1 
 
 And she referred to me — fondly, methought I 
 
 Could she walk here if she had been a traitress ? 
 
 Here where 'vye played together in our childhood? 
 
 Here where we plighted vows ? where her cold cheek 
 
 Eeoeived my last Mss, 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 huaiand ! 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 cmd 
 IsiDOKE are discovered, supposed at a little distamce from- 
 Isidore's Iwuse. 
 
 Ord. Here we may stop : your house distinct in view. 
 Yet we secured from listeners. , 
 
 laid. Now indeed 
 
 My house ! and it looks cheerful as the clusters 
 liasking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock. 
 That over-brows it ! Patron! Friend ! Pf eserver ! — 
 Thrice have you saved my fife. 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. 
 
 Ord. Good Isidore ! 
 
 Why this to me ? It is enough, you know'it. 
 
 laid. A common trick of Gratitude, my lord, 
 Seeking to ease her own full heart — — 
 
 Ord. Enough! 
 
 I* 
 
C02 REMORSE. 
 
 A debt repaid ceases to be a debt. 
 
 You have it in your power to serve me greatly. 
 
 laid. And how my lord ? I jjiay you to name the thing. 
 1 would cliBib lip an ioe-glazed precipice 
 To pluck a weed you fancied ! [Lady — 
 
 Old. (with embairasament and hesitation.) Why — that — • 
 
 Isid. 'Tis now three years, my lord, since last I saw you : 
 Have you a son, my lord ? 
 
 ' Ord. 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'il. 
 
 Isid. {looking as suddenly alarmed.) You jest, my lord J 
 
 Ord. And till his death is proved.she will not wed me. 
 
 Isid. You sport with me, my lord ? 
 
 Ord. Come, come ! this foolery 
 
 Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it ! 
 
 Isid. I cau bear this, and any thing more grievous 
 From you, my lord — but how can I serve you here 1 
 
 Old. Why you can utter with a solemn gesture 
 Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning. 
 Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics — 
 
 Isid. I am dull, uiy lord! I do not comprehend yon. 
 
 Ord. In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer. , 
 She hath no faith in Holy Chui'ch, '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, 
 Ihat portrait, which from off the dead man's neck 
 I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest. 
 
 Isid. Will that be a sure sign ? 
 
 Ord. . Beyond suspicion. 
 
 Fondly caressinghim, her favour'd lover, 
 (By some base spell he had bewitchod her senses) ' 
 
 She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth, 
 As made this heart pour gall ftito 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 unnotio'd on tham, 
 And unsuspected saw and heard the whole. 
 
 Isid. But now I should liave cursed the man w'ho told me 
 You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse — 
 But this loan not do. 
 Ord. Where lies your scruple ? 
 
REMORSE. 203 
 
 Kid. (with starmtienng.) Why — why, my lord I 
 
 You know you told me that the lady lov'd you, 
 Had loved you with incautious tenderness ; . 
 That if the young man, her betrothed husband. 
 Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both 
 Must perish. Now, though with no tenderer scruples 
 Thau those which being native to the heart. 
 Than those, my lord, which merely being a man — 
 
 Ord, {aloud, though to express his contempt hfi speaks in the 
 third person.) This Fellow is a Man — he lulled 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. 
 
 Isid. ■ My lord — my lord, 
 
 I can bear much — yes, very much tirom you ! ' 
 But there's a point where sufferance is meanness ; 
 I am no villain — never kill'd for hire — 
 My gratitude 
 
 Ord. O aye — ^your gratitude ! 
 
 'TwaS a well-sounding word — what have you done with it ! 
 
 laid. Who proffers his past favours for my virtue — 
 
 Ord. {with hitter scorn.) Virtue 
 
 Isld. Tries to o'erreach me — is a very sharper, 
 And should not speak of gratitude, my lord. 
 I knew not 'twas your brother ! 
 
 Ord. {alarmed.) And who told you I 
 
 Isid. He himself told me. 
 
 Ord. Ha! you talk'd with, him ! 
 
 And those, the two M6res"oes who were with you ? 
 
 Isid. Both fell in a. night brawl ct Malaga. 
 
 Ord. {in a low voice.) My brother.^ 
 
 Isid. Yes, my lord, I could no tell you ! 
 I thrust away the thought — it d rive me ^ /ikl. 
 But listen to me now— 1 iJray yo- sten 
 
 Ord- Villain I no more. I'll hear no m r- of it. 
 
 Isid. My lord, it much imports your future safety i 
 That you should hear it. 
 
 Ord. {tartiing offji-oni Isidore.) Am not I a Man? 
 'Tis as it should be ! tut. — the deed itself 
 Was idle,; and these after-pangs s'.ill dler! 
 
 Isid. We met him in the very pla - you mentioned, 
 Hard by a grove of firs — 
 
 Ord. Enough -enough — 
 
 I:iid. He fought us valiantly, aud wounded all ; 
 In line, compelled a parley. 
 
 Ord. {sighing, as if lost in thought.) Alvar ! brother ! 
 
 Isid. He oiiered nie his purse — 
 
 Old. (with eager suspicion.) Yes ? 
 
 Isid. {indignantly.) Yes — I spumed it.— 
 
 He promised us I know not what — ^invaint 
 
204 REMORSE. 
 
 Then with a look and voice that overawed me, 
 
 He said, What mean you, friends f My life is dear : 
 
 I have a brother and a promised wife. 
 
 Who make life dear to me^and if I fall, 
 
 That b other will roam earth and hell for vengeance. 
 
 There was a likeness in his face to yours : 
 
 I asked his brother's name : he said — Orddnio, 
 
 Son of lord Yf Idez ! I had well nigh fainted. 
 
 jvt length I 'aid (if that indeed / said it, 
 
 And that no Spirit made my tongue it organ,) [ 
 
 That woman 's dishoroured by that brother, i 
 
 And he the man who sen* us to destroy you. 
 
 He drove a thrust a* me in rage. I told him, 
 
 He wore her portrait round s n .ok. He look'd 
 
 As he had been made ofthe rocli i at p-opt his back — 
 
 Aye, just as you look now — only less ghastly ! 
 
 At length recovering from his tranue, ' 8 threw- 
 
 His sword away, and bade us take his lite. 
 
 It was not worth hi keeping. 
 
 Ord: And y u kill'd him 1 
 
 Oh bloodhounds ! may eternal wrath flame round you ! 
 He was his Maker's Image undefao'd ! \_A pause. 
 
 It seizes me — by Hell I will go on ! 
 
 What — would'st thou top, man? thy pale looks won't 
 save thee ! [^ j'"'^^^- 
 
 Oh cold — cold — cold ! shot through with icy cold ! 
 
 Isid, {aside.) Were he alive he had returned er now. 
 The consequence the same — dead through his plotting ! 
 
 Ord. O this unutterable dying away — here — 
 This sickness of the heart ! [_ A pause. 
 
 What if I went 
 And liv'd in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds t 
 Aye ! that's the road to heaven ! O fool ! fool ! fool ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 What have I done but that which nature destined. 
 Or the blind elements stirred up within me ? 
 If good were meant, why were we made these Beings ? 
 And if not meant — 
 
 Isid. You are disturbed, my lord ! 
 
 Ord. (starts, looks at Mm wildly ; then,ajter a pause, during 
 wTiich his features are forced into a smile.) Agustof the 
 soul ! i'faith, it overset me. 
 O 'twas all folly — all ! idle as laughter ! 
 Now, Isidore ! I swear that thou shalt aid me. 
 
 Isid. (in a low voice.) I'll perish first ! 
 
 Ord. What dost thou mutter of 1 
 
 Isid. Some of your servants know me, I am certain. 
 
 Ord, There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask 
 you. [watched 
 
 Isid. They'll know my gait: but st.iy! laot night I 
 A stranger near the ruiu in the wood. 
 Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild flowers. 
 
REMORSE. 205 
 
 1 liad followed liim at distance, seen him scale 
 Ids western ■wall, and by an eiisier entrance 
 Stole after hliu unnoticed. There I marked, 
 Tbat 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. 
 
 Ord. Doubtless you question'd him ? 
 
 isjd. 'Twas my intention, 
 
 Having first traced him homeward to his haunt. 
 But IpT the stern Dominican, whose spies 
 Lnrk 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 yowr name, as lord of this domain. 
 Proudly he answered, " Say to the lord Ordouio, 
 " He that can bring the dead to life again!" 
 
 Ord. A strange reply ! 
 
 Isid. Aye, all of him is strange. 
 
 He called himself a Christian, yet he wears 
 The Moorish robes, as if he courted death. 
 
 Ord. Where does this wizard live ? 
 
 Isid. {pointing to the distance.) You see that brooklet ? 
 Trace its course backward : through a narrow opening 
 It leads you to the place. 
 
 Ord. How shall I know it? 
 
 IHd. 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 farther end 
 A pnny cataract falls on the lake ; 
 And ttere, 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. Yon cannot miss it. 
 
 Ord- {in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and 
 then tui-ning round to Isidore.) Ha! — ^Who lurks there! 
 Have we been overheard t 
 There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters 
 
 laid. '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. 
 
206 ' EEMORSE. 
 
 His weak eyes aeeth'd in most unmeaning tears. 
 And 80 he sits, swaying his cone-like Head, 
 And staring at his Bough from Mpru to Sun-set 
 See-sawa his Voice in inarticulate Noises. 
 
 Ord. 'Tis well ! and now for this same Wizard's Lair. 
 
 laid. Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash, 
 Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters 
 O'er the old thatch. 
 
 Ord. I shall not fail to find it. 
 
 \_ Exeunt Oedonio and Isidore. 
 
 Scene II.' — The inside of a Cottage, a/round wTiich flowers and 
 plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Axvae, 
 ZuIjIMEZ and Alhadra, as ore the point of leaving. 
 
 Alh. {addressing Alvak.) Farewell then! and though 
 many thoughts perplex me. 
 Aught evil or ignoble never can I 
 Suspect (Jf Thee ! If what thou seem'st thou art, 
 The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need 
 Of such a leader. 
 
 Alv. Nobly minded woman !■ 
 
 Long time against oppression have I fought, 
 And for the native liberty of faith 
 Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain : 
 Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls 
 The volume of concealment. In the Future, 
 As in the optician's glassy cylinder. 
 The indistinguishable blots and colours 
 Of the dim Past collect and shape themselves. 
 Upstarting in their own completed image 
 To scare or io reward. 
 
 I sought the guilty, 
 And what I sought I found : but ere the spear 
 Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form 
 Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose 
 To the Avenger I leave Vengeanee, and depart! 
 
 Whate'er betide, if aught iqy arm may aid. 
 
 Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee : 
 
 For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble. 
 
 Once more farewell. \_Exit Alhadra. 
 
 Yes, to the Belgic states 
 We will return. These robes, this stained complexion. 
 Akin to falsehood, .weigh upon my spirit. 
 Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice 
 Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance 
 Of our past services. 
 
 Zul. And all the wealth, power, influence which is yoursj 
 You let a murderer hold ? 
 
 Alv. , . O faithful Zulimez ! 
 
 That my return involved Ordonio's death, 
 I trust, would give me an unmingled pang, 
 
REMORSE. ~ 207 
 
 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 tier infants 
 Bis infants — poor Teresa ! — all would perish, 
 All perish — all! and I (nay, bear with me) 
 Could not survive the complicated ruin! 
 
 Zul. (much affected.) Nay now! 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 ! 
 \oii can call up past deeds, and make them live 
 On the blank canvas; and each little herb, 
 Tliat grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest, 
 
 1 You have learnt to name 
 
 Hark? heard you not some footsteps ? 
 
 Alv. What if it were my brother coming onwards ? 
 I sent a most mysterious i^essage to him. 
 
 Enter Ordonio. 
 
 ■ Alv. (starting.) It is he! 
 
 Ord. (to himself as he enters.) If I distinguished light her 
 gait and stature. 
 It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife, 
 That passed me as I entered, i A lit taper, 
 In ttie night air, doth not more naturally 
 Attract the night flies round it, than a conjuror 
 Draws round him the whole female neighbourhood. 
 (Addressing Alvam) You know my name, I guess, if not 
 
 my person. 
 I am Ordonio, son of the Valdez ! 
 Alv. (with deep emotion.) The Son of Valdez! 
 
 [Okdonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks 
 attentively at the plants. 
 Zul. (to Alvae.) Why, what ails you now ! 
 How your hand trembles ! Alvar, speak ! What wish you f 
 Jlv. To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness ! 
 Ord. (returning and aloud.) Plucked in the moonlight 
 from a ruined abbey — 
 Those only, which the pale rays visited ! 
 
 the unintelligible power of weeds, 
 
 When a few odd prayers have been muttered 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 
 Hath sent me a strange message. 
 Alv. I am he. 
 
 1 Ord. With you, then, I am to speak: 
 
 \_Haughtily waving his hand to Zulimez. 
 
 * Vide Appendix, p. 837. 
 
208 REMOESE. 
 
 And mark you, alone. ^Exit ZulimbZ. 
 
 " He that can bring the dead to life again !" — 
 Such wasyour meBsa,ge, Sir! You are no dullard, 
 But one that strips the outward rind of things! 
 
 Alv. 'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds, 
 That are all dust and rottenness within. 
 Would'st thou I should strip such ? 
 
 Ord. Thou quibbling fool, 
 
 What dost thou mean ? Think'st thou I journeyed hither, 
 To sport with thee ? 
 
 Alv. ■ O no, my lord ! to sport 
 
 Best suits the gaiety of innocence. 
 
 Ord. (aside.) O what a thing is man ! the wisest heart 
 A Fool ! a Fool that laughs at its own folly, 
 Yet still a fool ! • [_Look8 round the cottage. 
 
 You are poor ! 
 Alv. What follows thence ? 
 
 Ord. . 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 hour8.[Heaven 
 Alv. (solemnly.) Thou art the son of Valdez ! would to 
 That I could truly and for ever serve thee. 
 Ord. .The slave begins to soften. laside. 
 
 You are my Mend — 
 " He that can bring the dead to life again," 
 Nay, no defence to me ! The holy brethren 
 Believe these calumnies — ^I know the better. 
 (Then with great hitierness.) Thou art a man, and as a man 
 I'll trust thee ! [business. 
 
 Alv. (aside.) Alas! this hollow mirth — Declare your 
 Ord. I love a lady, and she would love me 
 But for an idle and fantastic scruple. 
 Have you no servants here, no listeners ? 
 
 [Oedonio steps to the door. 
 Alv. What, faithless too ? False to his angel wife t 
 To such a wife ? Well might'st thou look so wan, 
 
 lU-starr'd Teresa! Wretch! my softer soul 
 
 Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience ! 
 
 Ord. In truth this lady lov'd^nother man. 
 But he has perish'd. 
 Alv. What ! you kill'd him ? hey ? 
 
 Ord. I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but thiuk'st it! 
 Insolent slave! how dar'dst thou— 
 
 \_Twrn8 abruptly from Alvak, and then to himself. 
 Why! what's this? 
 'Twas idiotcy ! I'll tie myself to an aspen, 
 And wear a fool's cap — 
 
 Alv. (watching his agitation.) Fare thee well — 
 I pity thee; Ordonio, even to anguish. [Alvar is retiring. 
 
EEMOESE. 209 
 
 ' Ord. (having recovered Mmaelf.) Ho! [Calling to kLVA.R. 
 
 AlV. Be brief, what wish you \ 
 
 Ord. You are deep- at hartering — You charge yourself 
 At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely. 
 
 Alv. I listen to you. 
 
 Ord. In a sudden tempest, 
 Did Alvar perish — he, 1 mean — the lover — 
 The fellow 
 
 Alv. Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart 
 
 To call him villain !— Why stand'st thou aghast ? 
 Men think it natural to hate their rivals. 
 
 Ord. {hesitating.) Now, till she knows him dead, she will 
 not wed me. 
 
 Alv. {with '•ager vehemence.) Are you not wedded then? 
 Merciful Heaven ! 
 Not wedded to Tekksa ? 
 
 - Ord. Why what ails thee ? 
 
 What, art thou mad ? why look'st thou upward so 1 
 Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air ? 
 
 Alv. {recollecting himself.) Proceed, I shall be silent. 
 
 [AxVAR sits, and leaning on the table, hides his face. 
 
 Ord. To Teresa f 
 
 Politic wizgid ! 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. 
 
 Alv. (lifting up his head.) Well! and this lady! 
 
 Ord. 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. 
 
 Alv. (sighing.) Yes! he did so! 
 
 ■ Ord. 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. 
 
 Alv. What ! he was' your friend then ? 
 
 0)-d. (wounded and emiarrassed.) I was his friend. — / 
 
 Npvr that he gave it me, 
 This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard — 
 Can call the dead man up— he will (lot come — 
 He is in heaven then — there you have no iniluence. 
 Still there are tokens — and your imps may bring you 
 Something he wore about him when he died. 
 And when the smoke of the incense on the altaj- 
 Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture. 
 What say you now ? 
 
 Alv. (after a pause.) Ordonio, I will do it. 
 
 Ord. 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, 
 
210 REMOESE. 
 
 (For I have arranged it— Music, Altar, Incense) 
 AH shall be ready. Here is this same picture, 
 And here, what you will value more, a purse. 
 Come early for your magic ceremonies. 
 
 Ah: I will not fail to meet you". 
 
 Ord. Till next we meet, farewell ! lExit Okdonio. 
 
 Alv. (alone, indignantly flings ths purse away and gazet 
 passionately at the portrait. ) And I did curse thee J 
 At midnight? on mjt knees ? and I believed 
 Thee perjur'd, thee a traitress 1 Thee dishonor'd ! 
 
 blind and credulous fool ! O guilt of foUy ! 
 Should not thy inarticulate Fondnesses, 
 
 Thy Infant Loves — should not thy Maide Vows 
 
 Have come upon my heart? Aud this swt^t Image 
 
 Tied round my neck with many a chaste e dearment, 
 
 And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble — 
 
 Ah, coward dupe! to yield it to the miscreant. 
 
 Who spake pollution of thee! barter for .Life 
 
 This farewell Pledge, which with impassioned Vow 
 
 1 had sworn that I would grasp — ev'u in my Death-pang! 
 
 I am unworthy of thy love, Teresa, 
 
 Of that unearthly smile upon those lips, 
 
 Which ever smiled on me ! Yet do not scorn me — 
 
 I lisp'd thy name, ere I had learnt my mother's. 
 
 Dear Portrait ! rescued from a traitor's keeping, 
 I will not now profane thee, holy Image, 
 To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find 
 A picture, which will wake the hell within him. 
 And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience. 
 
 ■ • ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall of Armory, with an Altar at the haclc of the 
 Stage. Soft Music from an Instrument of Glass or 
 Sieel. 
 Valdez, Ordonio, and Alvak in a Sorcerer's robe, are dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Ord. This was too melancholy, Father. 
 
 Val. 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 ho 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 he first saw 
 Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank: 
 And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, 
 Ilis'tioad upon the blind boy's dog. It pleag'd me 
 
REMORSE. 211 
 
 To mark ho-w he had fasten'd round the pipe 
 A silver toy his grandam had late given him. 
 Methinks 1 see him now as he then look'd — 
 Even so ! — He had outgrown his infant dress, 
 Yet still he wore it. 
 
 Alv. My tears must not flow ! 
 
 I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father ! 
 
 Enter Teresa, and Attendants. 
 
 Te)\ Lord V^ldez, you have asked my presence hero. 
 And I submit ; but (Heaven bear witness for me) 
 My heart approves it not ! 'tis mockery. 
 
 Old. Believe you then no preternatural influence : 
 Believe you not that spirits throng around us? 
 
 Ter. Say rather that I have imagin'd 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. 
 
 Ord. (aside.) Ha! he has been tampering with her ? 
 
 Alv. Oh high-soul'd Maiden ! and more dear to me 
 Than suits the (Sicflm^e?''* name!— 
 
 I swear to thee 
 I will uncover all concealed guUt. 
 Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from the altar. 
 
 \_Here a strain of music ts hea/rdfrom behind the scerpe, 
 
 Alv. With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm 
 I call np the Departed ! 
 
 Soul of Alvar! 
 Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell : 
 So may the gates of Paradise, unbarr'd, 
 Cease thy swift toils ! Since haply thou art one 
 Of that innumerable company 
 Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, 
 Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion, 
 With noise too vast and constant to be heard : 
 Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless. 
 And rapid Travellers ! what ear unstunn'd, 
 What sense unmadden'd, might bear up against 
 The rushing of your congregated wings ? [JlfMsio, 
 
 Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 
 
 [Music expressive of the movenienis and images that follow. 
 Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desart Sauds, 
 That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters, 
 A sweet appearance, ^ut a dread illusion 
 To the parch'd caravan that roams by night ! 
 And ye build up on the becalmed waves 
 That v/hirling pillar, which from Earth to Heaven ' 
 Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split 
 
212 REMORSE. 
 
 The ice 'mount 1 and 'with fragments many and huge 
 Tempest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulphs 
 Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff ! 
 Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance, 
 Till from the hlue swoln Corse the Soul toils out. 
 And joins your mighty Army. 
 
 [Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three words, 
 " Hear, Sweet Spirit." 
 
 Soul of Alvar ! 
 Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker Charm! 
 By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
 Of a half dead, yet still undying Hope, 
 Pass visible before our mortal sense I ' 
 So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine, 
 Her knells and masses that redeem the Dead ! 
 
 ^ , SONG. 
 
 Behind (he Scenes, accompanied hy the same Instrument as before. 
 
 Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 
 Lest a blacker charm compel I 
 So shall the midnight breezes swpll 
 With thy deep long-lingering knell. 
 
 And at evening evermore. 
 
 In a Chapel on the shore 
 
 Shall the Chaunters sad and saintly. 
 
 Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
 
 Doleful Masses chaunt for thee. 
 
 Miserere Domine I ' 
 
 Hark 1 the cadence dies away 
 
 On the yellow, moonlight sea ; 
 The boatmen rest their oars and say. 
 
 Miserere Domine I {A long pause, 
 
 Ord. 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! 
 
 Alv. A joy to thee I 
 
 What if thou heard'st him now ? What if his spirit 
 Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came uijon thee 
 With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard? 
 What if(his steadfast Eye still beaming Pity 
 And Brother's love) he tum'd his head aside, 
 Lest he should look at thee, and with one look 
 Hurl thee beyond all power of Penitence? 
 
 Val. These are unholy fancies ! 
 
 Ord. (struggling with, his feelings.) Yes, my father. 
 He is in Heaven ! 
 
 Mv. {sUll 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 ? 
 
 Val. Idly prating man ! 
 
EEMOESE. 213 
 
 Thou hast guess'd ill : Don Alvar's only brother 
 stands here before thee — a father's blessing on himl 
 5e is most virtuous. 
 
 Alv. (still to Ordonio.) 'What, if his very virtues 
 Sad pampered his swoln heart and made him proud ? 
 ^.nd what if Pride had duped him into guilt ? 
 ifet still he stalked a self-created God, 
 Jot very bold, but exquisitely cunning ; 
 ^nd one that at his Mother's looking-glass 
 iYould force his features to a frowning stei-nness f 
 ifoung Lord 1 I tell thee, that there are such Beings — 
 ifea, and it gives iierce merriment to the damu'd, 
 To see these most proud men, that loath mankind, 
 it every stir and buz of coward conscience, 
 Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites ! 
 Iway, away ! i^'ow let me hear more music. [Muaie again. 
 
 Ten: 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures ! 
 But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer 
 Be present at these lawless mysteries, ' ' 
 
 Phis dark Provoking of the Hidden Powsrs ! 
 Already I afficont — ^if not high Heaven — 
 ifet Alvar's Memory ! Hark ! I make appeal 
 A.gainst the unholy rite, and hasten hence 
 To bend before a lawful Shrine, and seek 
 That voice which whispers, when the stiU Heart listens, 
 Comfort and faithful Hope 1 Let us retire. 
 
 Alv. {to Tekesa, anxiously.) O full of faith and guileless 
 love, thy Spirit 
 Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt 
 Surprise the guilty : thou art innocent ! 
 
 \_Exeant Teeesa 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. 
 
 [yfte whole Music clashes into a Chorus. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Wandering Demons hear the spell I 
 Lest a blacker charm compel — 
 
 [The iruiense on the altar takes fire suddenly, and an il- 
 luminated picture of Alvak's assassination is dis- 
 covered, and having remained a few seconds is then 
 hidden Try ascending flames. 
 
 Ord. (starting in great agitation) Duped ! duped ! duped ! 
 — the traitor Isidore ! 
 
 lAt this instant the doors are forced open, Monviedro 
 and the Familiars of the Inquisition, ServantSj 
 &c., enter and fill the stage. 
 
214 , EEMOESE. 
 
 Mon. 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. 
 
 Ord. (recovering nitnself as from> stupor, to Servants.') Why 
 haste you not ? Off with him to the dungeon 1 
 
 \_AU rush out in tumult 
 
 Scene II. — fnterior of a Chapel, with painted Windows. 
 Enter Teresa. 
 
 Ter. When first I entered this pure spot, forebodings 
 Press'd heavy on my lieart: 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 iilien and unnoticed as the rain-storm 
 Bents on the roof of some fair banquet room. 
 While sweetest melodies are warbling 
 
 Enter Vaxdbz. 
 
 Val. Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness, 
 And extricate us from this net of peril ! 
 
 Ter. Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril 1 
 
 Val. 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-consnm'd : bright as thy Life, 
 - Sudden and unexpected as thy Fate, 
 Al var 1 My Son 1 My Son ! — ^The Inquisitor — 
 
 Ter. Torture me not ! But Alvar— Oh of Alvar ? 
 
 Vol. How often would He plead for these Moresooes ? 
 The brood accurst ! remorseless, coward murderers ! 
 
 Ter. (vitldly.) 'Sol so? — I comprehend you — He is 
 
 Val. {with li^riid countenanced) " He is no more ! 
 
 2fer. O sorrow 1 that a Father's Voice should say this, 
 A Father's heart believe it ! 
 
 Val. A worse sorrow 
 
 Are Fancy's wild Hopes to a heart despairing ! 
 
 Ter. These ray s^ that slant in through these gorgeous 
 windows, 
 From you 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 ! 
 
 Val. Yes, for three waslhig years, thus and no other, 
 He has lived for thee — a spirit tor thy spirit ! 
 
EEMOKSE. 315 
 
 My child, we must not give religions faith 
 
 To every voice which makes the heart a listener 
 
 To its own wish. 
 
 Ter. I breath'd to the Uncning 
 
 Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd, 
 Yet impious Sorcery, that holds no ooumiune 
 Sav6 with the lying spirit, claim belief? 
 
 Vol. O not to-day, not now for the first time 
 Was Alvar lost to thee — 
 
 (Iki-ning off, aloud, hut yet as to himself. ) Accurst assassins I 
 Disarmed, o'erpowered, despairiug of defence, 
 At his hared breast he seem'd to grasp some relict 
 More dear than was his life 
 
 Ter. (with fahit shriek.) O Heavens! my portrait! 
 
 And he riiiJ grasp it in his death pang ! 
 
 Off, false Demon, 
 That beat'st thy black wings close above my head ! 
 
 [Ordonio enieis withthe keys of tlwdungeoninhis hand. 
 Hush! who comes here ? The wizard Moor's employer ! 
 Moors 'were his murderers, you say ? Saints shield ua 
 
 From wicked thoughts , 
 
 [Valdez moves tmoards the hack of the stage to meet 
 Ordonio, and during the concluding lints oj 
 Teresa's speech, appears as eagerly conversing with 
 him. 
 
 Is Alvar dead ? what then ? 
 The nuptial rites and funeral shall be one ! 
 Here's no abiding-xjlace fortbee, Teresa. — 
 Away ! they see me not — Thou seest me, Alvar! 
 To thee I bend my course. — But first one question, 
 One question to Ordonio. — My limbs tremble — 
 There I may sit unmark'd — a moment will restore me. 
 
 [ Retires out of sigh i. 
 
 Ord. (as he advances withYAjAiVJZ,.) These are the dungeon 
 keys. Mouviedro know not, , 
 
 That I too had received the wizard's message, 
 " He that can bring tlie dead to life again." 
 But now be is satisfied. I plann'd this scheme 
 To work a full conviction on the culprit, 
 And lie entrusts him wholly to my keeping. 
 
 Val. 'Tis well, my son ! But have you yet discovered 
 (Where is Teresa?) what those speecbes 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 ? — • 
 
 Ord. (confused.) Me ? what ails me ? 
 
 A, pricking of the blood — It might have happen'd 
 At any other time. — Whyscan you me ? 
 
 V«l. His speech aboutthe corse, and stabs and murderers, 
 Bore reference to the assassins 
 
 Ord. Dup'd! dup'd! dup'd! 
 
216 EEMOESE. 
 
 •The traitor, Isidore! [A pause, then wildly, 
 
 I tell thee, my dear father! 
 I am most glad of this. 
 
 Val. (confused.) 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. 
 
 Ord. Yes ! yes ! we recognize them. 
 
 i was benumb'd, and staggered up and down 
 Through darljness without light — dark — dark — dark! 
 My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled. 
 As had a snake coll'd round them ! — ^Now 'tis sunshine, 
 And the blood dances freely through its channels ! 
 
 [ Turns off abruptly ; 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. 
 
 Val. 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 ! 
 
 Ord. (in a slow voice,as reasoning to himself.) Love! Love! 
 and then we hate I 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 dieam ! 
 
 Val. Wild talk, my son ! But thy excess of feeling 
 
 [^Averting himself. 
 Almost I fear, it hath unhinged his brain. 
 
 Ord. (now in. soliloquy, and now addressing hisfath,er : and 
 just after the speeeh has commenced, TbresAl reappears 
 and advances slowly.) Say, I had laid a body in the 
 sun ! 
 Well ! in a month thfere swarm forth from the oorse 
 A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings 
 In place of that one man. — Say, I had kilVd him i 
 
 [TEREsk starts, and stops listening. 
 Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all 
 Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy, 
 
EEMOESE. 2lt 
 
 As tbat one life, whioli lieLng pushed aside, 
 
 Made room for these minumbered 
 
 Val. O mere madness t 
 
 [Teebsa moves hastily forwards, and piaeet herself 
 directly before Ordonio. 
 Ord. {Cheeking the feeling ofsurprzle and forcing his tones 
 into an expression of playful courtesy.) Teresa? Or the 
 Phantom of Teresa i 
 Ter. Alas! the Phantom only, if in truth 
 The substance of her Being, her Life's life, 
 Have ta'en its flight through Alvar's death-wound — 
 
 [A pause.'] Where— 
 
 ' (Even coward Murder grants the dead a grave) 
 O tell me, Valdez ! — answer me, Ordonio f 
 Where lies the corse of my betrothed husband ? 
 
 Ord. There, where Ordonio likewise would fain lie ! 
 In the sleep-compelling earth, in unpierc'd darkness ! 
 For while we live — 
 An inward day that never, never sets. 
 Glares round the solil, and mocks the closing eyelids ! 
 Over his rooky grave the Fir-grove sighs 
 A lulling ceaseless dirge ! 'Tis well with him. 
 
 [^Strides off in agitation towards the altar, hut returns 
 
 as Valdez is speahing. 
 
 ler, {recoiling with the expression appropriate to the passion. ) 
 
 The rook ! the fir-grove ! [ To Valdez. 
 
 Dids't thou hear him say it ? 
 
 Hush ! I will ask him 1 
 
 Val. Urge him not — not now ! 
 
 This we 'beheld. Nor Me nor I know more, 
 Than what the magic imagery revealed. 
 
 The assassin, who pressed foremost of the three 
 
 Ord. A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain, 
 Whom I will strangle ! 
 
 Yal. {looking with anxious disquiet at his Son, yet attempt- 
 ing to proceed with his description.) While his two 
 
 companions 
 
 (h-d. Dead ! dead already ! what care we for the dead ? 
 Val. (to Teresa.) Pity him! soothe him! disenchant 
 his spirit ! « 
 
 These supernatural shews, this strange disclosure, 
 And this too fond affection, which stul 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. 
 
 Ord. Is it so? 
 
 Yes ! yes! even like a child, that too abruptly 
 Boused by a glare of light from deepest sleep 
 Starts up bewildered and talks idly. IThen mysterioualy. 
 
 Father! 
 What if the Moors that made my brother's grave, 
 J 
 
S18 REMORSE. ' 
 
 Even now were fligging ours ? What if tlie bolt, 
 Though aim'd, I doubt not, at the son of Valdez, ^ 
 
 Yet miss'd its true aim when it fell on Alvar? 
 
 Val. 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. 
 
 Ord. Unknown, perhaps, 
 
 Captured, yet as the son of Valdez, murdered, 
 iipave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle Lady ? i 
 
 Val. What seek you now ? 
 
 Ter. A better, surer light 
 
 To guide me 
 
 Both Val. and Ord. Whither ? 
 
 Ter. To the only place 
 
 Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart. 
 These wajls spem threatening to fall in upon me! 
 Detain me not ! a dim power drives me hence, 
 And that will be my guide. 
 
 Val. To find a lover! 
 
 Suits that a high born maiden's modesty ? 
 
 folly an,d shame I Tempt not my rage, Teresa ! 
 Ter. Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage. 
 
 And am I hastening to the arms O Heaven ! 
 
 1 haste but to the grave of my beloved ! 
 
 lUxit, Valdez following after her. 
 Ord. This, then, is my reward ! and I must love hei ? 
 Scorn'd! shudder'd at! yet love her still? yes! yes ! 
 Hy the deep feelings of Revenge and Hate 
 I will still love her — woo her — win her too ! [^Ajpause. 
 
 Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait 
 l^ound 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 I 
 
 ILooks through the silewindoto, 
 A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea, 
 And now 'tis gone ! All shall be done to-night. [Exit 
 
EEMORSE. 213 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A cavem.dark, except Ivhere a gleam of moonligM 
 is ssen'vn one side at the further end of it; supposed to h', 
 cast on it from a orevice in a part of the oaeern out of 
 sight. Isidore alone, an extinguished torch in his hand. 
 Isid. Faith 'twas a moving letter — ^very moving ! 
 " His life in dauger, no place safe but tLis ! 
 " 'Twna his turn now to talk of gratitude." 
 And yet — but no ! there can't be such a villain. 
 It can not he ! 
 
 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 breaflie loud in their sleep — 
 Any thing but tliis crash of water drops ! 
 Tliese dull abortive sounds that fret the silence 
 With puuy thwartings and mock opposition ! 
 So beats the dea,th-watch to a sick man's ear. 
 
 [iie goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of moon- 
 light : returns after a minutes elapse, in an extuss 
 of fear. 
 A hellish pi</ The very same I dreamt of I 
 I was just in — and those damu'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 meantime Okdonio enters with a torch, and 
 halloas to Isidore. 
 Isid. 1 swear that I saw something moving there ! 
 The moonshine came and went like a flash of ligntuiug — 
 I swear, I saw it raove. 
 
 Ord. [goes into the recess, thenretnms, and with great scorn.) 
 A jutting clay stone 
 Props on the long lank weed, that grows beneath : 
 And the weed nods and drips. 
 
 Isid. (forcing a laugh faintly.) A jest to laugh at! f 
 It was not that which scar'd ilie, good my lord. 
 , Ord. What scar'd you, then ? 
 
 Isid. Tou see that little rift ? 
 
 But first permit me ! 
 
 [Lights his torch at Oedonio'S and while lighting it, 
 ' (A lighted torch in the hand, 
 Is no unpleasant object here — one's breath 
 Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours 
 As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.) 
 You see that orevice there 1 
 My torch extinguished,by these water drops, 
 And marking that the moonlight came from thence, 
 I stept in to it, meaning to sit there ; 
 But scarcely had I measuredtwenty paces — 
 My body bending forward, yea, o'erbalanced / 
 
220 EEMOESE. 
 
 Almost beyond Teo.oil, on the dim brink 
 Of a huge chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine 
 Filling the Void so covinterfeited Substance, 
 That my foot hung aslant adown the edge. 
 Was it my own fear t * 
 
 Fear too hath its instincts ! 
 (And yet such dens as these are wildly told of, 
 Aiid there are Beings that live, yet not for the eye) 
 An arm of frost above and frpm behind me 
 Pluok'd up and snatch'd me backward. Merciful Heaven 
 You smile! alas, even smiles look ghastly here! 
 My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it. [yon. 
 
 Ord. It must have shot some pleasant feeUngs throagh 
 
 Isid. 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 1 
 Or had it drizzled needle points of frost 
 Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald— 
 
 Ord. (interrupting him.) 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 — 
 
 laid. When a boy, my lord ! 
 
 I could have sate whole hours beside that cha^m, 
 Push'd in huge stones and heard them strike and rattle 
 Against its horrid sides : then hung my head 
 Low down, and listen tiU the heavy fragments 
 Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well, 
 Which never thirsty pilgrims blest, which never 
 A living thing came near — ^unless, perchance, 
 Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould 
 Close at its edge. 
 
 Ord. Art thou more coward now ? 
 
 Isid. Call him, that fears his fellow man, a coward ! 
 I fear not man — ^but this inhuman cavern. 
 It were too l)ad 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. 
 
 sleep of horrors! Now run down and stared at 
 By Forms so hideous that they mock remembrance- 
 No w 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 
 
 1 saw you in a thousand fearful shapes ; 
 And, I entreat your lordship to believe me, 
 In my last dream 
 
 Ord. Well? 
 
 laid. I was in the act 
 
 Of falUng down that chasm, when Alhadra 
 Wak'd me : she heard my heart beat. 
 
BEMOESE. 221 
 
 Ord. Strange enough ! 
 
 Had you been here before ? 
 
 Isid. Never, my lord ! 
 
 But mine eyes do not see it now more clearly, 
 Than in my dream I saw — that very chasm. 
 
 Ord. (^stands lost in thought, then after a pause.) I know not 
 
 why it should be ! yet it is — 
 Isid. WTiat is, my lord? 
 
 Ord. Abhorrent £pom our nature. 
 
 To kill a man. — 
 Isid. Except in self defence. [it — 
 
 Ord. Why that's my case ; and yet the soul recoils from 
 'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps, 
 Have sterner feelings ? 
 
 Isid. 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 I 
 Is not a place where you could perpetrate. 
 No nor propose, a wicked thine. The darkness. 
 When ten strides ofif we know 'tis cheerful moonlight. 
 Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart. 
 It must be innocent. 
 
 [Ordonio darJcly, andin the feeling of self justifica- 
 tion, tells what he conceives of Ma own character 
 and actions, sjaeahing of himself in the third per- 
 son. 
 Ord. Thyself be judgBf 
 
 One of our family knew this place weU. 
 I8i«i. Who? when? my lord? 
 Ord. What boots it, who or when ? 
 Hang up thy torch— I'll tell his tale to thee. 
 
 t They hang up their torches on some ridge in the cavern. 
 He was a man different from other men. 
 And he despised them^et revered himself. [thyself! 
 
 Isid. (aside.) He? He despised? Thou'rt speaking of 
 I am on my guard however : no surprize. [ Hien to Ordonio. 
 What he w'as mad ? 
 
 Ord. All men seemed mad to hiin ! 
 
 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. 
 Isid. Of himself he speaks. [_Jside. 
 
 Alas 1 poor wretch! 
 Mad men are mostly proud. 
 
 Ord, He walked alone. 
 
 And phantom thoughts unsought-for troubled him. 
 Something within would still be shadowing out 
 All possibilities ; and with these shadows 
 
222 REMORSE. 
 
 His mind held dalliance. Once, as bo it happened, 
 A fancy crossed him ■wilder than the rest : 
 To this in moody murmur and low voice 
 lie yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep : 
 The man who heard him. — 
 
 Why didst thou look round?— 
 
 Isid. I have a prattler three years old, my lord! 
 1:1 truth he is my darling. As I went 
 From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep — 
 l!ut I am talking idly — pray proceed! 
 And what did this man ? 
 
 Ord. With his human hand 
 
 He gave a substance and reality 
 To that wild fancy of a possible thing — 
 Well it was done ! [ Then very wildly 
 
 Why bahblest thou of guilt ? 
 The deed was done, and it passed fairly offi 
 Aud he whose tale I tell thee— dost thou listen ? 
 
 Isid. 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, 
 fiut I do listen — pray proceed my lord. 
 
 Ord. Where was I ? 
 
 Isid. He of whom you tell the tale^ 
 
 Ord. Surveying all things with a quiet scorn, 
 Tamed himself down to living purposes, 
 The occupations and the semblances 
 Of ordinary men — and such he seepaed ! 
 JBut that same over ready agent — ^he — 
 
 Isid. Ah ! what oihim, my lord ? 
 
 Ord. He proved a traitor, 
 
 Betrayed the mystery to a brother traitor, 
 And they between them hatch'd a damned plot 
 T,o hunt him down to infamy and death. 
 What did ^he Valdez ? I am proud of the name 
 Since he dared do it — 
 
 [Oedonio grasps Ais sword, and turns off frov. 
 Isidore, <fte» after a pause returns. 
 
 Our links burh dimly. 
 
 Isid. A dark tale darkly finished! Nay, my Jojd ! 
 Teli whathedid. 
 
 Ord. That which his wisdom prompted — 
 He made the Traitor meet him in this cavern, 
 And liere he kill'd the Traitor. 
 
 Isid. No! the fool! 
 
 Ho liiid not wit,enough to be a traitor. 
 Poor thiok-eyeo 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, 
 Aud he could steal upon thee in the dark! 
 
 Ord. Thou would'st not then have come, if — 
 
REMOESE. 223 
 
 laid. Oh yes, my lord! 
 I would have met him arm'd, and soar'd the coward. 
 
 [Isidore throws off his robe; shews himself armed 
 and draws his sword. 
 Ord. Now that is excellent and warms the blood ! 
 My heart was drawing hack, drawing me hack 
 With weak and womanish scruples. Now my Vengeance 
 Beckons me onward with a Warior's mien, 
 And claims that life, my pity rohh'd her of — 
 Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it 
 Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter. 
 Isid, And all my little ones fatherless — 
 
 Die thou first. 
 {.They fight, Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in dis- 
 arming him throws his sword tip that recess oppo- 
 site to which they were standing. Isidore hurries 
 into the recess with his torch, Okdonio follows 
 him; a loud cry of " Traitor ! Monster 1" is heard 
 from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns 
 alone. 
 Ord. 1 have hurl'd him down the Chasm ! Treason for 
 Treason. 
 Ho dreamt of it : henceforward let him Bleep, 
 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, viith the Iron Gate of Dungeon visible. 
 
 Enter Teresa: 
 Ter. Heart-chilling Superstition 1 thou canst glaze 
 Ev'n Pity's eye with her own frozen tear. 
 In vain X urge the tortures that awaits 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 I 
 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 bailed his suborner, terror-struck him, 
 And that Ordonio medidates revenge 1 
 But my resolve is fixed ! myself will rescue him. 
 And learn if haply he know aught of Alvar. 
 
 Enter Valdez. 
 Val. Still sad ? — and gazing at the massive door 
 • Vide Appendix, p. 335. 
 
224 EEMOESE. 
 
 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 faitb, Girl ! this same wizard haunts thee! 
 A stately man, and eloquent and tender — 
 (_ioUh a sneer) Who they need wonder if a lady sighs 
 IDven at the thought of what these stern Dominicans — 
 
 Ter. (with solemn indignation.) 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 — 
 
 Val. Hush, thoughtless woman ! 
 
 Ter. Nay it wakes within me 
 
 More than a woman's spirit. 
 
 Val. No more of this — 
 
 What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us ! 
 I dare not listen to you. 
 
 Ter. My honoured lord, 
 
 These were my Alyar's lessons, ai>d whene'er 
 I hend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them, 
 As if to give a voice to the mute Image. 
 
 Val. ^We have mourned for Alvar. 
 
 Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt. 
 
 Have I no other son f 
 
 . Ter. 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. 
 
 Val. Is this well? 
 
 Ter. Yes, it is truth : saw you his countenance ? 
 How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear, 
 Displaced each other with swift interchanges ! 
 
 that I had indeed the sorcerer's power. 
 
 1 would call up before thine eyes the image 
 Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy First-born ! 
 His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead. 
 His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips 1 
 Tliat spiritual and almost heavenly light 
 
 In his commanding eye — ^his mien heroic, 
 
 Virtue's own native heraldry! to man 
 
 Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. ' 
 
 Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread 
 
 Wide round him ! and when oft with swelling tears, 
 
 Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd 
 
 The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots. 
 
 Oh, what a Grief was there — ^for Joy to envy, ,' 
 
 Or gaze upon enamour'd ! 
 
 O my father! 
 
EEMOESE. " 225 
 
 Recall that moming -vrhen we knelt together, 
 
 And thou didst bless our loves ! O even now, 
 
 Even now, my sire 1 to thy mind's eye present him 
 
 As at that moment he rose up before thee, 
 
 Stately, with beaming look ! Place, place besides him 
 
 Ordouio's dark perturbed countenance I 
 
 Then bid me (Oh thou could'st not) bid me turn 
 
 From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind I 
 
 To take in excharge that brooding man, who never 
 
 Lifts up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl. 
 
 Val. 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, 
 Sanish'd bis health, and half unhing'd his reason ; 
 But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion I 
 And toil to blast his honour! I am old, 
 A comfortless old man ! 
 
 Ter. O grief! to hear 
 
 Hateful intreaties from a voice we love ! 
 
 Enter a Peasant and presents a tetter to Valdez. 
 
 Val. (reading it.) "He dares not venture hither!" Why 
 what can this mean ? 
 " Leat 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 bef 
 Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem. 
 To have in me an hostage for his safety. 
 Nay, that they dare not ! ■ Ho ! collect my servants ! 
 I will go thither — ^letthem arm themselves. [Exs/ Vajjjez. 
 
 Ter. (alone.) The moon is high in heaven, and all ighiish'd. 
 Yet anxious listener ! I havfe 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 even tide ; 
 When we saw nought but beauty ; when we heard 
 The voice of that Almighty One who Joved us 
 In every gale that breathed, and wave that murmur'dl 
 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. [^ pause. 
 And this majestic Moor, seems he not one 
 Who oft and long cominuning with my Alvar 
 Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his piesence, 
 J* 
 
223 EEMOESE. 
 
 And guides me to him ■vcitli reflected light? 
 
 What if in yon dark 4nngeon coward Treachery 
 
 Be groping for him with envenomed poignard — ■ 
 
 Hence womanish fears, traitors to love and duty — 
 
 I'll free him, I Exit Tbrbs a. 
 
 Scene III. — The mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone \n 
 
 a Moorish dress. 
 f Alh. Yon hanging woods, that touch'dhy autumn seem 
 As if they were hlossoming hues of fire and gold; 
 the flower-like woods, most lovely in decay, 
 ^Tho many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands, 
 l.io in the silent moonshine; and the owl, 
 f Strange! very strange!) the screech-owl only wakes ! 
 Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beiiuty ! 
 Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song 
 To a heard of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood. 
 Why such a thing am I ! — Where are these men ? 
 I need the sympathy of human faces. 
 To heat away this deep contempt for all things. 
 Which qiienchps my revenge. Oh ! would to Alia, 
 The raven, or 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 ! 
 My children! — Isidore's children! — Son of Valdez, 
 This bath new strung mine arm. Thou coward Tyrant! 
 To stupify a "Woman's Heart with anguish, 
 Till she forgot — even that she was a Mother! 
 
 IShe fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after 
 anothef, 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 AiBAHKA, and remain silent till the Second in 
 command, Naomi, enters, distinguished by his dress and 
 armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to him on his 
 entrance by the other Moors. 
 Nao. Woman! May Alia and the prophet bless thee ! 
 "We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief? 
 And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments ? 
 
 Alh. (raising her eyes and looUng 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. 
 
REMORSE. 227 
 
 N^ao. Where is'Iajtore ? 
 
 Alh. (i» a deep low voice.) Tlii^uJpit I went from forth 
 my house, and left ^W^ 
 
 His children all asleep : and he was living ! 
 And I return'd and found them still asleep, 
 But he had perished 
 
 All Morescees. Perished ? 
 
 Alh. 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 
 Revfenge his murder ! 
 
 One Moresco (to another.) Did she say his murder f 
 
 JSTfflO. Murder ! Not murdered ? , ' 
 
 , Alh. Murdered by a Christian ! 
 
 l_They all at once draw their sabres. 
 
 Alh. (to Naqmi, who advances from the circle.) Brother of 
 Zagri ! fling away thy sword ; 
 This is thy chieftain's ! [He steps forward to take it. 
 
 Dost thou dare receive it? 
 For I have sworn by Alia 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 wks your chieftain's murderer ! 
 
 Nao. He dies, by Alia ! 
 
 All. (kneeling.) Bj Alia! 
 
 Alh. This night yojir chieftain a,rmed himself, 
 And hurried from me. But I followed him 
 At distance, till I saw him enter — iftere .' 
 
 Nao. The cavern ? 
 
 Alh. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. 
 After a while I saw the son of Valdez 
 Kusli 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 Valde2 re-appeared : 
 He ilung his torch towards the moon in sport, 
 And seemed as he were mirthful ! I stood listening, 
 Impatient for the footsteps of my husband I 
 
 Nao. Thou called'st him ? 
 
 Alh. I crept into the eavern — 
 
 'Twas dark and very silent. \_Then wildly. 
 
 What saidst thou ? 
 No ! no ! I did not dare call, Isidore, 
 Lest I should hear no answer! A brief while. 
 Belike, I lost all thougiit and memory 
 Of that for which I came ! After that pause, 
 O Heaven I I heard a groan, and followed it : 
 And yet another groan, which guided me 
 Into a strange recess — and there was light, 
 A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground. 
 
228 REMORSE. 
 
 Its flame burnt dimly ^j Kg ^ chasm's brink : 
 I spake ; and whilst li^^Re> a feeble groan 
 Came from that chasm i^was his last ! his death-groan ! 
 
 Nao. Comfort her, Alia 
 
 AUi. 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 ? 
 
 Nao. Haste ! let us onward. 
 
 Alh. I looked far down the pit — 
 
 My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment: 
 And it was stained with blood. Then hrst 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! [5Je rushes off, all following Tier. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A Dungeon. Alvar (alone) rises slowly from a 
 bed of reeds. 
 
 All'. And this place my forefathers mafle for man ! 
 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 shrivelled up 
 By Ignorance and parching Poverty, 
 His energies roll back upon bis heart 
 And stagnate and corrupt, till, chang'd to poison, 
 They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot ! 
 Then we call in our pampered moutebanks ; 
 And his is their best cme ! uncomforted 
 And friendless Solitude, Groaning and Tears, 
 And savage Faces, at the olanklng hour, 
 Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon 
 By the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he lies 
 Circled 'ith evil, till his very soul 
 Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed 
 By sights of evermore deformity ! 
 With other ministrations thou, O Nature ! 
 Healest thy wandering and distempered child: 
 
EEMOESE. 229 
 
 Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 
 
 Thy.sunny hues, fair foyns, 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 ininstrelsy ; 
 
 But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
 
 His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
 
 By the benignant torch of love and bganty. 
 
 I am chill and weary! Yon rude bench of stone, 
 
 In that dark angle, the sole resting-place ! 
 
 Kut the self-approving mind is its own light. 
 
 And life's best warmth still radiates from the heart 
 
 Where love sits brooding, and an honest purpose. 
 
 [fletire* out of sight 
 
 Enter Teresa with a Taper. 
 
 Ter. It has ohiUed 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 — 
 
 [_ZooMng 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! 
 
 \_Shuddei'ing. 
 If I faint ? If this inhuman den should be 
 At once my death-bed and my burial vault ? 
 
 [^Faintly soreams aa Alvar emerges from the recess. 
 Alv. (mahes 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. 
 
 ye impetuous beatings here, be stilll 
 Teresa, best beloved! pale, pale, and cold ! 
 Her pulse doth flutter ! Teresa ! my Teresa ! 
 
 Ter. (recovering, looks round wildly.) I heard a voice; but 
 often in my dreams 
 
 1 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 pai^iful thing to die ! 
 
 Alv. {eagerhj.) Believe it not, sweet maid! Believe it not. 
 Beloved woman ! 'Twas a low imposture, 
 Framed by a guilty wretch. 
 
230 , REMORSE. 
 
 Ter. (^retires from Mm, and feebly supports herself against a 
 pillar of the dungeon.) Ha ! who art thou ? 
 
 Alv. (exceedingly affected.) SuboAed by his brother — 
 
 Ter. Did'st thou murder him ? 
 
 And dost thou now repent ? Poor troubled man, 
 I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee ! 
 
 Alv. Ordonio — he — 
 
 Ter. If thou did st murder him — 
 
 His spirit ever at the throne of God 
 Asks mercy for thee : prays for mercy for thee, 
 With tears in Heaven I 
 
 Alv. ^Yar was not murdered. 
 
 Be calm ! Be calm, sweet maid ! 
 
 ter. (wildly.) Nay, nay, but tell me! 
 
 [_A pause, then presses her forehead. 
 O 'tis lost again ! 
 This dull confused pain — [_A pause, she gazes at Alv ae. 
 
 Mysterious man ! 
 Methinks I cannot fear thee : for thine eye 
 Doth swim with love and pity — Well ! Ordonio — 
 Oh my foreboding heart ! And he suborned thee. 
 And thou didst spare his life ? Blessings shower on thee, 
 As many as the drops twice counted o'er 
 In the fond faithful heart of his, Teresa ! 
 ,Alv. I can endure no more. The Moorish Sorcerer 
 Exists but in the stain upon this face. 
 That picture — 
 
 Tv, . (advances towards him.) Ha ! speak on ! 
 
 Alv. Beloved Teresa I 
 
 It told but half the truth. 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. 
 
 Tor. (receiving the portrait.) The same — it is the same. 
 Ah ! Who art thou f 
 Nay I will not call thee, Alvar ! \_She falls on his neck. 
 
 Alv, joy unutterable 1 
 
 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 brothei^) 
 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. 
 
 Ter. O my all- virtuous Love ! I fear to leave thee 
 With that obdurate man. 
 
 Alv. Thou dost not leave me ! 
 
 But a brief while retire into the darkness : 
 O that my joy could spread its sunshine round thee I 
 
EEMOESE. 231 
 
 Tel: The sound of thy voice shall be my music ! 
 
 lUetiring, she returns hastily and embracmg Alvar. 
 Alvar ! my Alvar ! am I sure I hold thee ? 
 Is it DO dream ? thee in my arms, my Alvar ! [Exit. 
 
 \_A noise at the Dungeon door. It opens, and Ordonio 
 enters, with a goMet in his hand, 
 
 Ord. /Sail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood 
 I poilred 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 rae 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, 
 
 [ Waving his hand to Alvar. 
 The weaker needs must break. 
 
 Alv. . 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. 
 
 Ord. . Feeling ! feeling 1 
 
 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 gohlet. 
 
 Alv. Ton insect on the wall,, 
 Which moves tlais 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 &ame 
 Unerringly to pleasurable ends ! 
 Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim 
 I would remove it with an anxious pity! 
 
 Ord. What meanest thou ? 
 
 Alv. There's poison in the wine. 
 
 Ord. Thou hast guessed, right , there's poison in the wina 
 There's poison in't — which of ns two shall drink it f 
 For one of us must die ! 
 
 Alv. Whom dost thou think me f ' 
 
 Ord. The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore. 
 
 Alv. I know him not. 
 
 And yet, methinks, I have heard the name but lately. 
 Means he the husband of the Moorish woman I 
 Isidore ? Isidore ? 
 
232 EEMORSE. 
 
 Ord. GoodlgoodI that Lie! by heaven ithas restored me. 
 Now i am thy master ! — ^Villain ! thou shalt drink it, 
 Or die a bitterer death. 
 
 Alv. ~ What strange solution 
 
 Hast thou found out to satisfy tty fears, 
 And drug them to unnatural sleep T 
 
 [Alvak takes the goblet, and throwing it to the ground 
 with stern contempt. 
 
 My master ! 
 
 Ord. Thou mountebank I 
 
 Alv. Mountebauk 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 villany. 
 Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn 
 For all thy human brethren — out upon them ! [peace f 
 
 What have they done for thee ? have they- given thee 
 Cured thee of starting in thy sleep ? or made 
 The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight f 
 Art happy when alone ? Can'st walk by thyself 
 With even step and quiet cheerfulness ? 
 Yet, yet thou may'st be saved 
 
 Ord. (vacantly repeating the words.) Saved ? saved 1 
 
 Alv. One pang 1 
 
 dould I call up one pang of true Eemorse ! 
 
 Ord. He told me of the babes that prattled to him. 
 His fatherless little ones ! Kemorse ! Eemorse ! 
 Where got'st thou that fool's word ? Curse on Eemorse ! 
 Can it give up the dead, or recompact 
 A mangled body ? mangled — dashed to atoms ! 
 Not all the blessings of an 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 ? 
 
 Alv. {almost overcome by his feelings.) But Alvar-= — 
 
 Ord. ' Ha if it choaks thee ' ■ the throat, 
 
 Even thee ; and yet J. 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 ! 
 
 Alv. 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 ? 
 
EEMOESE. 233 
 
 heaven I how he would fall upon thy neck, 
 And weep forgiveness ! 
 
 Ord. Spirit of the dead ! 
 
 Methinks I know thee ! ha ! my brain turns wilif 
 At its own dreams ! — off-;-off— tantastic shadow ! 
 
 Alv. I fain would tell thee what I am ? but dare not ! 
 
 Ord. 'jheat ! villain.1 traitor ! whatsoever thou be — 
 
 1 fear thee, Man ! 
 
 Ter. {rushing out amd falling on Alvar'S neek.) Ordonio! 
 'tis thy Brother. 
 [Ordonio with frmitic wildncss runs upon Alvar 
 with his sword. Tbreba flings herself on Ordo- 
 mo and arrests his arm. 
 ' Stop, madman, stop I 
 
 Alv. Does then this thin disguise impenetrably 
 Hide Alvar from thee t Toil and painful wounds 
 Aud long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons, 
 Ilave marred perhaps all trait and lineament 
 Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother, 
 My anguish for thy guilt 1 
 
 Ordonio — Brother ! 
 Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me. 
 
 Ord. (drcming hack, and gazing at Alvar with a counte- 
 nance of at once awe and terror.) Touch me not ! 
 Touch not pollution, Alvar 1 I will die. 
 
 [His attempts to fall on his sword, Alvar and Teresa 
 prevent him. 
 Alv. We will find means to save your honour. Live. 
 Oh live, Ordonio ! for our father's sake ! 
 Spare his grey hairs ! 
 
 Ter. And you may yet be happy. 
 
 Ord. O horror ! not a thousand years in heaven 
 Could recompose this miserable heart, 
 Or make it capable of one brief joy b 
 Live! Live! Why yes! 'Twere well to live with you : 
 For is it fit a villain should be p^oud ? 
 My Brother ! I will kneel to you, my Brother ! [Kneeling. 
 
 Forgive me, Alvar ! Curse me with forgiveness ! 
 
 Alv. Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee ! 
 Now is the time for greatness ! Think that heaven — 
 Ter. O mark his eye I he hears not what you say. 
 Ord. (pointing at the vacemcy.) Yes,, mark his aye ! there's 
 fascination in it t 
 Thou saidst thou didst not know him — That is he ! 
 He comes upon me ! 
 Alv. Heal, O heal him heaven I 
 
 Ord. Nearer and nearer ! and I cannot stir ! 
 Will no One hear these stifled groans, and wake me 1 
 He would have died to save me, and I killed him — 
 A husband and a father t — 
 
 Ter. Some secret poiBon 
 
 Drinks up his spirits ! 
 
 I 
 
234 EEMOESE. 
 
 Ord. {fiercely recollecting himself.) Let the Eternal Justice 
 Prepare my punishment iu the ohscure world — 
 I will not bear to live — to live — O agouyl 
 And be idjrself alone my own sore torment! 
 
 \_The doors o/the dungeon are broken open, and in rush 
 Alhabka, and the lamd of Morescoes. 
 
 Alh. Seize first that man I 
 
 [Alvar presses onward to defend Ordonio. 
 
 Ord. Off, Ruffians 1 I have flung away my sword. 
 Woman, my life is thine ! to thee I give it ! 
 OfPl he that touches me with his hand of flesh, 
 I'll rend hia limbs asunder ! I have strength 
 With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes. . 
 
 Alh. My husband — 
 
 Ord. Yes, I murdered him most foully. 
 
 Alv. and Ter. O horrible ! 
 ~ Alh. Why didst thou leave his children 1 
 
 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 cotafort. 
 I would have stood far off, quipt though dark, 
 And bade the racri of men raise up a mourning 
 For a deep horror of a desolation. 
 Too great to be one's soul's particular lot ! 
 Brother of Zagril let me lean upon thee^ 
 
 l_Struggling to suppress her feelings. 
 The time is not yet come for woman's anguish, 
 I have not seen his blood — Within an hour 
 Those little ones wul crowd around and ask me, 
 Where is our father ? I shall curse thee then ! i 
 Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence ! 
 
 Ter. He doth repent I See, see, I kneel to thee ! 
 
 let him live ! That aged man, bis father 
 
 Alh, (sternly.) Why kad he suth a son ? 
 
 [^Shouts from the distance of " Rescue! Rescue! Al- 
 var! Alvar!" and the voice of Yai^di^z heard. 
 Alh. Eescne ? — And I^dore's Spirit unavenged ? 
 The deed be mine ! ^Suddenly stabs Oedonio. 
 
 Now take my Life ! 
 Ord. (staggering from tlie wound.) Atonement! 
 
 Alv. (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. 
 
 Ord. Away 1 
 
 Brave not my Father's Rage ! I thank thee ! Thou-^ 
 
 [_Then turning Itis eyes languidly to Alvar. 
 She hath avenged the blood of Isidore ! 
 
 1 stood iu silence like a slave before her 
 
 That I might taste the wofmwood and the gall, 
 
 And satiate this self-accusing heart 
 
 With bitterer agonies than death can give. 
 
REMORSE. 235 
 
 Forgive me, Alvar !, 
 
 Oh ! — could'st thou forget me ! [_Dies. 
 [Alvar ar)d Tekbsa iertd over the body o/Oedonio. 
 
 Alh. {to the Mooia.) 1 thank thee, Heaven I thou hast or- 
 dained 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 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 hurtiea off with tfte Moors; the stage filUwUh 
 armed easants and servants, Zulimez and VALDiiz 
 a0theirhead. Yaudez i-uslies into Atn'AR's arms. 
 
 Alv. Turn not tliy face that way, my father! hide, 
 Oh hide it from his eye ! Oh let thy joy 
 Flow in unmingled sti'eam through thy first blessing. 
 
 [_Both kneel to Valdez. 
 
 Val. My son ! My Alvar ! bless, Oh bless him, heaven ! 
 
 Ter. Me too, my Father f 
 
 Val. Bless, Oh bless my children ! IBoih rise. 
 
 Alv. 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 onr guilty hopes, and selfish fears ! 
 Still bids. Remember ! and still cries. Too late '. 
 And while she scares us, goads us to our fate. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 The following Scene, as unfit for the Stage, was taken trnm (ha 
 Tragedy, in the ySar 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads. L>iit 
 this work having been long out of print, and it having benn deter- 
 mined, that this wii h'my other Poems in that collection (the NiOHT- 
 ifOALB, liOVE, and the Ancient Mariner) should li» iinitted in;.ny 
 future edition, I have been advised to reprint it, as a Note to the 
 second Scene of Act the Fourth, p. 221. 
 
236 REMORSE. 
 
 Enter Teresa and Selma. 
 
 Teresd. '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^ our names with mine! my sweet Lady, 
 As often as I think of those deaf 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 ftots been ! 
 
 Teresa. But that entrance, Selma? 
 
 Selma. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tala 
 
 Teresa. No one. 
 
 SeVma. My husband's father told* it me, 
 
 Poor old Sesina — angels rest his soul ; 
 He was a woodmaii, 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 trpe, 
 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 ^ew up a pretty boy, 
 A pretty boy, but most unteachable— • 
 
 And never learnt a praver, 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 
 WiCh. 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 sooa 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 1 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 YQ^t his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 
 ThelateLordValdez 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) p>nd had well nigh fallen 
 Bight 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 as he was working near this dungeon, 
 He heard a voice distinctly, 'twas the youth's, 
 Who sung a doleful song about ^^eh fields. 
 How sweet it were on lake or wide savannah 
 To hunt for food, and be a naked man. 
 And wander up and down at liberty. 
 He tlways doted on the youth, ana now 
 His love grew desperate; and defying death. 
 He made that cunning entrance I described. 
 And the young ma^ escaped. 
 / 
 
REMOESE. 237 
 
 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 yoyagers who made discovery 
 Of golden lands. Sesma's younger brother 
 Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
 He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth, 
 Soon after they arrived m that new worW, 
 In spite of his disuasion, 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. 
 
 f; 
 
 Note to the words "you are a painterj" p. 307. Scene II., Act U. 
 
 The foUowiDff lines I have preserved in this place, not so much as 
 explanatory of the picture of the assassination j as {if I may say so 
 without disrespect to the Public) to gratify my own feelings, the 
 )assage being* no mere /anc?/ portrait; but a slight, yet not unfaith- 
 
 ul, profile of one,* who still lives, nobiUtate f elix, arte clarior, "vitA 
 colendissimuB. 
 
 Zulimez (speaking o/ Altar in the third person). 
 Such was the noble Sf)aniard's own relation. 
 He told me, too, how in his early youth. 
 And his first travels, ^twas his choice or chance 
 To make long sojourn in sea- wedded Venice; 
 3^here won the love of that divine old man, 
 Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian I 
 . Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, 
 By the Sweet mystery of lines and colours 
 Cnaoged the blank canvass to a magic mirror, 
 That made the Absent present: and to Shadows 
 Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and motion. 
 He loved the old man, and revered his art: 
 And though of noblest birth and ample fortune, 
 The young enthusiast thought it no scorn 
 But this inaUenable ornament. 
 To ,be his pupil, and with filial zeal 
 'By practice to appropriate the sage lessons. 
 Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. 
 The Art, he honoured thus, requited mm : 
 And in the following and calamitous years 
 Beguiled the hours of his captivity. 
 
 Alhadra. And then he framed this picture? and unaided 
 By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman? 
 
 Alvar. A potent spell, a mighty talisman I 
 The imperishable memory of the deed, 
 Sustained by love, and griefs and indignation I 
 So vivid were the forms within his brain. 
 His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them! 
 
 * Sir George Beaumont, [Written 1SX4.J 
 
THE FALL OP ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 AN HISTORIC DRAMA. 
 
 H. MARTIN, Esq., 
 
 OF JBSU3 COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Dear Sir,— Accept, as a small testimony of my grateful attach, 
 ment. the following Drataatio Poem, in which I have endeavoured 
 to detail, in an interesting form, the fall of a man whose great bad 
 actions have cast a disastrous lustre on his name. In the execution 
 of the work, as intricacy of plot could not have been attempted 
 without a gross violation of recent facts. It has been my sole aim 
 to imitate the impassioned and highly figurative language of the 
 French orators, and to develop, the characters of the chief actors 
 on a vast stage of horrors. 
 
 Yours fraternally, 
 
 Jesus College, Sept. 33, 1794. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — The Tuilleries. 
 Enter Bakrere. 
 
 Har. 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 splendour 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 Taujen and Legfjsdre. 
 
 Tal. It was Barrere, Legendre 1 didst thou mark him ! 
 Abrupt he tum'd, yet lingei'd as he went, 
 And towards us cast a look of doubtful meaning. 
 
 Leg. I mark'd him well. I met his eye's last glance ; 
 It menao'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. 
 
 Tal. 'Twas all-distrusting guUt that kept from, bursting 
 The imprieon'd secret struggling in the face : 
 E'en as the sudden breeze' upstarting onwards 
 Hurries the thunder-cloud, that poised awhile 
 
THE FALL OP EOBESPIEEEE. 239 
 
 Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen. 
 
 Leg. Perfidious Traitor ! — still afraid to baijk 
 Id the full blaze of power, the rustling serpent 
 Jjurks in the thicket of the Tyrant's greatness, 
 liver prepar'd 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 villian ! 
 
 Tal. Yet much depends upon him — well you know 
 With plausible harangue 'tis bis to paint 
 Defeat like victory — and blind the mob 
 With truth-mix'd falsehood. They led on by him. 
 And wild pf head to work their own destruction, 
 Support with uproar what heplans in darkness. 
 
 Leg. 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 show enough to rouse his watchful fears, 
 Till the cold coward blaze a patriot. 
 ODanton! murder'd friend I assist my counsels — 
 Hover around me on sad memory's wings, 
 And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart. ' 
 Tallien I if but to-morrow's fateful sun 
 Beholds the Tyrant living — we are dead ! 
 
 Tal. Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings — 
 
 Leg. Fear not — or rather fear the alternative. 
 And seek for courage e'en in cowardice — 
 But see — hither he oomes: — let us away ! 
 His brother mth him, and the bloody Couthon, 
 And high of haughty spirit, young St. Just. [_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Eobespierkb, Couthon, St. Just, and Eobbs- 
 FIERBE, Jun. 
 
 Bob. What ? did La Fayette fall before my power ? 
 And did I conquer Eoland's spotless virtues ? 
 The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue 1 
 And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold ? 
 Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them ? 
 What I did the assassin's dagger aim its point ? 
 Vain as a dream of murder, -at my bosom ? 
 And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien ? 
 The Adonis Tallien ? banquet-hunting Tallien T 
 Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box? Him, 
 Who ever on the harlot's downy pillow 
 Eesigns 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, 
 The Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony? 
 The state is not yet purified: and though 
 The s|;ream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies 
 
m THE FALL OP ROBESPIEEEE. 
 
 The thick black sediment of all the factions — 
 It needs no magic hand to stir it up ! 
 
 Cou. O we did wrong to spare them-r-fatal error I 
 Why lived Legeudre, when that Danton died ? 
 And CoUot 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-scorch'd wilderness 
 Of Zara were a smiling paradise. 
 
 St. Just. Rightly thou judges*, Couthon ! He is one 
 Who flies from silent solitary anguish, 
 Seeking forgetful peace amid the jai 
 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. 
 
 Mob. Is not the commune ours ! the stem tribunal t 
 DumasT andVivier? FleuriotftendLouvet? 
 And Henriot ? We'll denounce a hundred, nor 
 Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward. 
 • Bob. Jan. Nay — I am sick of blood ; my aching heart ' 
 Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors 
 That still have gloomM. the rise of the republic. 
 I should have died before Toulon, when war 
 Became the patriot ! 
 
 Bob. Most unworthy wish ! 
 
 He, whose heart siclfens at the blood of traitors 
 Would be himself a traitor, were he not 
 A coward I '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 I 
 There is unsoundness in the state — To-morrow 
 Shall see it cleansed by wholesome massacre ! 
 
 Bob. jun. Beware ! already do the sections murmur — 
 " O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre — 
 The tyrant guardian of the country's freedom !" 
 - Cou. 'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves! 
 Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart 
 Of cold Barrere ! 
 
 Bob. I see the villain in him ! 
 
 Bob. jun. If he — if all forsake thee — what remains t 
 
 Bob. Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul. 
 And Poverty sublime 'mid circliug virtues ! 
 The giant Victories, my counsels form'd. 
 Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes. 
 Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless. 
 
 [_£xeunt cwteri. Maiist CoUTHON. 
 
THE FALL OF EOBESPIEERE. 241 
 
 Cou. (solus.) So we deceive ourselves! What goodly 
 virtues 
 Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition ! 
 Still, Eobespierre f thou'lt guard thy country's freedom 
 To despotize in all the patriot's pomp ; 
 While Conscience 'nlid the mob's applauding clamours, 
 Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers — blood-stain'd tyrant ! 
 Yetwhat is Conscience? Superstition's dream, ' 
 
 Making such deep impression on our sleep 
 That long the awaken'd breast retains its horrors' [on 
 But he returns — and with him comes Barrere. [^EmtCovTB.- 
 
 Enter Eobespierre and Barrere. 
 
 Bob. There is no danger but in cowardice. — 
 Barrere 1 we make the danger, when we fear it. 
 We have such force without, as will suspend 
 The cold and trembling treachery of these members. 
 
 Bar. 'Twill be a pause of terror, — 
 
 Bob. But to whom ? 
 
 Bather 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 tlceir life. 
 
 Bar. Yet much they talk — and plausible their speech. 
 Couthon's decree has given such powers, that 
 
 Mob. That whatf 
 
 Bar. The freedom of debate — 
 
 Sob. Transparent mark ! 
 
 The 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, -vyliose power directs the 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. 
 
 Bar. Are the sections friendly 1 
 
 Bob. There are who wish my ruin— but I'U make them 
 Blush for the crime in blood ! 
 
 Bar. Nay — ^but X teU thee 
 
 Thou art too fond ^f slaughter — and the right 
 
242 THE FALL OF EOBESPIEREE. 
 
 (If right it be) workest by most foul means! 
 
 Bob. Self-centermg Fear ! how well thou canst ape Mercy ! 
 Too fond of slaughter — ^matchless hypocrite ! 
 Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton, died t 
 Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets 
 Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'erwearied 
 Eeel'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 t 
 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 ! ' 
 
 Bar. O prodigality of eloquent anger ! 
 Why now I see thou'rt weak— thy case is desperate! 
 The cool ferocious Robespierre turn'd scolder ! 
 
 Rob. Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow 
 Reserves the whetted dagger for his own. 
 Denounced twice — and twice I saved his life I \_Exit. 
 
 Bar. The sections will support then — ^there's the point ! 
 No ! he can never weather out the storm — 
 Yet he is sudden in revenge — ^No more ! 
 I must away to TaUien. •■ \_Exit. 
 
 Scene changei to the house of Adelaide. 
 I Adelaidb enters, speaking to a Servant. 
 
 Ade. Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee ? 
 Did Tallien answer, he would soon return ? 
 
 Serv. He is in the Tuilleries — ^with biin Legendre — 
 In deep discourse they seem'd : as I approach'd 
 He waved hi^ hand as bidding me retire : 
 I did not interrupt him. [ifeiurns the letter, 
 
 Ade. 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 winged hours, that scattfer'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 languishiAent of warbled airs, 
 If haply melodies may lull the sense 
 Of sorrow for awhile. 
 
 Soft Music. Enter Tallibn. 
 Tal. Music, my love ? O breathe again that air! 
 Soft nurse of pain, it soothes the weary soul 
 
THE FALL OS" EOBESPlEERE. S43 
 
 Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of eYening 
 Tliat plays around the sick man's throbbing temples. 
 
 SONG. 
 Tell me, ou what holy ground 
 May domestic peace be fouadf 
 Halcyon daughter of the skies, 
 Far on fearful wing she ilies, 
 From the pomp of scepter'd state. 
 From the rebel's noisy hate. 
 
 In a cottaged vale she dwells 
 Xjist'ning to the Sabbath bells I 
 Still around her steps are seen, 
 Spotless honour's meeker mien. 
 Love, the fire of pleasing fears. 
 Sorrow smiling through ijer tears. 
 And conscious of the past employ, 
 Memoiy, bosom-spring of joy. 
 
 Tal. I thank thee, Adelaide! 'twas sweet, though mourn- 
 ful. 
 But why thy brow o'ercast, the "cheek so wan ? 
 Thou lookest a 16m 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. 
 
 Ade. Oh ! rather let me ask what mystery lowers 
 On I'allien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong 
 Tby soul distemper'd, can myjieart be tranquil? , 
 
 Tal. Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was spilt ? 
 Asks he not vengeance on these patriot murderers t 
 It has been borne too tamely. Fears a?id curses ' 
 Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams 
 Threaten the assassin hand of Eohespierre. 
 He dies ! — nor has the plot escaped his fears. 
 
 Ade. Yet — yet — be cautious ! much I fear the Commune, 
 The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his 
 Fast link'd iu close indissoluble union. 
 The pale Convention — 
 
 Tal. Hate him as they fear him. 
 
 Impatient of the chain, resolv'd and ready. 
 
 Ade. The enthusiast mob, confusion's lawless sons^ 
 
 Tal They are weary 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!) firom its compressure— 
 To shatter the arch chemist in the explosion ! 
 
 Enter Billaud Vaebnhes and Bourdon L'Oise. 
 
 [Adelaide 7-eiirea. 
 Bom: VOiae. Tallien! was this a time for amorous con- 
 ference f 
 Henriot, tlie tyrant's most devoted creature. 
 Marshals the force of Paris : The fierce club. 
 
244 THE FALL OF EOBESPIEREE. 
 
 With Vivier at their head, in loud acclaim, 
 Have sworn to make the guillotine in hlood 
 Float on the scaffold — But who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Bajiebrb abruptly. 
 
 Bar. Say, are ye friends to freedom ? I am liers I 
 Let us, forgetful of all common feuds, 
 Eally around her shrine ! E'en now the tyrant 
 Concerts a plan of instant massacre ! 
 
 Bil. Far. Away to the Convention I 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 ! [Tyrant !" 
 
 [_Cry from the street of— "No Tyrant! Down with the 
 
 Tal. 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 il 
 
 Scene. — Tlie Convention. — Eobbspibree mounts the Tribime. 
 
 Sobespierre. Once more befits it that the voice of truth, 
 Fearless in innocence, though leiaguered round 
 By envy and her hateful brood of hell. 
 Be heard amid this hall ; once lore befits 
 The patriot, whose prophetic eye so oft 
 Has pierced through 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, an'I stirred up France 
 To call for vengeance. I too dug the grave 
 Where sleep the Girondists, detested baud ! 
 Long with the show 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 — 
 
 Thouknow'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 
 Hubert and Eonsin, and the villain friends 
 
I'HE FALL OF EOBESPIEEEE. 245 
 
 Of Danton, foul apostate! those, who long 
 
 Mark'd treason's form in liberty's fair garb, 
 
 Long deluged France with blood, and durst defy 
 
 Onmipo'.enoe 1 But I it seems am false ! 
 
 I am a traitor too ! I Eobespierre ! 
 
 I — at whose name the dastard despot brood 
 
 Look pale with fear, and call on saints to help them I 
 
 Who dares accuse me ! who shall dare belie 
 
 My spotless name? Speak, ye accomplice band; 
 
 Of what am I accus'df of what strange crime 
 
 Is Maximilian Eobespierre accus'd, 
 
 That through this hall the buzz of discontent 
 
 Should murmur ? who shall speak ? 
 
 Billand 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 haU, 
 Has ohill'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 co-equal ? Say, thou man 
 Of mighty eloquence, whose law was that f 
 
 Couihon. 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 advi's'd that law — 
 I justify it. It was wise and good. • 
 
 Barrere. Oh, wondrous wise and most convenient too I 
 I ha"\fe long mark'd thee, Eobespierre — and now 
 Proclaim thee traitor — tyrant ! [_Loud applauses, 
 
 Eobespierre. 1 am a traitor! oh, that I had fallen 
 When Eegnault lifted high the murderous knife, 
 Eegnault the instrument belike of those 
 Who now themselves would fain assassinate, 
 And legalize 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 !" 
 
 Eobespierre. Nay, but I will be heard. There was a time 
 When Eobespierre began, the loud applauses 
 Of honest patriots drown'd the honest sound. 
 3u.t times are chang'd, and viUany prevails. [not brook.l 
 
 Collot D'Herbois. No— villany shall fall. France could 
 A monarch's sway — sounds the dictator's name 
 More soothing to her ears ! , 
 
 Bourdon L'Oiae. Rattle her chains 
 
 More musically now than when the hand 
 
246 THE PALL OF EOBESPIEREE. 
 
 Of Brissot forged her fetters; or the crew 
 Of H^ert thundered out their blasphemies, 
 And Danton talli'd of virtue? 
 
 liobespierre. Oh, that Brissot 
 
 Were here again to thunder in this hall. 
 That Hubert lived, and Dantou's 'giant form 
 Scowl'd once again defiance ! so toy soul 
 Might cope ■ftrith worthy foes. 
 
 People of France 
 Hear me! Beneath the vengeance of the law, 
 Traitors have perish'd countless ; more survive : 
 The hydra-headed faction lifts anew 
 H,er daring front, and fruitful from her wounds, 
 Cautious from past defeats, contrives new wiles 
 Against the sons of Freedom. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Boiespierre. I did-^for I thought them hone.st. 
 And Heaven forfend that vengeance e'er should strike, 
 Ere justice doom'd the blow. 
 
 Barrere. Traitor, thou didst. 
 
 STes, the accomplice of their dark designs. 
 Awhile didst thou defend them, when the storm 
 Lower'd at save distance, When the clouds fiowu'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,, 
 iThou the foul parricide of Liberty! 
 
 Mobespier7-e, jtm. Barrere — attempt not meanly to divide 
 Me from my brother. I partake his guilt, 
 For I partake his virtue. 
 
 Hobespierre. Brother, by my soul. 
 
 More dear I hold thee to my heart, that thus 
 With me thou dar'st to tread the 4angerous path. 
 Of virtue, than that nature twined her cords 
 Of kindred round us. 
 
 Barrere. Yes, allied in guilt, 
 
 Even as in blood ye are. Oh, thou worst wretch. 
 Thou worse than Sylla! hast thou not proscrib'd. 
 Yea, in most foul anticipation slaughter' d, 
 JSaoh patriot representative of France f 
 
 Bourdon VOise. 'T^as not the younger Caesar too tp-reign 
 O'er all oiu- valiant armies in the south, 
 And still coijtinue there his merchant wiles f 
 
THE. FALL OF EOBESPIEEEE. / ^47 
 
 Bohespierre,ian. His merchant wiles! Oh, grant me pa- 
 tience, HeaYen ! 
 Was it by merchant wiles I gain'd you back 
 Toulon, when proudly pu her captive towers 
 Wav'd high the English flag ? or fought I theil 
 With merchant wiliBS, when sword in hand 1 led 
 Your troops to conquest? fought I merchant like, 
 Or barter'd I for victory, when death 
 Strode o'er the reeking; steeets with giant stride. 
 And shook his ebon plumes, and sternly smil'd 
 Amid the blopdy banquet ? when appalled 
 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'Her'bois. 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 Crance. No wonder, friend, 
 
 That we are traitors — ^that our heads must fall 
 Bpneath the axe of death ! When Csesar-like 
 Eeigus Eobespierre, 'tis wisely done to doom 
 The fall of Brutus. Tell me, bloody man. 
 Hast thou not paroell'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, he yours the army of the north ; ' 
 Meantime I rule at Paris. 
 
 Sobespierre. Matchless knave ! 
 
 What — not one blush of conscience on thy cheek — 
 Not one poor blu^h of truth ! Most likely tale ! 
 That 1 who ruin'd Brissot's towering hopes, 
 I who discover'd Hubert's impious wiles, 
 And shaxp'd for Danton's recreant neck the axe, 
 Should now be traitor ! had I been so minded, ~ 
 Think ye I had destroy'd the very men 
 Whose plots resemble mine ! Bring forth your proofs 
 Of this deep treason. Tell me in whose breast 
 Found ye the fatal scroll ? or tell me rather 
 Who forged the shameless falsehood ? 
 
 Collot D'Merbois. ' Ask you proofs ? 
 
 Eobespierre, what proofs were ask'd when Brissot died ? 
 
 ie(7e«drc.Whatproofs adduced you when the Danton died? 
 When at the imminent-peril of my life 
 I rose, and fearless of thy frowning brow, 
 Proclaiffl'tl him guiltless ? 
 
248 THE FAliL OF EOBESPIERKE. 
 
 Sohetpierre. I remember well 
 
 The fatal day. I do repent me much 
 That I kill'd Osesar and spar'd Antony. 
 But I have been too lenient. I have spar'd 
 The stream of blood, and now my own must flow 
 To fill the current. ILoud applauses. 
 
 Triumph not too soon, 
 Justice may yet be victor. 
 
 Enter St. Just, and mounts the Tribune. 
 
 St. Just. I come ftom the cominittee — 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 
 Fromyour committee comes — comes charged 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 1 [ Violent murmurs. 
 
 Sobidspierre. He shall be heard ! 
 
 Bourdon. VOise. Must we contaminate this sacred haJL 
 With the foul breath of treason? 
 
 Collot D'Heriois. 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 1 
 
 Legendre. Heed we well 
 
 That justice guide our actions. No light import 
 Attends this day. I move St. Just be heard. 
 
 Preron. Inviolate be the sacred light of man, 
 The freedom of debate. [ Violent applatises. 
 
 St. Just. I may be heard then ! much the times are chang'd, 
 When St. Just thanks this haU 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 Phooion 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 Mend 
 Of Danton fall'n apostate. Dubois Craned, 
 He who at Lvons spar'd the royalists — 
 Colloti d'Herbois— 
 
THE fALL OF teOBESPlERKE. 249 
 
 Bourdon L'Oise. What — shall the traitor rear 
 
 His head amid our tribune — and hlaspheme 
 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. Eobespierre on yester mom 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 Farennes. Shudder, ye representatives of France, 
 , Shudder with horror. Henriot commands 
 The marshall'd force of Paris. Henriot, 
 Foul parricide — the sworn ^lly of Hubert, 
 Denounced by all — upheld by Eobespierre. 
 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-styled patriot Robespierre — 
 Robespierre, allied with villain Daubignfi — 
 Robespierre, the foul arch tyrant Robespierre. 
 
 Bourdon L'Oise. He talks of virtue — of morality — 
 Consistentpatriot! he Daubign^'s friend! 
 Henriot's supporter virtuous I preach of virtue. 
 Yet league with villains, for with Robespierre 
 Villains alone ally. Thou art a tyrant ! 
 I style thee tyrant, Robespierre ! [Loud Applauses. 
 
 Eobespierre. Take back the name. Ye citizens of France — 
 [ Violent clamour. Ci-ies of — " Down with the Tyrant!" 
 
 Tallimi. Oppression falls. The traitor stands appall'd — 
 Guilt's iron fangs engrasp his shrinking soul — 
 He hears assembled Prance denounce his crimes ! 
 He sees the mask torn from has secret sins — 
 He trembles on the pre^jipice of fate. 
 Fall'n guilty tyrant! murder'd by thy rage 
 How many an innocent victim's blood has stain'd 
 Falu freedom's altar ! Sylla-like thy hand 
 Mark'd down the virtues, that, thy foes remov'd. 
 Perpetual Dictator thou might'st reign. 
 And tyrannize o'er France, and call it ujeedom ! 
 Long time in timid guilt the traitor plann'd 
 His fearful wiles— success emboldened sin — 
 And his stretch'd arm had graap'd the diadem 
 Ere now, but that the coward's hbart recoil'd, 
 
250 THE FALL OF EOBESPIEREE. 
 
 Lest France awat'd should rouse her from her dream, 
 
 And call aloud for vengeance. He, like CiBsar, 
 
 With rapid step urged on hiahold 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 crowned 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 thejepresentatives of France, 
 
 Through fear of 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. 
 
 BlUaud Vareiines. I demand 
 
 The arrest of all these traitors. Memorable 
 Will be this day for France. 
 
 Eobespierre. 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 EoBBSriERKBS, Couthon, St. Just, and 
 Lebas are led off. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 ScEML continues. 
 
 Collot D'Heriois. Csesar is fallen ! The baneful tree of 
 jWhose death^distilling boughs dropt poisonous dew, [Java, 
 Is rooted from its base. This worse than Cromwell; 
 Tha austere, the self-denying Robespierre, 
 Even in this hall, where once with teiTor mute 
 We listened to the hypocrite's harangues. 
 Has heard his doom. 
 
 Billaud Varrennes. Yet must we not suppose 
 The tyrant will fall tamely. His sworn hireling 
 Henriot, the daring desperate Hehriot 
 Commands the force of Paris, I denounce him. 
 
 Freron. I denounce Fleuriot too, the mayor of Paris. 
 
 Milter Dubois Cranci^. 
 Did. Cra. Robespierre is rescued. Henriot at the head 
 Of the arm'd force has rescued the fierce tyrant. 
 
THE FALL OV KOBESPIEEEE. 2^.1 
 
 Collot D'SerboiB. King the tocsin — call all the citizens 
 To'save their country — never yet has Paris 
 Eorsook the representatives of France. 
 
 Tallien. It is the hour of danger. I propose 
 This sitting be made permanent. [ Loud applauses. 
 
 Collot D'Siriois. The national Conventioa shall remain 
 Firm at its post. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mes. Eohespierre has reaoh'd the Commune. They 
 The tyrant's cause. St. Just is up in arms ! [espouse 
 
 St. Just — the young ambitious bold St. Just 
 Harangues the mob. The sanguinary Couthon 
 Thirsts for your blood. \_Toc8in rings. 
 
 Tallien. These tyrants are in arms against the law : 
 Outlaw the rebels. 
 
 Enter Meeun ofSouay. 
 
 Mer. Health to the representatives of France ! 
 I passed this moment through the armed force — 
 They ask'd my name — and when they heard a delegate, 
 Swore I was not the friend of France. [tum'd 
 
 Collot D'Herbois. The tyrants threaten us as when they 
 The cannon's mouth on Brissot. 
 
 Enter another Messenger. 
 
 2nd Mes. Vivier harangues the Jacobins — the club 
 Espouse the cause of Robespierre. 
 
 Eriter amotker Messenger. 
 
 Zrd Mes. All's lost — ^the tyrant triumphs. Henriot leads 
 The soldiers to his aid — already I hear 
 The rattling cannon destin'd to suiTound 
 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 armed force 
 Threats the Convention. The Convention swears 
 To die, or save the country ! 
 
 [ Violent applauses from the galleries. 
 
 Citizen, (from above.) i ' We too swear 
 To die or save the country. Follow me. 
 
 \_All the men quit the galleries. 
 
 Enter another Messenger. 
 4tk Mes. Henriot is taken ! — [Lotid applauses. 
 
 Henriot is taken. Three of your brave soldiers 
 Swore they would seize the rebel slave of tyrants, 
 
252 THE FALL OF ROBESPIEEEE. 
 
 Or perish in the attempt. As he patroll'd 
 The streets of Paris, stirring up the mob, 
 They seisi'd him. \_Applause8. 
 
 Silla^lil Varennea. Let the names of these brave men 
 Live to the future day. 
 
 Enter Boukdon L'Oise, sword in hand. 
 
 liour. L'Oiae. I have clear'd the Commune. [_Applau8e8. 
 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. 
 IStiouta 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 oppressor's head the oppressive chain. 
 Will court again their fetters ! easier were it 
 To hurl the cloud-oapt monhtain from its base, 
 Thau force the bonds of slavery on men 
 Determined to be free ! l_Appiauaea. 
 
 Enter Legendre — A pistol in one hand, keys in tlie otlier. 
 
 Leg. (flinging down the keys.) So — let the mutinous Jacob- 
 ins meet now 
 In the open air. [Loud applauses. 
 
 A factious turbulent party 
 Lording it o'er the state since Danton died, 
 And with him the Cordeliers. — ^A hireling band 
 Of loud-tongued orators controll'd the club 
 And bad them bow the knee to Robespierre. 
 Vivier has 'scap'd me. Curse his coward heart — 
 This fate-fraught tube of Justice in my hand, 
 1 rush'd into the hall. He mark'd mine eye 
 That beam'd its patriot anger, and flash'd fall 
 With death-denouncing meaning. 'Mid the throng 
 He mingled. I pursued — but staid my hand, 
 Lest haply I might shed the innocent blood. [Applauses. 
 
 Freron. They took from me my ticket of admission — • 
 ExpelHd me fcom their sittings. — Now, forsooth. 
 Humbled and trembling re-insert my name. 
 
THE FALL OF ROBKSPIEEEE. 253 
 
 But Freron enters not the club again 
 
 Till it be purg'd of guilt — till, purified 
 
 Of tyrants and of traitors, honest men 
 
 May breathe the air in safety, [^Sliouta 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 f 
 
 Did Brutus fear it ? or the Grecian friends 
 Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword, 
 And died triumphant ? Csesar should fear death, 
 Brutus must scorn the bugbear. 
 
 [_Shmit8 from without — "Live the Convention!'? — 
 " Down with the tyrants !" 
 
 Tallien. Hark! agaiit 
 
 The sounds of honest Freedom ! 
 
 Enter Deputies /riMii 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. Here ye this. Colleagues? hear ye this, mv 
 brethren? 
 And does no thrill of jcjiy 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 
 1 have lived lone enough. [ Shouta withoui. 
 
 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 
 
 ICry without- "Down with the Tyrants !" 
 
 Enter Lbcointke; 
 
 ; Lee. So may eternal justice blast the foes 
 Of Prance ! so perish sQl the tyrant brood, 
 As Robespierre has perished ! Citizens, 
 Caesar is taken. \_L(md and repeated applause). 
 
 I maivel not that with such fearless front 
 He braved our Vengeance, and with angry eye 
 
 . Scowled roun^ the hall defiance. He relied 
 On Henriot's aid — the Coinmune's villain friendship, 
 And Henriot's toughten succours. Ye have heard 
 How Henriot rescued him — ^how with open arms 
 The Commnne weloom'd in the rebel tyrant — 
 How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier 
 Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost — 
 The reprasentatives of France had perish'd— 
 
2:4 THE FALL OF EOBESPIEEEE. 
 
 Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm 
 (')f this foul parricide, but that her spirit 
 liispir'd tlie men of Paris. Henriot call'd 
 " To arms" in vain, whilst Pourdon's patriot voice 
 Ureath'd eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins 
 Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled — 
 They reach'd the Hotel. We gather'd round — we call'd 
 For vengeance ! Long time, obstinate in despair 
 With knive^ they hack'd around them. Till foreboding 
 The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry 
 Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction, 
 Kach sought by suicide to escape the dread 
 Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window . 
 
 Leapt the younger Eobespierre, but his fractur'd limb 
 Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator 
 Plung'd 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 njeet 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 roU'd adown 
 Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye 
 Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived, 
 Fearless of fate ! [_Loud and repeated applauses, 
 
 Bairere (^lounts 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 frenti'ers, plunder'd her fair hamlets, 
 And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with blood 
 The reeking fields of Flanders.— rWhen within, 
 Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth 
 Of treason; and oppression, giant-torm, 
 Trampling on freedom, left the alternative 
 Of slavery, or of death. Even from that da"y, 
 When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced 
 The doom of injured France, has faction reare'd 
 Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd 
 Of mercy — the uxorious dotard Eoland, n 
 
 The woman-govern'd Eoland durst aspire 
 To govern France; and Potion talk'd of virtue, 
 And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honeyed tonguat 
 
THE FALL OF EOIBESPIEEEE. S55 
 
 Of" gomo soft Siren, wooed us to destruction. 
 
 We triumphed over these.. On. the same scaffold 
 
 Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood, 
 
 I^ell Brissot's head, the womb' of darksome treasons, 
 
 And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet, > 
 
 And Hubert's atheist crew, whose maddening band 
 
 Hurl'd down the altars of the living God, 
 
 With all the infidel's intolerance. 
 
 The last worst traitor triumphed — triumph'd long, 
 
 Seour'd by matchless villany. By turns 
 
 Defending aud deserting each accomplice 
 
 As interest prompted. In the goodly soil 
 
 Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck 
 
 Its deep-ftx'd roots, and dropt the dews of death 
 
 On all who slumbered 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, 
 
 A^nd like the rock ainid surrounding waves 
 
 Repel the rushing ocean. — She shall wield 
 
 The thunderbolt of vengeance — she shall blast 
 
 The despot's pride, aud liberate the world! 
 
THE PICCOLOMINI, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 
 
 PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR. 
 
 It was my in' ention 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 nave 
 been merely a meagre catalo^e of events narrated not more fully 
 than they already are in the Play itself. The recent translation, 
 lilcewise, of Schiller's History of the Thirty Years' War dimin- 
 ished the motives thereto. In the translation I ende.avi»ured to 
 rendermy Author literally wherever I was not prevented by abso 
 lute 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- 
 iip of the line by the substitution of a trocheefor an iambic; of 
 which liberty, bo frequent in our tragedies, I find no instance in 
 these dramas. 
 
 S. T. COI.SPJDG(E. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — An old Gothic Chamber in the Council House at 
 Pihen, decorated with Colours and other War Insignia. 
 
 Illo with Butler and Isolani. 
 
 Jllo. Ye have come late — ^but ye are come ! The distance, 
 Connt Isolan, excuses your delay 
 
 Iso. Add this too, that we come not empty handed. 
 At Donauwert* it was reported to us, 
 A Swedish caravan was on its way 
 Transporting arich 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. 
 
 But. 'Tis all alive ! a stirring scene here i 
 
 Iso. Ay ! l^ronnd. 
 
 The very churches are all full of soldiers. ICasta hia eye 
 
 •A town about twelve German miles N. E. of Ulm. 
 
Tl-IIi; nCCOLOMINI. 257 
 
 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 Tiofenbaoh, 
 Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam, 
 
 The Piccolomini, both son and father 
 
 You'll meet with many an unexpected greeting 
 From many an old friend ana acquaintance. Only 
 Galas is wanting still, and Altringer. 
 
 JBui. Expect not Galas. 
 
 Illo. (hesitating.) How so ? Do you know 
 
 Iso. (interrupting him.) 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 Camthen. We expect them here at noon. 
 
 But. Both wife and daughter does the Duke call hither t 
 He crowds in visitants from all sides. 
 
 Iso. Hm ! 
 
 So much the better ! I had framed my mind 
 To hear of naught 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. (who has ieen standing in the attitude of meditation, to 
 • Butler, whom lie leads a little on one side.) 
 And how came you to know 
 That the Count Galas joins us not ? 
 
 But. Because 
 
 He importuned me to remain behind. 
 
 Illo. (vnth warmth.) And you ? — You hold out firmly ? 
 
 [Ch-asping his hand with affection. 
 Noble Butler r 
 
 Bid. After the obligation which the Duke 
 Had layed so newly on me— — 
 
 Illo. I had forgotten 
 
 A pleasant duty — Major General, 
 I wish you joy ! 
 
 * The Dukes in Germany being always reigning powers, their sons 
 and daughters are entitled Princes and Princesses. 
 
258 THE PICCOLOMINI, On THE 
 
 Iso. 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 liist saw service, and sinde then. 
 Worked himself, step by step, through each preferineiit, 
 From the rants upwards. And verily, it gives 
 A precedent of hopp, a spur of action 
 To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance 
 An old deserving soldier makes his way. 
 
 But. I am perplexed and doubtful, whether or no 
 I dare accept this your congratulation. 
 The Emperor has not yet confirmed the appointment, [post 
 
 Iso. Seize it, friend .' Seize it ! The hand which in that 
 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 hav. 
 
 lao. (to Illo.) My noble brother ! Did I tell yon 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 ! — 
 
 But. 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 ! 
 
 But. {shocked and confused.) Know you aught then ? You 
 alarm me. 
 
 Iso. {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 Lieuten,ant-6enera], Piccolomjni. 
 
 But. {shaking his head significantly.) I fear we shall not 
 go hence as we came. 
 
 • Spoken with a sneer. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEW. 259 
 
 Scene II.— Enter OCTAVioPicgoLOJiiNl, mid Questenberg. 
 
 Oct. (still in tlie distance.) Ay, ay! more still! Still more 
 new visitors ! 
 Acknowledge, friend ! that never was a eamp, [nearer. 
 
 Which held at once so many heads of heroes. [Approaching 
 Welcome, Count Isolani ! 
 
 Iso. My ijoble brother. 
 
 Even now I am arrived; it had been else my duty — 
 
 Oct. And Colonel Butler — trust me, 1 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 Butlee and Isolani 
 at the same time to him. 
 These two the total sum — Strength and Dispatch. 
 
 Ques. (to OcTAVio.) Andlo! betwixt them both experi- 
 enced Prudence! 
 Oct. {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. [ Universal silence. 
 
 Illo. {moving towards Questenberg.) 'Tis not the llrst 
 time, nobla Minister, 
 You have shown our camp this honour. 
 
 Ques. . ■ Once before 
 
 I stood before these colours. 
 
 Illo. Perchaiice too you remember where that was. 
 It was at Znaim* 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. 
 
 Qaes. To supplicate ? Nhy, 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 chuse. 
 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 
 Onwafds 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 tookcompassion on this wretchedness, [enough, 
 Iso. (Steps vp to them.) Yes, yes, 'tis comprehensible 
 
 * A town not far from the Mine-mountains, on the high road from 
 Vienna to Prague. 
 
560 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Wherefore with your commission of to-day ' 
 
 You were not all too willing'to remember 
 Your -former one. 
 
 Qms. 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 comraission of to-day instructs me 
 To free her from her good friends and protectors. 
 
 Illo. A worthy office I After with our blood 
 We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon, 
 To be swept out of it is all ovir thanks, 
 The sole reward of all our hard- won victories. 
 
 Quea. Unless that wretched land be doomed W juffer 
 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. 
 
 Qms. Nay, 
 
 If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds — 
 
 lao. The war maintains the war. Are the Boors ruined, 
 The Emperor gains so many moru new soldiers. 
 
 Ques. And is the poorer by even so many subjects, 
 
 ho. Poh ! We are all his subjects. 
 
 Qaes. 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. 
 
 lao. ' Sure ! 
 
 Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see 
 
 [^Examining with Ms eye the dress and ornaments of 
 
 QUESTENBERG. 
 
 Good store of gold that stUl remains uncoined. [to hide 
 Ques. Thank Heaven ! tliat means have been found out 
 Some little from the fingers of flie 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 — wbo 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 ! , 
 
 But. 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 ! 
 
FIRST PAllT OF WALLENSTEIN. 261 
 
 lao. My life long will it anger me to think, 
 How when I went to court seven years ago, 
 To see about new hprfies 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 iield, 
 The business unaccomplished. Afterwards 
 The Duke procured me in three days, what I , 
 Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna. [way to we ; 
 
 Ques. Yes, yes! your travelling bills soon found theii 
 Too well I know we have still accounts to settle. 
 
 Illo. War ifl 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, 
 Ffaith we should wait long. — [word. 
 
 "Dash! and through with it!" — ^That's the better watch- 
 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. 
 " Qms. Ay, doubtless, it is true : the Duke does spare us 
 The troublesome task of chusing. 
 
 But. Yes, the Duke 
 
 Cares with a father's feelings for his troops ; 
 But how the Emperor feels for us, we see. 
 
 Ques. His cares and feelings all ranks share alike, 
 Nor will he offer one up to another. 
 
 Iso. 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. [not I. 
 
 Ques. {with a sneer.) Count, this comparison you make, 
 
 But. Why, were we all the Court supposes us, 
 'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty. 
 
 Ques. You have taken liberty — it was not given you. 
 And therefore it becomes an urgent duty 
 To rein it in with curbs. [noble fiiend, 
 
 Oct. (intei'posing and addressing Questenberg.) My 
 This is no more than A remembrancing 
 That you are now in camp, and among warriors. 
 The soldier's boldness constitutes his Ireedom. 
 
203 THE PICCOLOMINl, OR THE 
 
 Could lie act daringly, unless he dared 
 
 Talk even so ? One runs into the other. 
 
 The boldness of this worthy officer, [Pointing to Botler, 
 
 Which now has hut mistaken in its mark, 
 
 Preserved, when nought hut 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 I here they come ! 
 
 ' Illo. The sentries are saluting them : this signal 
 
 Announces the arrival of the Duchess. 
 
 Oct. (<o QUESTENBERG.) Then my son Max. too has re- 
 turned. T'was he 
 Fetched and attended them from Camthen hither. 
 
 Iso. (to Illo.) Shall we not goin company to greet them? 
 
 lUo. Well, let us go. — Ho 1 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 iut Qubstbnberg and Octavio. 
 
 Scene III.— Questenberg and Octavio. 
 
 Ques. {with signs of aversion and astonisliment.) What 
 have I not been forced to hear, Octavio ! 
 What sentiments! what fierce, uncurbed defiance! 
 And were this spirit universal — 
 
 Oct. Hm ! 
 
 You are now acquainted with three fourths of the army. 
 
 Ques. Where must we seek then fur "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. 
 
 Oct. 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 7wm. [friend! 
 
 Ques. {walking up and down in evident disquiet.) 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 noEmperor 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. 
 
 Qvl, Now you see yourself 
 
FIRST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 263 
 
 Of -what a perilous tind t' e office is, 
 Whioli you deliver to Ine from the Court. 
 The least suspicion of the General 
 Costs me my freedom aiid my life,, and would 
 But hasten his most desperate enterprise. 
 
 Ques. Where was our rovsou sleeping when we trnsted 
 This madman with the sword, and placed such power 
 In suoli a hand t 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 ! 
 
 Oct. D'ye think too, he has brought his wife and daughter 
 Without a purpcse hither ? Here in camp ! 
 And at the very point of time, in which 
 We're arming for the war ? That ho has taken 
 These, the last pledges of his loyalty, 
 Away from out the Emperor's domain^ — 
 This is no doubtful token of the nearness 
 Of some eruption ! 
 
 Ques. How shall we hold footing 
 
 Beneath this tempest, which collects itself 
 And threats us fropai 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 i u the moment of our expectation 
 Of aidance from it — lo ! this very army 
 Seduced, run wild, lost to all discijiline. 
 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 ! 
 
 Oct. 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 wot not of, 
 Let but a single honest man speak out 
 The true name of his crime! Remember toOj 
 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 suri)rise : 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. 
 
2Q4 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Ques. ■ 'Tis quite 
 
 Incomprehensible, that he detects not 
 The foe so near ! 
 
 Oct. 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 
 \\^hich 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! 
 
 Ques. It is the visible ordinance of heaven. 
 
 Oct. 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 wi fell affections, 
 Had bound us long and early to each other — 
 Yet I can name the day, when all at once 
 His heart rpse on me, and his confidence 
 Shot out in sudden growth. It was the morning 
 Before the memorable fight at Liitzner. 
 Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out, ■ - 
 
 To press him to accept another charger. 
 At distance from the tents, beneath a tree^ 
 !• 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. 
 
 Ques. You lead your son into the secret ? 
 
 Oct. No ! 
 
 Ques. What ? and not warn him either what bad hands 
 His lot has placed him in ? 
 
 Oct. I must perforce 
 
 Leave him in wardship to liis 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. [deem 
 
 Ques. (anxiously.) My honoured friend! most highly do I 
 
 Of Colonel Piccolomini — yet — if 
 
 Reflect a little 
 
 Oct. I must venture iti 
 
 Hush ! — There he pomes t 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 265 
 
 Scene IV.^Max. PiocoLOMrNi, Octavio Piocolomiot, 
 
 QUESTENBBKG. 
 
 Max. Ha! there lie is himself. Welcome, my father! 
 
 [-His embraces his father. As he turns round, he ob- 
 serves QuBSTENBERG, and draws back with a 
 cold and reserved air. 
 You are engaged, I see. I'll not disturb you. 
 I Oct. How, Max. ? Look closer at tl v visitor. 
 Attention, Max., an pld friend merits — Reverence 
 liolongs of right to the envoy o your sovereign, [with you 
 Max. (drUy.) Von Questenherg ! — Welcome — .f you bring 
 Alight good to our head quarters. 
 
 Ques. {seizing his hand.) Nay, draw not 
 
 Your hand away. Count Picoolomini! 
 Not on my own account alone I seized it. 
 And nothing common will I say therewith. ' 
 
 [_TaMng the hands of both. 
 Octavio — Max. Picoolomini ! 
 
 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 knSw, to find fault and to scold us — 
 
 1 must not be beforehand with my comrades. [not quite 
 
 Octavio. (to Max.) He comes from court, where people are 
 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 mednt 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 riatui-e — he can't do it. 
 He is possessed by a commanding spirit, 
 And his too Is the station of command. 
 And well for ue 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 — ro other 
 But such a one as he can serve the army. 
 
C36 TI-IE PICCOLOMmr, OE THE 
 
 Ques. The army ? Doubtless ! 
 
 Oct. {to QuESTENBBRG.) Hiisli ! Suppress it, friendl 
 
 Unless some end were answered by the utterance. — 
 Oihim there you'll mate nothing. 
 
 Max. (continuing.) 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 actiial eye 
 Examine. If to be the chieftain asks 
 All that is great iu nature, let it he 
 Likewise his privilege to move and act 
 In all the correspondencies of greatness. 
 The oracle withiu him, that which lives, 
 He must invoke and qaeation — not dead books, 
 Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers. 
 
 Oct. My son! of those old narrow ordinances 
 Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights 
 Of ijricelejss 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 1 > devious way. Straight forward goes 
 The lightning's path, and straight thei fearful path 
 Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid, 
 Shattering that ■ t may reach, and shattering what it reaches. 
 My son ! the road, the human being travels, 
 That, on which bi^essing comes and goes, di-th 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. 
 
 Qu.es. O hear your father, noble youth ! hear him, 
 Who is at once the hero and the man. 
 
 Oct. 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 
 An higher than the warrior's excellence. 
 In war itself war is no ultimate purpose. 
 The vafit and sudden deeds of violence, 
 Adventvires wild, and wonders of the moment. 
 These are not they, my son, that generate 
 The Calm, the Blissful, and the enduring Mighty 
 Lo there 1 the soldier, rapid architect I 
 Builds his light town of canvas, and at once 
 The whole scene moves and bustles momently. 
 With arins, c.;d r.oighinj steeds, and mirth aud quarrel 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 267 
 
 The motley niarkot fills ; the roads, the streams 
 
 Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries ! 
 
 But on some morrow mora, all suddenly,^ 
 
 The tents drop down, the horde renews its march. 
 
 Dreary, and solitary as a churoh-yard 
 
 The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie, 
 
 Aud tlie year's harvest is gone utterly. 
 
 Max. O let the Emperor make peace, my father ! 
 Most gladly would I give the hlood-stained laurel 
 For the first violet* of the leafless spring. 
 Plucked in those quiet fields where I have.joumeyed ! 
 
 Oct. What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once ? 
 
 Max. Peace have I ne'er heheld ? 'I have beheld it. ' 
 From thence am I come hithe?: O ! that sight, 
 It glimmfcrs 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. 
 
 Oct. {attentive, with an appearance of uneasiness-.) And so 
 your journey has revealed this to you? 
 
 Max. 'Twas the first leisure of my life. O teU me. 
 What is the meed and purpose of the toil, 
 The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth. 
 Left me an heart unsoul'd and solitary, 
 A spirit uninformed, unoriiamented. 
 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 ! 
 
 Oct. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey. 
 
 Max. O ! day thrice lovely ! when at length the soldier 
 
 * In the original, 
 
 Deij blutgen Lorbeer geb ich hin mit Freuden 
 Fiirs erste Veilchen, das derMars yns bringt. 
 Das duf tige Ffaud' der neuvei'jlingtfen Erde. 
 
268 THE PICCOLOMINI, OK THE 
 
 Returns borne 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 hart I 
 
 Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home t 
 
 The caps and helmets are all garlanded 
 
 With green boughs, the last pliindering 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, i 
 
 With peaceful Inen and women, that send onwards i 
 
 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. 
 
 happy man, O fortunate! for whom' 
 
 The well-known door, the faithful arms are open, 
 The faithful tender arms with mute embracing. 
 
 Ques. {apparently much affected.) O ! that you should speak 
 Of such a distant, distan time, and not 
 Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day. 
 
 Max. (turning round to him, quick and vehement.) Where 
 lies the fault but on you in Vienna ? 
 
 1 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. 
 'Tls 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 I 
 
 Even as I love what's virtue is, 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. lExit. 
 
 Scene V.— Questenberg, Octavio Piccolomini. 
 
 Ques. Alas, alas ! and stands it so ? 
 
 [ Then in pressing and impatient tones, 
 jWhat, 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 ? 
 
 Oct. {recmiering himself out of a deep study.) Ho has now 
 opened mine. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 269 
 
 And I see more tlian pleases me. 
 
 Ques. What is it ? 
 
 Oct. Curse on this journey ! 
 
 Quea. But why so ? What is it ! 
 
 Oct. Come, come along, friend ! I must follow up 
 The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes 
 Are opened now, and I must use them. Come ! 
 
 IDraws Questenberg on with Mm, 
 
 Ques. What now ? Where go you tlien ? 
 ' Oct. To her herself. 
 
 Ques. To 
 
 Oct. {interrupting Mm, and correcting himself.) TotheDulce. 
 Qome, let us go — 'Tis done, 'tis done, 
 T see the net that is thrown over him. 
 
 ! he returns not to me as he went. 
 Ques. Nay, hut explain yourself. 
 
 Oct. And that I should not 
 
 Foresee it, not prevent this journey ! Wherefore 
 Did I keep it from him ? — You were in the right. 
 
 1 should have warned him ! Now it is too late. 
 
 Ques. But whafs too late? Bethink yourself, my friend, 
 That you are talking absolute riddles to me. 
 
 Oct. (more collected.) 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 spadous eliamber in the house of the 
 Ddke op Friedland. Servants employed in putting the 
 iaibles and chairs in order. During this enters Seni, like 
 an old Italian doctor, in Hack, and clothed somewhdt fan- 
 tastically. Se ca/rries a white . staff, with which lie marks 
 out the quarters of the heaven. 
 
 1st Ser, Come — to it lads, to it!. Make an end of it. . I 
 hear the sentry call out, " Stand to your arms !" They will 
 he there in a minute. 
 
 2nd Ser Why were we not told before that the audience 
 would be held here ? Nothing prepared — no orders — no 
 ' instructions 
 
 '3rd Ser. Ay, and why was the balcony-chamber counter- 
 manded, that with the great worked carpet ? — there one 
 can look about one. 
 
 1st Ser. Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there. 
 He says it is an unlucky chamber. 
 
 2nd Ser. Poh ! stuff and nonsense ! That's what I call a 
 hum. A chamber is a chamber ; what much can t^e place 
 signify in the affair ? 
 
 Seni. (with gravity.) My son, there's nothing insignificant, 
 Nothing ! But yet in every earthly thing 
 First and most principal is place and time. 
 
570 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Ut Ser. (to the Second.) Say nothing to him, Nat. The 
 Duke liimself must let him have his own will. 
 /Sen?', (counts the chairs, half in a loud, halj in a low voice, 
 till he comes to eleven, which he repeats.) Eleven ! an evil 
 number! Set twelve chairs. 
 Twelyel twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven, 
 The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve. 
 
 )ind Ser. And what may you have to object against 
 eleven? I should like to know that now. 
 
 (Serai. Eleven is — transgression ; eleven oversteps 
 T' e ten commandments. [number ? 
 
 2nd Ser. That's good! and why do you call iive an holy 
 Setii. Five is the soul of man : for even as man 
 Is mingled up of good and evil, so 
 Tlio five is the first number that's made up 
 Of even and odd. 
 2nd Ser. The foolish old coxcomb ! 
 
 Ist Ser. Ey ! let him alone though. I like to hear him ; 
 there is more in his words than can be seen at first sight. 
 3rd Ser. , OS\ They come. 
 2nd Ser\ There! Out at the side-door. 
 
 [ TTiey hwrry off. Sent follows slowly. A Page brings 
 the staff of command on a red cushion, and places it on 
 the table near the Dvkf's hair. They are announced 
 from tvithout, and the wings of the door Jly open. 
 
 Scene VII. — ^Wallenstbin, Duchess. 
 
 Wal. You went then through Vienna, were presented 
 To tlie Queen of Hungary ? 
 
 lltich. Yes ? and to the Empress too, 
 
 And by both Majesties were we admitted 
 To kiss the hand. 
 
 Wal. And how was it received. 
 
 That I had sent for wife and daughter hither 
 To the camp, in winter time ? 
 
 JJiich. ■ ' 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 ifinsband his betrothed. 
 
 Wal. And did they guess the choice which I had made ? 
 
 Dvch. They only idoped and wished it may have fallen 
 Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble. 
 
 Wal. And you — what do you wish, Elizabeth ? 
 
 Jiuch. Your will, you know, was always mine. 
 
 Wal. (after a pause.) . Well then? 
 
 And in all else, of what kind and complexion 
 Was your reception at the court? 
 
 [ Tlie Duchess casts her eyes on the ground, and remains silent, 
 Hide nothing from me. How were you received ? 
 
FIRST PART Ol'' WALLENSTElN. 271 
 
 Dwch. O ! my clear lord, all is not what it was. 
 A t anfeerworm, my lord, a cankerworm 
 Has stolen into the bud. 
 
 /Val. Ay ! is it so ? 
 
 What, they were lax? they failed of the old respect? 
 
 Dwh. Not 3f respect. No honours were omitted, 
 No outward courtesy ; but in the place 
 Of condescending, confidential kindness, 
 ]'''ami]iar and endearing, there were given me 
 Only these honors and that solemn courtesy. 
 Ah! and the tenderness which was put on, 
 It was the guiso of pity, not of favour. 
 No! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife, 
 Count HaiTach's noble daughter, should not so — 
 Not wholly so should she have been received. 
 
 fPal. Yes, yes ; they have ta'en offence. My latest conduct. 
 They railed at it, no doubt. 
 
 Dueh. O that they had! 
 
 I have been lou^ accustomed to defend you. 
 To heal and pacify distempered spirits. ' 
 
 No ; no one railed at you. They wrapped them up, 
 O Heaven! in such pppresaive, solemn silence ! — 
 Here is no every-diy mlsuntlerstanding. 
 No transient pique, no cloud that passes over ; 
 Something most luckless, most unhoalable, 
 Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary 
 Used formerly to call me her dear aunt, 
 And ever at departure to embrace me — 
 
 JVal. Now she omitted it ? [brace me, 
 
 Duch. (wiping away her tears, after a pause.) She did em- 
 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. [self. 
 
 Wal. (seizes her hand soothingly.) Nay, now collect your- 
 And what of Eggenberg and Lichtenstein, 
 And of our other friends there ? 
 
 Duch. (shaking her head.) I saw none. 
 
 Wal. The AmbassarTor from Spain, who once was wont 
 To plead so warmly for me ? — 
 
 Duch. Silent, silent ! 
 
 Wal. These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward 
 Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light. 
 
 Duch. 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 Lfcmormain 
 In sundry hints and 
 
 Wal. (eageVly.) Lamormain! what said Re f 
 
 Duch. That you're accused of having daringly 
 
272 THE PICOOLOMINl, OE THE 
 
 O'erstepped the powers entmsted to yon, 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 fearftil menace than that former one 
 
 Which whirled you headlong down at Eegensburg. [_emotion. 
 
 A.nd people talk, said he, of Ah ! — IStiflitig extreme 
 
 Will. ' Proceed ! 
 
 Dueh. I cannot utter it ! 
 
 Wdl. Proceed! 
 
 Duck. They talk 
 
 Wal. Well ! 
 
 Dueh. Of a second [ Catches her voice and hesitates. 
 
 Wal. ■ Second 
 
 Buch. More disgraceful 
 Dismission. 
 
 Wdl Talk they ? 
 
 [,Strides across the chamber in vehement agitation. 
 O ! they force, they thrust me 
 With violence, against my own will, onward ! 
 
 Dueh. {presses near to Mm, in entreaty.) O ! if there yet he 
 J;ime, 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 I 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,— 
 Yau know it 1 — 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 favovir 
 Stand not before us ! 
 
 Scene VIII. — JSnier the CotTNTESS Tertskt, leading in her 
 hand the Princess Thekla, richly adorned with brilliants. 
 
 Countess, Thekla, Wallenstein, Duchess. 
 
 Coun. How, sister ? WTiat already upon business, 
 
 [ Observing the countenance of the Duchess. 
 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. 
 
 [Theela approaches iDith a shy and timid air, and bends 
 herself as about to Mss his hand. Be receives her in 
 his arms, and remains standing for some time lost in 
 the feeling of her presence. 
 
FIEST Part of WALLENSTEIN 27a 
 
 Wal. Yes! pure and lovely hath hope risen dn me : 
 I take her as the pledge of greater fortune. 
 
 Duoh. '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. 
 
 Wal. The whUe 
 
 We in the field here gave our cares and toils 
 To mate 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. ' 
 
 Duck, (to Thekla.) Thou wouldest not have recogniz»a 
 thy father, 
 Wouldst thou, my child ? She counted scarce eight yea/s, 
 When last she saw your face. 
 
 Tliek. O yes, yes, mother! 
 
 At the first glance! — My father is not altereji. 
 'The form, that stands before me, falsifies 
 No feature of the image that hath lived 
 So long within me 1 
 
 Wal. The voice of my child ! [ Then after a pause, 
 
 1 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 hloom 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. 
 
 [_Se clasps her in his arms as PiccolomtSi enters. 
 
 Scene IX. — Enter Max. PiccoLOMiNi,'o«(i some time after 
 Count Tertsky, the others remaining as before. 
 
 Conn. There comes the Paladin who protected uB. 
 
 Wal. Max. ! Welcome, ever welcome ! Always wert thou 
 'The morniug star of my best joys ! 
 
 jlfaa;. My General 
 
 Wal. 'Till now it was the Emperor who rewarded, thee, 
 I hut the instrument. This day thou hast bound 
 The father to thee, Max. ! the fortunate father, 
 And this debt Eriedland's self must pay. 
 
274 THE PICCOLOMINI, OK THE 
 
 -Minx. My prince ! 
 
 You made no common huiry 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 eo[uerry 
 A splendid richly-plated huutiug 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 
 
 I came ah-eady with full heart to thank you for. 
 
 No ! 'twas not so intended, that my business 
 
 Should be my highest best good fortune ! 
 
 [Teetsky enters, and delivers letters to the Duke, 
 which he brealcs open hurryingly. 
 Cown. {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. 
 
 Thelc. Then I too must have scruples of his love : 
 For his munificent hands did ornament me 
 Ere yet the father's heart had spokeu to me. 
 Max. Yes; 'tis his nature ever to be giving 
 And making happy. 
 
 [jHe grasps the hand of the Duchess with still 
 increasing warmth. 
 
 How my heart pours out 
 Its all of thanks to him: 0! how I seem 
 To utter all thifags in the dear name Friedland. 
 While I shall live, so long will I remain 
 Tlie captive of this name : in it shall bloom 
 My every fortune, every lovely hope. 
 Inextricably as in some magic ring 
 In this name hath my destiny charm-bound mo ! 
 
 Coun. {loho daring this time has heen anxiously iratc.king the 
 Duke, and reimarlcs that he is lost in thoufiht oner ike 
 1 letters.) My brother wishes us to leave him. (Jomc. 
 
 Wal. (turns himself round quick, collects himself, find 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. PiccoiOMiNi offers the Duchess his arm,, 
 the Countess accompanies the Princess. 
 ler. (callvag after Mm.) Max., we depend upon seeing you 
 at the meeting. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLKNSTEIN. 275 
 
 Scene X. — ^Wallenstkin, Count Tertsky. 
 
 Wal. (in deep thought 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, 
 i'lie Emperor's delicate son ! he's now their saviour, 
 He's the new star^that's rising now 1 Of ns 
 They think themselves already fairly rid. 
 And as we were deceased, the heir already 
 Is entering pn possession. — ^Therefore^dispatch t 
 
 [ As he tm-na round he observes Tertsky, and gives him a letter. 
 Count Altringer will have himself excused, 
 And Galas too — I like not this ! 
 
 Ter. And if 
 
 Thou loiterest longer, p,!! will fall away, 
 One following the other. 
 
 Wal., 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. 
 
 Weil, and the old Sesin, that ancient trader 
 
 In contraband negociations, he 
 
 Has shown himself again of late. What brings he 
 
 From the Count Thur ? 
 
 Ter. The Count communicates. 
 
 He has found out the Swedish chancellor 
 At Halberstadt, where the convention's held, 
 Wlio says, you've tired him out, and that he'll have 
 No further dealings with you. 
 
 Wal. And wliy so ? 
 
 ler. 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. 
 
 Wal. 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 
 Oi) 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. 
 
 Ter. Nay, yield them up that dot, that speck of land— 
 I,', goes not from your portion. If you vsin 
 The ga,me, what matters it to you who pays it ? 
 
 fVaL Off with them, off! Thou understand'st not this. 
 Never shall it be said of me, I parcelled 
 
276 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 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 com6 in for. 
 
 Ter. 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 Oxenstein, there's Arnheim — neither knows 
 What he should think of your procrastinations. 
 And in the end I prove tlie liar ; all 
 Passes through me. I have not even your hand-writing. 
 
 Wal. I neeer give my hand-writing ; thou knowest it. 
 
 Ter. 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 Emi>eror's service. 
 
 Wal. {after a pause, during which he tool's 'narrowly on 
 Tbrtsky.) And from whence dost thou know 
 
 That I'm BOt gulling himfor the Emperor's service ? 
 Whence knowest that 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 couldst speak 
 No wiselier than thy fellows. 
 
 Ter, So bast thou always played thy game with us. 
 Enter Illo. 
 
 Scene XI. — Illo, Wallensteijt^'Teetsky. 
 
 Wal. How stand affairs witljout? Are they prepared T 
 Illo. You'll find them in the very mood you wish. 
 
 They know about the Emperor's requisitions, 
 
 And are tumultuous. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 275 
 
 Wat. How liatli Isolan 
 
 Declared himself? 
 
 Illo. He's yours, both soul and body, 
 
 Since you built up again nis Faro-bank. 
 
 Wal. And which way doth Kolatto bend ? Hast thou 
 Made sure oi Tiefenbach and Deodate ? 
 
 Illo. What Picoolomini does, that they do too. 
 
 Wal. You mean then Imay venture somewhat with them? 
 
 Illo. — If you are assured of the Piccolomiui. 
 
 Wal. Not more assured Of mine own self. 
 
 Ter. And yet 
 
 I would you trusted not so much to Octavio, 
 The fox! 
 
 Wal. Thou teaohest me to tnow 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 
 
 [ With an air of myetery. 
 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. 
 
 Wal. If I'm in aught to bind myself to them. 
 They too must bind themselves to me. 
 
 Illo. Of course. 
 
 Wal. Their words of honour they must give, their oaths, 
 Give them in writing to me, promising 
 Devotion to my service unconditional. 
 
 Illo. Why not? 
 
 Ter. Hevotion nncondiiionalf 
 The exception of their duties towards Austria 
 They'll always place among the premises. 
 With this reserve 
 
 Wal. (shaking Ms head.) All unconditional ! 
 Ko premises, no reserves. 
 
 Illo. , A thought has strucfme. 
 
 Does not Count Tertsky give us a set banquet 
 This evening? 
 
 Ter. Yes ; and all the Generals 
 
 Have been invited. 
 
 Hlo. (to Wallbnstein.) 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. i 
 
 Wal. 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 tjo you, without condition ; 
 Say, will you thai — then will you shew yourself 
 In eaiBCst, and with some decisivQ pctioi^ 
 
jars THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Make trial of your luck ? 
 
 Wal. 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 T^^eighty. 
 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 ^hort a time foi- doubt and scruple I 
 This is that moment. See, our army chieftains, 
 Our best, our noblest, are assembled round 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 
 Briiig you them not a second time together. 
 'Tis the high tide that heaves tlie stranded ship, 
 I And every, individual's spirit waxes 
 In the great stream of multitudes. Behold, 
 They are still liere, 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 soher, 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-ttodden road, 
 And seek but to make shelter in good i)light. 
 
 Wal. T^e time is not yet come. 
 
 Tei: So you say always. 
 
 But when will it he time ? 
 
 Wal, When I shall say it. 
 
 Illo. You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours, 
 Till the eairthly 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 tlie sole malignant. 
 The only one that harmeth you is Doubt. 
 
 Wal. 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 sulidues no mysteries ; 
 Mole eyed, thou mayest but burrow in the earth, 
 Blnul as that subterrestrial, ^n ho with wan, 
 Lead-colouied shine lighted theo into life, 
 
FIEST PART or AVALLENSTEI'iT. ^79 
 
 The common, the terrestrial, thou mayest spa, 
 With serviceable cunning Ijnit togetlier 
 The nearest with the nearest; ancl therein 
 I trust thee and believe thee ! but whate'et 
 Full of mysteri us import Nkture weaves, 
 And fashions in the depths — the spiii ts lac'der, 
 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 oibit — 
 These see the glance alone, the unsealed eye, 
 Of Jupiter's glad children bom in lustre. 
 
 [flis walks across the chaniber, theu returns, andstanamg 
 still, proceeds. 
 The heavenly constellations make not merely 
 The day and nights, summer and spring, not merely 
 Signify to the husbandman the seasons 
 Of Bowing aud of harvest. Human action. 
 That is the seed too of contingencies, 
 Strewed on the dark land of mturity 
 In hopes to reconcile the powers offate. 
 Whence it behoves us to seek out the seed-time. 
 To watch the stars, select their pvoper hours, 
 And trace with searching eye the heavenly houses, 
 Whether the enemy of growth anrt thriving 
 Hide himself not, malignant, in Lis corner. 
 Therefore permit me my own time. Meanwhile 
 Do you your part. As yet I caiinot Say 
 What I shall do— only, give way I willnot. 
 Depose me too they shall not. On these points 
 You may rely. 
 
 Page (entering.) My Lords, the Generals. 
 
 Wal. Let them come in. 
 
 Scene XII. Wallenstein, Tertsky, Illo. — To them enter 
 
 QUESTENBERG, OCTAVIO, and MAX. PiCCOLOMINI, BUT- 
 
 LEE, IsoLANi, MARADKiS, and three other Generals. 
 Wallenstkin motions QDESTENBERG,ieftoi« consequence 
 takes the chair directly opjifsite to him; the others folloie, 
 arranging themselves accor ding to their rank. There reigns 
 a momentary silence. 
 
 Wal. I have understood, '*is true, the sum and import 
 Of yourinstriietions, Questonberg, have weighed them, 
 And formed iny final, absolute resolve ; 
 Yet it seems fitting, that th s Generals 
 Should hear the will of the Emperor from your mouth, 
 May't please you then to oj en your commission 
 Before these noble Chieftaias. 
 
 Ques. I am ready 
 
 To obey you ; but will S ' i entreat your Highness, 
 
280 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 And all these noble Chieftains, to consider, 
 The Imperial dignity and sovereign right 
 Speaks from my mouth, and not my own presumption. 
 H'al. We excuse all preface. 
 Ques. . 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 Sw le's career of conquest checked! These lands 
 Bega to draw breath freely, as Duke Friedland 
 From all the streams of Germany forced hither 
 The 8 attered armies of the enemy, 
 Hither i Lvoked aa round one magic circle 
 The Ehinegrave, Bemhard, Banner, Oxenstirn, 
 Yea, and that never-conquered King himself; 
 Here finally, before the eye of Niirnberg, 
 The fearful game of battle to decide. 
 
 Wal. May't pleaa'e you to the point. 
 
 Qms. In Nurnberg's camp the Swedish monarch left 
 Ilis fame— In Liitzen's plains his life. But who 
 St^od Lot astounded, when victorious Friedland 
 After this day of triumph, this proud day, 
 Marched towards Bohemia with the speed of flight. 
 And vanished from th 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 Eegenspurg 
 Stood to fhe 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, 
 Se#ren horsemen couriers sent 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 Eegenspurg. 
 
 Wal. Max., to what period of the war alludes he ? 
 My recollection fails me here. 
 
 Max. " He means 
 
 When we were in Silesia. 
 
 Wal. Ay ! Is it so ? 
 
 But what had we to do there f 
 
 Max. To beat out 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 281 
 
 The Swedes and Siixons itom the iirovince. 
 
 Wat True. 
 
 In that description -vy^hich the Minister gave 
 I seemed to have forgotten the whole war. 
 {To QuESTENBEEG.) Well, hut proceed a little. 
 
 Ques. Yes ! at length 
 
 Beside the river Oder did the Dulce 
 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. 
 
 Wal. .(laughs.) ■ I know, 
 
 I know you had already In Vienna 
 Your windows and balconies all forestalled 
 To se him on the excutioner'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. 
 
 Ques. 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. 
 
 H^al. The troops were pitiably destitute ' 
 
 Of every necessary, every comfort. 
 The winter came. What thinks his Majesty 
 His troops are made of? Au'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, a!l 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 Dejdate ! Butler ! Tell this man 
 How long the soldiers' pay is in arrears. 
 
 £ut. A^eady a full year. 
 
 Wal, And 'tis the; hire 
 
282 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Tliat constitutes the hireling's name and dutieSj 
 The soldier's ^0^ is the soldier's covenant* 
 
 Qties. Ah ! this is a far other tone fiom that 
 In which the Duke spolte eight, nine years ago. 
 
 Wal. Yes! 'tis my fault, I know it: I myself 
 Have spoilt the Emperor by indulging him. 
 Nineiyears ago, during the Danish war, 
 I raised him up a force, a mighty force, 
 Forty or iifty thousand men, that cest 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! 
 lu the whole Imperial realm np name like mine 
 Honoured with festival and celebration — 
 And Albrecht Wallenstbin, 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 liad I now, 
 Tliat 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 1 1 
 What? I was offered up to their complaints. 
 Dismissed, degraded ! 
 
 Ques. But your Higness knows 
 
 What little freedom he possessed of action 
 In that disastrous Diet. 
 
 Wal. Death and hell! 
 
 Jhad that which couldyhave procured him fre^tJiH 
 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 thinkijig * 
 
 Of the empire, and the Diet of the empire. 
 From the Emperor, doubtless, I received thi j staff, 
 But now I hold it as the erppLre's general — 
 For the common weal, the universal interest, 
 And no more for that one man's aggrandize aient! 
 But to the point. What is it that's desired of me? 
 
 Ques. First, his imperial Majesty hath willed 
 That without pretexts of aelay the army 
 
 * The original is not translatable intb English : 
 
 ■ Und sein sold 
 
 Muss dem soldaten warden, darnach heisst er. 
 It might perhaps have been thus rendered: 
 " And that for which he sold his services, 
 The soldier must receive." 
 But a false or doubtful etymology is no ) aore than a dull pun. 
 
FIRST PAKT OF WALLENSTEIN. 283 
 
 Evacuate Bohemia., / 
 
 Wal. In this season ? 
 
 And to what quarter, willa the Emperor, 
 That we direct our course ? 
 
 Ques. To the enemy. 
 
 His Majesty resolves, that,Eegenspurg 
 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. 
 
 Wal. My generals, 
 
 Can this be realized ? 
 
 Illo. 'Tis not possible. 
 
 But. It can't be realized. 
 
 Ques. The Empero 
 
 Already hath Commanded colonel Suys 
 To advance toward Bavaria ? 
 
 Wal. ■ What did Suys ? 
 
 Ques. That which his duty prompted. He ad ■. anced ! 
 
 Wal. What ? he advanced ? And I, his general, 
 Had given him orders, peremptory orders. 
 Not to desert his station ! Stands it thus 
 With my authoriljy? Is this the obedience 
 Due to my office, which being thrown aside 
 No war can be conducted ? Chieftains, speak ! 
 Yon be the judges, generals ! What deserves 
 That officer, who of his oath neglectful 
 Is guilty of contempt of orders f 
 
 Illo. Death. 
 
 Wal. (raising Ms voice, as all, Imt Illo, had remained silent, 
 and seemingly scrupulous.) Count Piccolomiui ! what 
 has he deserved ? [law, 
 
 Max. (after a long pause.) According to the letter of the 
 Death. 
 
 Iso. Death. 
 
 But Death, by the laws of war. 
 
 [QUESTENBKRG Hses from Ms seat, Wallenstein fol- 
 lows; all the rest rise. 
 
 TTal. To this the law condemns him, and not I. 
 And if I show him favour, 'twill arise 
 From the reverence that I owe my Emperor. 
 
 Ques. If so, I can say nothing further — here! 
 
 Wal. I accepted the command but on conditions 1 
 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 Gustavua 
 
284 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE , 
 
 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 ! ^ 
 
 Quea. The prince Cardinal 
 
 Begins his route at the approach of spring 
 From the Milanese j 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. 
 
 Wal. Yes, yes ! I understand ! — Eight regiments ! Well, 
 Right weil concerted, father Lamormain ! 
 Eight thousand horse ! Yes, yes ! 'Tis as it should be ! 
 I see it coming. 
 
 Qms. There is nothing coming. 
 
 All stands in front : the counsel of state-prudence, 
 The dictate of necessity ! — 
 1 Wal. What then ? 
 
 What, my'Lord Envoy T 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 ; 
 llrst 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 
 wJiich 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 recompence their services demand. 
 Still a new leader brings new claimants forward, 
 And prior merit superannuates quickly. 
 
FIRST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 285 
 
 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 scratiny 
 
 After his pedigree or catechism. 
 
 This will be otherwise, i' the time to come. 
 
 Well — me no longer it concerns. [Se seats Mmself, 
 
 Max. Forbid it Heaven, that it should come to this 1 
 Oiir troops will swell in dreadful tiermentatiou — 
 The Emperor is abused — it cannot he. 
 lao. It cannot be; all goes to instant wreck. 
 Wal. Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani! 
 What we with toil and foresight hiive built up, 
 Will go to wreck — all go to instant wreck. 
 What then ? another chieftain is soon found. 
 Another array likewise (who dares doubt it ?) 
 Will flock from all sides to the Emperor 
 At the first beat of his recruiting drum. 
 
 [_Dxiriiig this speech, Isolani, Tektsky, Illo and 
 Maradas talh confusedly with great agitation. 
 Max. (hnsily and passionately going from, one to another, and 
 soothing tliem.) Hear, my commander! Hear me, 
 generals ! 
 I^et 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. 
 
 ler. Away ! let us away ! in the antechamber 
 Find we the others. [ They go. 
 
 But. ( to QtjBSTBNBEEG. ) If good .counsel gain 
 Due audience from your wisdom, my Lord Envoy ! 
 You will be cautious how you show yourself 
 In public for some hours to come — or hardly 
 Will that gold key protect you from mal-treatment. 
 
 [^Commotions heard from without. 
 
 Wal. A salutary counsel Thou, Octavio ! 
 
 Wilt answer for the safety of our guest. [speafc. 
 
 Farewell, Von Questeuberg ! [Questenbekg is about to 
 
 Nay, not a word. 
 Not one word more,of that detested subject! 
 You have perforilied your duty — ^We know how 
 To separate the office from the man. 
 
 [_As QuBSTBNBEEG is going off with Octavio; Goetz, 
 TlEFENBACH, KOLATTO prcss in; several other 
 ' Geneiaia following them. 
 Goetz. Where's he who means to rob us of our general ? 
 Tie. (at the same time.) What are we forced to hear ? 
 
 That thou wilt leave us ? 
 Kol. {at the same time.) We will live with thee, we will 
 
 die with thee. 
 Wal. (with siateliness, and pointing to Illo.) There! the 
 Field-Marshal knows our will. [Exit. 
 
 [ While all are going off the stage, the curtain drops. 
 
SSC THE PJCCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 ACT n.. 
 
 Scene I. — A small Chamber. 
 Iixo and Teetsey. 
 
 Tef. Now for tViis evening's business! How intend you 
 To manage witli the generals at tbo banquet ? 
 
 Illo. Attend ! We frame a formal declaration, 
 Wherein we to the Duke consign ourselves 
 Collectively, to be and to remain 
 HiB both with life anddimb, and not to spare 
 The last drop of our blood for Mm, provided 
 So doing we infringe no oath or duty, 
 We may be under to the Emperor. — Mart ! 
 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 oft'eiice or scruple. Hear now further 
 After the feasc, when now the vap'ring wine 
 Opens the lieart, and shuts the eyes, we let 
 A counterfeited paper, in the which 
 This one particular clause has been left out, 
 Go round for signatures. 
 
 Ter. How ? think you tien 
 
 That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath. 
 Which wo had tricked them into by a juggle ? [thex 
 
 Illo. Wo shallhave caught and caged them! Let them 
 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 moat holy affirmations. 
 Traitors they are, and must be ; therefore wisely 
 Will make a virtue of necessity. 
 
 Ter. Well, well, it shall content me ; let but something 
 Ee done, let only some decisive blow 
 Set us in motion. 
 
 Illo. Besides, 'tis of subordinate importa,nce 
 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, 
 Ho makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it. 
 
 Ter. 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, pennits me 
 To write to them, to Amheim : to Sesina 
 
I 
 riEST PART OP WALLENSTEIN. 28? 
 
 Himaelf comes forwarfl blanlc and undisguised ; 
 Talks with us by the hour ahout 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 1 
 His soul is occupied with nothing else. 
 Even in his sleep — ^They aie his thoughts, his dreams 
 That day by day he questions for this purpose 
 The motions of the planets \ 
 
 Ter. 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. 
 
 IJlo. 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 si ars too will show themselves. 
 Come, to xne generals. All is in the glow. 
 And must be beaten while 'tis malleable. 
 
 Ter. 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 ? 
 
 Ter. A secret. Hush ! she comes. \_Exit Illo. 
 
 Scene II. — {The Countess steps out from a closet.) Count 
 and Countess Tektsky. 
 
 Ter. Wen — is she coming — I can keep him back 
 No longer. 
 
 Coim. She will be there instantly. 
 You only send him. ' 
 
 Ter. . 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 broke out from him on this point. 
 You have o'er-rul'd me, and yourself know best, 
 How far you dare proceed. 
 
 Coun. 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 T^'ords. What, could I not unriddle. 
 Wherefore xne daughter should be sent for hither. 
 
288 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Why first he, and no other, should bo chosen 
 
 To fetch her hither ? This sham of hetrotbiiig her 
 
 To a, bridegroom,* when no one knows — No ! no ! 
 
 This may blind others ! I see through thee, Brother I 
 But it beseems thee not, to draw a-card 
 At such a igame. 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! 
 
 Ter. (to the Cooutbss. ) Take care you heat his fan6y and 
 aflfectlons — 
 P assess him with a reverie, and send him 
 Absent and dreaming, to the banquet ; that 
 He may not boggle at the signature. 
 
 Conn. Take youcareof your guests! — Go, send liim hither. 
 
 Ter. All rests upon his undprsigning. 
 
 Coun. {interrupting him.) Go to your guests ! Go 
 
 Illo. {comes buok.) Where art staying, Tertsky ? 
 The house is full, and all expecting you. 
 
 Ter. Instantly! Instantly! (3b tAe Countess.) And let 
 him not 
 Stay here too long. It might awake suspicion 
 In the old man 
 
 Coun. A truce with your precautions ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Tektsky and Illo. 
 
 SCENB III. — Countess, Max. Piccolomixi. 
 
 Max. {peeping in on the stage ahily.) AuntTertslsy! may I 
 venture ? \_Admances to the middle of the stage, and holes 
 around him with tmeasiness. 
 
 She 's not here ! 
 Where is she t 
 
 Coun. Look but somewhat narrowly 
 
 In yonder comer, lest perhaps she lie 
 Concealed behind that screen. 
 Max. There lie her gloves ! 
 
 ISnatehes at them, hut the Countess takes them hsrsclf. 
 You unkind Lady ! You refuse me this — 
 You make it an amusement to torment me. 
 
 Coun. 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! 
 
 Coun. You have still 
 
 Many new ha,bits to acquire, young friend! 
 But on this proof of your obedient temper 
 I must continue to insist; and only 
 
 * In Germany, after honourable addresses have been paid and 
 formally accepted, the lovers are called Bride and Bridegroom, even 
 though the marriage should not take place till years afterwards. 
 
FIRST PAET OK WALLENSTEIN. 289 
 
 On this condition can I play the agent 
 For your concerns. 
 
 Max. But wherefore comes she not f 
 
 Where is she ? 
 
 Covtn, Into my hands you mufst place it 
 
 Whole and entire. Whom cpuld you find, indeed. 
 More zealously aifected to your interest ? 
 No soul on earth must know it — not your father. 
 He must not above all. 
 
 Max. ■ Alas ! what danger ? 
 
 Here is no face on which I might concentre 
 All the enraptured soul stirs up within me. 
 
 Lady ! tell me. Is all dhanged around me ; 
 Or is it only 1 1 
 
 I find myself, 
 As among strangers ! Not a trace is left 
 Of all my former wishes, former joys. 
 Where has it vanished to ? There was a time 
 When even, methought, with su h a world, as this, 
 
 1 was not discontented. Now how flat ! 
 
 "How stale ! No life, no bio m, no flavour in it ! 
 
 My comrades are intolerable t me. 
 
 My father — Even to him I can Say nothing. 
 
 My arms, my military duties — O .' 
 
 They are such wearying toys ! 
 
 Coun. But, gentle friend ! 
 
 I must entreat it of your condescension, 
 You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favour 
 With one short glance ortwo 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 pring-tide of acquaintance rolling in. 
 The pointless jest, the empty conversation. 
 Oppressed and stifled me. I gasped for air — 
 I could not breathe — I was constrained 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, 
 Thit^ier I went, there found myself alone. 
 Over the altar hung a holy mother ; 
 
 * I am doubtful whether this be the dedication of the cloister, or 
 the name of one of the city gates, near which It stood. I havo 
 translated it in the former sense ; but fearful of having made som o 
 blunder, I add the original.— Es i^t ein Eloster Uer zitr Uimmeli- 
 pjorte _ 
 
 M ,... - 
 
290 THE PICCOLOMiInI, OR THE 
 
 A ■wretched painting 'twas, yet 'twas tlie 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 I and now at once 
 Was my devotion cloudless as my love. 
 
 6'ott». Enjoy your fortune and felicity t , 
 
 Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship 
 Shall keep strict vigils for yon, 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 hazai^l the first word. 
 
 Coun. This morning the first time in twenty days ? 
 
 Max. 'Twaa at that hunting-castle, betwixt here 
 And Nepomuck, where yoithad joinedus, 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 uponme. 
 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 mc. 
 She faltered. I beheld a glowing red 
 Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground 
 Raised slowly up her eye met mine — no longer 
 Did I control myself. 
 
 \_The Princess TirBKLAapj)ear8«f(Afrfoor,an(J remains 
 standing, observed by the Countess, but not by 
 
 PlCCOLOMlNI. 
 
 Witb instant boldness 
 I.caught her in my arms, my mouth touebed hers ; 
 There was a rustling in the room close by ; 
 1 1 parted us — 'T was you. What since has happened. 
 You know. 
 
 Conn, (after a pause, with a stolen glanie of Thekla.) And 
 is it your excess of modesty ; 
 Or are you so incurious, that you do not 
 Ask me too of my secret f 
 
 Max. Of i/OM>* secret? 
 
 Coun. 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. (wiih eagerness.) Well? 
 
FIEST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 291 
 
 Scene IV. — ^Thkkla {Immes forward) Countess, Max, 
 
 PiCCOLOMINI. 
 
 Tlielc. (to <7ie Countess.) Spare yourself the trouTjln: 
 That hears he better from myself. 
 
 Max. (Stepping bachvard.) My Princess! 
 
 T/hat have you lot her hear me say, Aunt Tertsky 1 ■ 
 
 Thele. (to the Countess.) Has he been here long? 
 
 Court. Yes ; and soon must go. 
 
 Where have ymi stayed so long ? 
 
 Thek. , Alas ! my mother 
 
 Wept so again I and I — I see her suffer, 
 Yet cannot keep myself from being hai)py. 
 
 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 r6und you 
 Hid the beloved from me. 
 
 Thei. Then you saw me 
 
 With youT eye only— and not with your Iieart ? 
 
 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, 
 1 what an impulse felt I in that moment 
 To fall upon his neck, to call him father ! 
 But his stern eyeo'erpowered the swelling passion — 
 It dared not but be silent. 'And thosfe brilliants. 
 That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brows, 
 They scared me too ! O wherefor^, 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 joyonS heart 
 The mournful burthen of his station ? Fitly 
 Miiy love dare woo for love ; but such a splendour 
 Might none but monarohs venture to approach. 
 
 TheU, Hush I not a word more of this mummery. 
 You see how soon the burthen is thro wn off'. [not T 
 
 ( To the Countess. ) He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he 
 '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 ^ay wish to see you always so, » 
 Aud never otherwise ! 
 
 Maa., You find yourself 
 
 In your great father's arms, beloved lady ! 
 All in a new world, which does homage to you, 
 And which, wer't only by its novelty. 
 Delights your eye. 
 
 Thek. Yes ; I confess to you 
 
 That many things delight me here : this camp, 
 This motley stage of warriors, wftioh renews 
 
902 THE PICCOLOMmi, OE THE 
 
 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 tome. 
 
 It mates 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. 
 
 Thek. The game of life 
 
 Looks cheerful, when on* cairies in one's heart 
 The unalienable treasure. 'Tis a game, 
 Which having once reviewed, I turn more joyous 
 Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss. 
 
 [Breaking off, and in a sportive tone. 
 In this short time that I've been present here. 
 What new unheard-of things have I not seen 1 
 And yet they all must give place to the wonder 
 Which this mysterious castle guards. 
 
 Court, {recollecting.) And what 
 
 Can this be then ? Methought I was acquainted 
 With all the dusky comers of this house. [spirits, 
 
 Thek. (smiling.) Ay, but the road thereto is watched by 
 Two griffins still stand sentry {it the door. 
 
 Coun. {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. 
 
 Thek. 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. 
 
 Thek. He questioned me on many points ; for instance, 
 When I was bom, what month, and on what day, 
 Whether by day or in tlie night. 
 
 Coun. He wished 
 
 To erect a figure for your horoscope. 
 
 Thek. My hand too he examined, shook his head 
 With much sad meaning, and the lines, methought. 
 Did not square over tnuy with his wishes. 
 
 CAtn. Well, Princess, and what fouud'you in this tower ? 
 My highest privilege has been to snatch 
 A side-glance, and away ! 
 
 Tliek. 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 
 'Xwas pale and dusky uigjit, with many shadows 
 Fantastically cast. Here sis or seven 
 
• FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. • 293 
 
 Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me 
 
 In a half-circle. Eaoli one in his hand , 
 
 A sceptre bore, and ou Ills 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 ca^ise 
 
 •• Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you, 
 
 " Spiteful aud 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. 
 
 Maa. O never rudely will I blame his faith 
 ^n the might of stars and angels 1 '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 
 That 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 forma 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 
 
 * " No more of talk, where ^od or angel guest 
 With man, ae with his fnend familiar, used 
 To sit indulgent." — Paradise Losty b. ix. 
 
294 • THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, 
 And Venus who brings every thing that's fair ! 
 
 Thek. 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. 
 
 Coun. 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 
 Win 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; Eeichenberg, 
 And Friedland Castle, doth 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-^ 
 
 Coun. 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! 
 
 Coun. What was that 1 
 
 Did you hear nothing ? Seem'd as if I heard 
 Tumult and larum in the banquet-room. \_Exit Countess. 
 
 ScENK V. — Thekla. and Max. Picoolomini. ' 
 
 Thek. (as soon as the Countess is out of sight, in a quick, 
 low voice to PlocOLOMiNi. ) Don't trust them ! They 
 are false ! 
 
 Max. Impossible ! 
 
 Thek. Trust no one here but me. I saw at once, 
 They had a jmrpose. 
 
 Max. 1 Purpose ! but what purpose ? 
 
 And how can we be instrumental to it ? 
 
 Thek. I know no more than you; but yet, believe me 
 Tl^ere'^ ^omg design in i/hisil to make us happy, 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 295 
 
 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. 
 
 Thek. 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. Marie, 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 ! 
 
 Thek. (falls on his neck.) That are you I 
 
 Max. You knew him only since this mom ; 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 orifer to unite us. 
 
 You are silent ? '■ 
 
 You look at me with such a hopelessness ! 
 What have you to object against your father? 
 
 Thek. I ? Nothing. Only he's so occupied — 
 He has no leisure time to think about 
 The happiness of us two. [ TaMng his hand tenderly. 
 
 Follow me! 
 Let us not place too great a faith in men. 
 These Tertskys — we will still be grateful to them 
 For every kindness, but not trust them further 
 
 Than they deserve ; — and in all else rely 
 
 On our own hearts ! 
 
 Max. O ! shall we e'er be happy ? ' 
 
 Thek. 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 
 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 didst not find it ? 
 
 Scene VI. — To them enters the Countess Teetskt; 
 
 Coun. (In a pressing manner.) Come! 
 
 My husband sends me for you — It is now 
 The latest moment. 
 
 IThey not appearing to attend to w7t«t she says, she 
 fteps betw^n them. 
 
296 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Part you I 
 Thek. O, not yet I 
 
 It has been scarce a moment. 
 
 Coun. Aye t Then time 
 
 Flies swiftly with your Highness," Princess niece I 
 Moix. There is no hurry, aunt. 
 Coan. Away! away I 
 
 The folks hegin to miss you. Twice already 
 His father has asked for him. 
 Thek. Ha! his father t 
 
 Coun. You understand that, niece 1 
 Thek. Why needs he 
 
 To go at all to that society f 
 'Tis not his proper company. They may 
 Be worthy men, hut he's too young for them. 
 In brief, he suits not such society. 
 
 Coun. You mean, you'd rat er keep him wholly here T 
 Thek. {with energy.) Yes ! you have - !t it, aunt ! That is 
 my meaning. 
 Leave him here wholly! Tell the company — 
 
 Coun. What ? have you lost your senses, niece f 
 Count, you remember the conditions. Come! [lady! 
 
 Max, (toTHEitLA.) Lady, I must obey. j.arewell dear 
 [Thekla turns away from him with a quick motion. 
 What say you then, dear lady ? 
 
 Thek, {without looking at him.) Nothing. Go! 
 
 Max. Can I, when you are angry 
 
 ' \_He draws up to her, thew eyes meet, she stands silent 
 a moment, then throws herself into his arms; ho 
 presses her fast io his heart, 
 Coun. Off I Heavens I if any one should come ! 
 
 Hark ! What's that noise ? It comes this way. Oflf! 
 
 [Max. tears himself away out of her arms, and goes. 
 The COVNTESS accompanies him. TB^KhA fol- 
 lows him with her eyes at first, walks restlessly 
 €icross the room, then stops, and remains standing, 
 lost in thought. A guitar lies on ths table, she seizes 
 it as hy a sudden emotion, and after she has played 
 a while an hregular and melmcholy symphony, 
 she falls gradually into the music and sings. 
 Thek. {plays and sings.) 
 
 1*he cloud doth gather, the^eenwood roar. 
 The damsel paces along the shore j 
 The billows they tumble with might, with might; 
 And she flings out her voice to the darksome night, 
 
 Her bosom is swelling with sorrow; 
 The world it is empty;, the heart will die. 
 There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky 
 Thou Holy One, call thy child away 1 
 I've lived and loved, and that was to-day — 
 
 Make ready my grave-clbthes to-morrow.* 
 
 * I found it not in my power to translate this song with literaX 
 
FIRST PAKT OF WALLENSTEIN. 297 
 
 Scene VII. — Countess {returns), Thkkla. 
 
 Coun. Fie, lady niece 1 to throw yourself upon him, 
 Like a poor gift to one who cares not or it, 
 And so much be flung after him! For you, 
 Duke Friedland'a only child, I should have thought, 
 It had been more beseeming to have shewn yourself 
 More chary of your person. 
 
 Thek. (rising.) And what mean you ? 
 
 Coun. I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten 
 Who you are, and who he is. But perchance 
 That never once occnned to you. 
 
 Thek. . What then? [Friedland. 
 
 Coun. That you're the daughter of the Prince-Duka 
 
 Thek. Well — and what farther ? 
 
 Coun. What ? a pretty question 1 
 
 Thek. He was iom that which we have but become. 
 He's of an ancient Lombard family. 
 Son of a reigning princess. 
 
 fidelity, preserving at the same time tl > Alcaio Movement: and 
 have therefore added the original ' ith a prose translation. Some 
 of my readers may be more, fortunate. 
 
 Thekla. (spielf und singt) 
 Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn, 
 Das M^dlein wandelt an Ufers Griin, 
 £s bricht sicb di^Welle mit Macht, mit Macht, 
 Und sie singt hinKus in die fiustre Nacht, 
 
 Das Auge von Weinen getrfibet: 
 Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer. 
 Und welter giebet pie dem Wunsche nichts mehr. 
 Du HeiUge, rute deiu Kind zuriick, 
 Ich babe genossen das irdisehe Oliick, 
 
 Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 
 
 IrrEBAL TEAHSLATION. 
 
 Thekla {j^lays and si7igs). 
 
 The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks to 
 and fro on the green of the shore; the wave breaks with might, 
 with might, and she sings out into the dark night, her eye dis- 
 coloured with weeping: the heart is dead, the world is empty, and 
 further gives it nothing more to the wish. Thou Holy One, call 
 thy child home. I have enjoyed the happiness of this world, I have 
 lived and loved. 
 
 I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which the 
 author of "The Tale of Hosamund Gray and Blind Margaret," has 
 favoured me, and which appears to me to have caught the happiest 
 manner of our old ballads. 
 
 The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, 
 
 The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan; 
 Billows are breaking, the damsePs heart aching. 
 
 Thus in the dark night she singeth alone. 
 Her eye upward roving: 
 The world is empty, the heart is dead surely. 
 
 In this world plainly all seemeth amiss; 
 To thy heaven. Holy One, take home thy little ono 
 
 1 have partaken of all earth's bhss, * 
 
 Both living aad loving. 
 M* 
 
293 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Coun. Are you clreaming? 
 
 Talking in sleep ? An excellent j4st, forsooth! 
 We s eQI no doubt right courteously entreat him 
 To honour with his hand the richest heiress 
 In Europe., 
 
 Thek. That -will not be neceesary. 
 
 Coun. Methinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard 
 
 TAefc. His father loves him, Count Octavio 
 ■Will interpose no difficulty 
 
 Coun. Sis ! 
 
 Sis father! Ms ! But yours, niece, what of yours ? 
 
 Tkelc. Why I begin to think you fear his father. 
 So anxiously you hide it from the man 1 
 Sis father, liia, I mean. 
 
 Coun. {looks at her, as sonitiniging.) Niece, you axe false. 
 
 Thek. Are you then wounded? O, be iiiends with mel 
 
 Coun. You hold your game for won already. Do not 
 Triumph too soon — I ' 
 
 Thek. (interrupting her, and attertipUng to soothe her.) NaJ 
 now, be friends with me. 
 
 Coun. It is not yet so far gone. 
 
 Thek. . I believe you. 
 
 Coun. Did you suppose your father had laid out 
 His most important life in toils of war. 
 Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss, 
 Had banished slumler from his tent, devoted 
 His noble head to care, and f r this only. 
 To make a appy pair of you? At^ength 
 To draw you from your convent, and conduct 
 In easy triumph to your arms the man 
 That chauc' 1 to please your eyes! All this, methinks, 
 He might have virchased at a cheaper rate. 
 
 Thek. Th t 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 — 
 
 Coun. Thou seest it with a lovelorn maiden's eyes. 
 Cast thlue eye round, bethink thee who thou art. 
 Into no house of joyance hast thou stepped, 
 For nb 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 : uyion 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 proot. 
 That thou'rt the daughter of tlio Mighty^/iis, 
 Who tvhere he moves creates the wonderful. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 293 
 
 Nor 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. 
 
 Tlielc. 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 — J am appointed « 
 
 To offer up myself in passiveness to him. 
 
 Coun. That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it. 
 I and thy mother gave thee the example. 
 
 Theh. My fate hath shewn me Mm, to whom behoves it 
 That I should offer up myself. In gladness 
 Him win I follow. 
 
 Coun. Not thy fate hath shewn him! 
 
 Thy heart, say rather — 'twas thy heart, my child ! 
 
 Thek. 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 bis fair love infused a soul into me ? 
 
 Coun. Thou would'st oppose thy father then, should he 
 Have otherwise determined with thy person ? 
 
 [Thekla remains silent. The Countess continuej. 
 Thou mean'st to force him to thy liking ? — Child, 
 His name is Friedland. 
 
 Tliek. My name too is Friedland.' 
 
 He shall have found a genuine daughter in me. 
 
 Coun. What ? be has vanquished all impediment, 
 And in the wilful mood of his own daughter 
 Sliall a new struggle rise for him ; Child 1 child ! 
 As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone : 
 The eye of his rage thou hast not seein. 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, 
 ^hould'st e'er demean thee as a love-sick maiden ; 
 And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself 
 Toward the man, who, i/that high prize ever 
 Be destined to await him, yet, with sacrifices [i5ss. 
 
 The highest love can bring, must pay for it. [Exit CouMi- 
 
 Thek. (who during the last speech had been slavding evidei.i- 
 
 ly lost in her refiecfions.) .1 thsiok. thee for the hint. 
 
 My sad presentiment to cerfcainty. [It turns 
 
300 THE PICCOIiOMINI, OR THE 
 
 And it is so ! — Not one friend have -we here, 
 
 Not one true heart J we've nothing but ourselves! 
 
 she said rightly — no auspicious signs 
 Beam on this covenant of our affections. 
 This is no theatre, vrhere 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. 
 
 IMwsiefrom 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 vritchery, 
 It lures me forward in a seraph's shape, 
 
 1 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 to not move I 
 
 [Tfte musiofrom the hemguet room hecomee louder. 
 O when a house is do'omed in fire to perish. 
 Many and dark heaven drives his clouds together, 
 Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights. 
 Flaines burst from out the subterraneous chasms, 
 *And fiends and angels, mingling in their fury, 
 Sling fire-brands at the hunnng 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, Tbrtsky, and Mara- 
 DAS. Bight and left of this, but farther back, two other 
 Tables, at each of which six Persons are placed. The Mid- 
 dle Door, which is standing open, gives to the Prospect a 
 fourth Table, with the same Number pf Persons. More 
 forward stands the sideboard. The whole front of tlie 
 stage is Icept open for the Pages and Servants in waiting. 
 All is in Motion. The band of Music belonging to Tbrt- 
 sky's Begiment march across the Stage, and draw up 
 round the Tables. Before they are quite off from the Front 
 of the Stage, Max. Piccolomini appears, Teetsky 
 advances towards Mm with a Paper, Isolani comes up 
 to meet him with a Beaker or Service-cup. 
 
 Tbrtsky, Isolani, Max. Piccolomini. 
 Iso. Here brother, what we love! Why, where hast 
 Oft', to thy place — quick! Tertsky here has given [been? 
 
 * There are few, who will not have taste enou^rh to lauph at tho 
 two concluding lines of this soliloquy ; and still fewer, I would fain 
 hope, who would not have been more disposed to shudder, had I 
 given a faithful translation. For the readers of German. Lhaxa 
 added the original : 
 
 Blind-wtithendschleudert selhst der Gott der Freudei 
 Den Fechkranz in das brennende Gebaude. 
 
FIKST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 301 
 
 The mother's holiday wine up to free booty. 
 
 Here it goes on as at the Heidelbei^ castle. 
 
 Already hast thou lost the hest. They're giving 
 
 At yonder table ducal crowns in shares ; 
 
 There's Sternberg's lands and chattels,are put up, 
 
 With Eggenberg's, Stawata's, Liohtensteiu's, 
 
 And ail the great Bohemian feodalities. 
 
 Be nimble, lad! and something may turn up 
 
 Forthpe — who knows? off — to thy place! quick! march! 
 
 lief, and Goetz {call out fromthe second and third tables.] 
 Count Plccolomini ! 
 
 Ten; 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 seKvire nefas." 
 
 Iso. That sounds to my ears very much like Latin, 
 And being interpreted, pray what may't mean ? 
 
 Ter. No honest man will serve a thankless master. 
 
 Max. Inasmuch as our supreme Commander, the illus- 
 trious Duke of Friedland, in consequence of the manifold 
 affronts and grievances which he has received, has ex- 
 pressed bis determination to quit the Emperor, but on our 
 unanimous entreaty has gi'acionsly consented to remain 
 still with the army, and notto part from us without our ap- 
 probation thereof, so we, collectively andeacAiit par f!CM?a»', in 
 tbe stead of an oath personally taken, do hereby oblige our- 
 selves — likewise'by him honourably and faithfiiUy to hold, 
 and in nowise whatpoever 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 Emperof-will permit it. {These 
 last words are repeated by Isolaot. ) In testimony of which 
 We subscribe our names." 
 
 Ter. Now ! — are you willing to subscribe this paper ? 
 
 Iso. Wby should he not? AH officers of honour 
 Can do it, aye must do it.— Pen and ink here ! 
 
 Ter. Nay, let it rest till after meal. 
 ' Iso. (drawing Max. along.) Come, Max. 
 
 , [Both seat themselves at their table. 
 
 Scene IX.— Teetsky, Neumann. 
 
 Ter. (beckons to Nedmann who is wailing at the side-table, 
 and steps forward loith him to the edge of the, stage.) 
 Have you the copy with you, Neumann ? Give it. 
 It may be changed for the other? 
 
 iVea. I iave copied it 
 
 Letter by letter, line by line ; no eye 
 Would e'er discover other dinerenec, 
 Sa\e only the omission of that clause, 
 According to your Excellency's order. 
 
300 THE PICCOLO:.:iXI, OR THE 
 
 Ter. Eight ! Lay it yonder, and away with this — • 
 It has performed its business— to the fireTvith it — 
 
 [Neumanist lays the copy on the table, and steps back , 
 again to the side-table. 
 
 Scene X. — Iixo. {Comes out from the second chamber.) 
 Tbrtsky. 
 
 Illo. How goes it with young Piccolomini ! 
 
 Ter. All right,! think. He has started no objection. 
 
 lUo. He is the only one I fear about — 
 He and his father. Have an eye on both ! 
 
 Ter. How looks it at your table : Yon 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, "ay, 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. 
 
 Tei: And Butler ? 
 
 How goes it there ? Hush ! 
 
 Scene XI. — To them enter Butlek /roro ilte second table. 
 
 But. Don't disturb yourselves. 
 
 Field Marshal, I have understood you perfectly. 
 Good luck be to the scheme; and as to me (with an air of 
 You may depend upon me. [^mystei-y.) 
 
 Illo. (with vivacity.) May we, Butler ? 
 
 But. 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 I 
 Tell him so! I'm the Emperor's oflScer, 
 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. 
 
 Tor. You would make a good exchange. 
 No stem economist, no Ferdinand, 
 Is he to whom you plight your services. 
 
 But. (with a haughty look.) I do not put up my fidelity 
 To sale. Count Tertsky 1 Half a year ago 
 I would not have advised you to have made me 
 An overture to that, to wWch I now 
 Offer myself of my own free accord. — 
 
FIEST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 303 
 
 But that is paasetl ! and to the Duke,i Fi^Id Marshal, 
 I bring myself together with my i'egiment. 
 And mark you, 'tis my hnmour to believe, 
 Tlie example which Lgive will not remain 
 Without an influence. 
 
 Illo. Who is ignorant, 
 
 That thewhole army look to Colonel Butler, 
 As to a light that moves before them ? 
 
 But. Ey» 
 
 Then I repent me not of that fidelity 
 Wbich 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 mj/ judgment — or 
 That fickleness, quick blood, or such light cause, 
 Has 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. 
 
 nlo. Say, 
 
 And speak roundly, what are we to deem you ? 
 
 But. 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 hini ; and is he my survivor. 
 
 It has been already long ago bequeathed him, 
 
 He is my heir. For me, I stand alone 
 
 Here iu 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. 
 
 Jllo. 'Tis not your money that he needs — a heart 
 Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down millions! 
 
 But. 1 came a simple soldier's boy from Ireland 
 To Prague — and with a master, whom I buried. 
 From lowest stable xluty 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, 
 1 love a fortune that is like my own. 
 
 Illo. All powerful souls have kindred with each other. 
 
 But. This is an awful moment ! to the brav e, 
 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 
 
304 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Equals our Friedland ? there is nothing, nothing 
 So high, but he may set the ladder to it ! 
 
 Ter. That's spoken like a man ! 
 
 Sut. Do you secure the Spaniard anu Italian — 
 I'll be ybur warrant for the Scotchman Lesly. 
 Come! to the company! , 
 
 Ter. 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. 
 
 lExeunt each to his table. 
 
 Scene XII. — The Master of the Cellar advancing loith Nbu- 
 MANN, Servants ^fflssijigi hackwai-da and forwards. 
 
 Moat, of the Cel. The best wine! O! if my old mistress, 
 Lis lady mother, could but see these wild goings on, she 
 would turn herself round in her grave. . Yes, yes, sir offi- 
 cer ! '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 ofiBcer, it bodes no good. 
 
 Neu. Heaven forbid! Why, at this very moment the 
 whole prospect i s in bud and blossom ! 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. You think so ? — Well, well ! much may 
 be said on that head. 
 
 1st Ser. (comes.) Burgundy for the fourth table. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. Now, sir lieutenant, if this ain't the 
 seventieth flask 
 
 1st Sep. Why, the reason is, that German lord Tiefenbach 
 sits at that table. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. (continumg 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 1 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 be- 
 fore him ! 
 
 Runner (comes.) The great service cup is wanted, sir; 
 that rich gold cup with the Bolremian arms on it. The 
 Count says you know which it is. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. Ay ! that was made for Frederick's cor- 
 onation by tbe artist William — there was not such another 
 prize in the whole booty at Prague. 
 
 Runner. The same!-ra health is to go round iu him. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. {shaking his head while he fetches and rinses 
 the cups. ) This will be something for the tale bearers — ^this 
 goes to Vienna. 
 
 Neu. 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 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEISr. 305 
 
 they looli! — There, on that flrat quarter, let me see. That 
 proud Amizon 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 repre- 
 sented. Can you tell me what all this signifies ? 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. 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 
 yhe who cannot keep his hat on before kings and emperors 
 is no free man. 
 
 Neu. But what is the cup there on the banner f 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. The cup signifies the freedom of the Bo- 
 hemian 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 
 V 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. 
 
 Neu. And what says that chart that hangs in the air 
 there, over it all? 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. 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 Chjirch the old piivilege of free ringing and open 
 psalmody. But since he of Sfceiermark has ruled over us, 
 that is at an end ; and after the battle at Prague, in which 
 Count Palati e Frederic lost crown and empire, our faith 
 hangs upon the pul 't and the altar — and our brethren 
 look at their homas over their shoulders; but the letter 
 royal'the Emf iror himself cut to pieces with his scissars. 
 
 yen. Vhy, r 7 good Master of the Cellar I you are deep 
 read in the chronicles of your country! 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. So were my forefathers, and for that 
 reason were the minstrels, and served under Piocopius and 
 Ziska. Peace be with their ashes! Well, well! they 
 fought for a good cause thbugh — ^There! carry it up ! 
 
 Neu. Stay Flet me but look at this second quarter. Lor^ 
 there ! That is, when at Prague Castle the Imperial Coun- 
 sellors, 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. , 
 
 Mast, of the CeV O let me never more hear of that day. 
 It was the three and twentieth of May, in the year of 
 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 heartaches of the coiintry. Since that 
 day it is now sixteen years, and there has never once beea 
 peace on the earth. 
 
 [^Mealth drank aloud at the second taile, 
 
306 THE PICCOLOJUNI, OR THE 
 
 The Prince of Weimar ! Hurra ^ lAtthe third and fourth table. 
 
 Iiong live Prince William! Long live Duke Bemaxd? 
 
 Hurra! [Music strikes up. 
 
 Isi Ser. Hear' em! Hear'emI What an uproar! 
 
 2nd Ser. {comes in rwnning.) Did you hear ? They have 
 drank the Prince of Weimar's health. , 
 
 3rd Ser. The Swedish Chief Commander! 
 
 1st Ser. (speaUng at the same time.) The Lutheran! 
 
 2nd Ser. Just before, when Count Deodate gave out the 
 Emperor's health, they vrere all as mum as a nibbling 
 mouse. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. Po, po! When the wine goes in, strange 
 things come out. A good servant hears, and he4rs not !— 
 You should be nothing but eyes and ■ feet, except when 
 you're called to. 
 
 2nd Ser. (to the Runner, to whom he gives secretly a flaslc of 
 wine, keying his eye on the Master of the Cellar, standitig be- 
 tween him and the Runner.) Quick, Thomas! before the 
 Master of the Cellar runs this way— 'tis a flask of Fonti- 
 gnac! — Snapped it up at the third table — Canst go off 
 with it ? 
 
 Bun. (hides it in his pocket.) All right! 
 
 ' [firit the Second Servant. 
 
 Srd Ser. (aside to the First.) Be on the hark, Jack! that 
 we may have right plenty to tell to Father Quivoga — lie 
 vrill give lis right plenty of absolution in return for it. 
 
 1st Ser. For that very purpose I am always having some- 
 thing to do behind lUo's chair. — He is the man for speeches 
 to make you stare with 1 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. (to Neumahk.) Who, pray, may that 
 swarthy man be, he with the cross, that is chatting so con- 
 fidently with Esterhats ! 
 
 2feu. Ay ! he too is one of those to whom they confide 
 too much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is he. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. (impatiently.) Spaniard! Spaniard! — I 
 tell you, friend ; nothing good comes of those Spaniards. 
 All these outlandish* fellows ate little better than rogues. 
 
 Keu. Fy, fy! you should not say s6, friend. There are 
 among them our very best generals, and those on whom 
 liio Duke at tins moment relies the most. 
 
 liost. of tile Cel. (taking the flask out of the 'Rannei'B pock- 
 et.) My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket. 
 
 [Tertsky hmfies in, fetches away the paper, and 
 calls to a Servant for pen and ink, and goes to 
 the back of the stage. 
 
 Mast, of the Cel. (to the Servants.) The Lieutenant-General 
 
 * There is a humour in the original which cannot be privpn in the 
 translation. " Die vjelschen alle,^' &c., Vhich word in classical Ger- 
 man means the Italians alone ; but in its first sense, and at present 
 In the vulgar use of the word, signifies foreigners in general. Our 
 word wall-nuts, I suppose, means oiUlandish nuts— Wallse nuces, in 
 German "Welsch-nilsse."—T. 
 
FIRST PAET OP WALLENSTEIN. 307 
 
 stands up. — Bo on tlie watcli. — Now! They break up. — Off, 
 and move back tlio lonna ' 
 
 \_Theji rise at all the tables, the Servants hurry off ike 
 front of the stage to the tables ; part of the Guests 
 come forward. 
 
 Scene XIII. — (Octavio Piccolomini enters in conversation 
 with ilAKADAS, and, both place Aemselves quite on the edge 
 of the stage on one side of tne proscenium. On the side 
 directly opposite, Max. Piccolomini, hy himself, lost in 
 thamjht, and talcing no part in anything that is going for- 
 ward. The middle space between both, but rather more 
 distant from the edge of the sta^/e, is filled up by Uutlkr, 
 
 ISOLANI, GOETZ, TiEFENBACH, a«(f KOLATTO.) 
 
 Jso. {while the company is coming forward.) Good night, 
 good night, Kolatto! Good night, Lieutenaut-General! — 
 I should rather say, good morning. 
 
 Goetn. (to TiEFENBACH.) Noble brother ! {making tlieusual 
 compUw£nt after meals.) 
 
 Tief. Ay ! 'twas a royal feast indeed. 
 
 Goetz. Yes, my Lady Countess understands these matters, 
 rier mother-in-law, heaven rest her soul, taught her! — ^Ahl 
 that was a housewife for you ! 
 
 Tuf. There was not her like in all Bohemia for setting 
 out a table. 
 
 Oct. {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 myae,lf, and yet L conjecture that there will be goings 
 on here worthy of our attentive obervation. 
 • [He co.Mnues to fix his eye on the whole following scene. 
 
 Iso. {on the point of going.) Lights! lights! 
 
 Ter. {advances with the paper to IsOLANi.) Noble biother! 
 two minutes longer! — Here is something to subscribe. 
 
 Iso. Subscribe as much as you like — but you must excuse 
 me from reading it. 
 
 Ter. There is no need. It is the oath which you have al- 9 
 ready read. — Only a few marks of your pen ! 
 
 [IsOLANi pMnds over the paper to Octavio respectfully. 
 
 Ter. Nay, nay, first come first served. There is no pre- 
 cedence here. 
 
 [Octavio runs over the paper with apparent indif- 
 ference. Tertsky watches him at some distance. 
 
 Goetz. {to TEiiTSKY.) Noble Count! with your permission 
 — Good night. 
 
 Ter. Where's the hurry? Come, one other composing 
 draught. (To ^le servants.) — Ho! 
 
 Goetz. Excuse me — an't able. 
 
 Ter. A thimble-full ! 
 
 Goetz. Excuse me. 
 
 Tief. {sits down.) Pardon me,nobleBl — ^This standing does 
 not agree with me. 
 
308 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Ter. Consult only your own convenience, General ! 
 Tief. Clear at head, sound in Btomach — only my legs 
 ^on't cairy me any longer. 
 
 /so. (pointing at his corpuJence.)' Vooi legs! how should 
 they? Such an unmerciful load! 
 
 [OCTAVIO subscrihes his name, and reaches over tlie 
 
 paper to Tektsky, who gives it to Isolani ; and 
 
 he goes to thertahle to sign his name. 
 
 Tirf. '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, m simple verity, your Swede makes no nice 
 enquiries about the season. 
 
 Ter. (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. 
 
 Iso. The sins of youth! I have already tried the Chaly- 
 beate waters. Well — I must bear it. 
 
 [Tbrtskt gives the paper to Makadas ; he steps to 
 the table to subsaibe. 
 Oct. (advancing to Butler.) You are not over fond of the 
 orgies of Bacchus, Colonel! 1 have observed it. Ton would 
 I think, find yourself more to your liking in the uproar of 
 a battle, than of a feast. 
 But. I must confess, 'tis not in my way. 
 Oct. (stepping nearer to him friendlily.) Nor in mine either, 
 I can assure yon ; audi am (not a little glad, my much 
 honoured Colonel Butler, that we agree so well in our 
 opinions. A half dozen good friends at mbst, at a small 
 round table, a glass of genuine Tokay, open hearts, and,a 
 rational conversation — that's my taste ! 
 But, 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. Ma- 
 
 RADAS in the mean time returns to Octavio, all 
 
 this takes place, the conversation with Butler 
 
 proceeding uninterrupted. 
 
 Oct. (introducing Maradas to Butler.) Don Balthasar 
 
 Maradas! likewise a man of our stamp, and long ago your 
 
 admirer. [Butler bows. 
 
 Oct. (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 Mend like you, I 
 
 have still a comer remaining. 
 
 But. (coldly.) Your obliged humble servant, my Lord 
 Lieutenant-General ! 
 
 [_The paper comes to Butler, who goes to the table to 
 
 subscribe it. The front of flie stage is vacant, so 
 
 ' that both the Piccolominis, each on the side 
 
FIEST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 309 
 
 where he had been from the commencement of the 
 scene, remain alone. 
 
 Oct. {After having some time watched his son in silence, ad- 
 vances somewhat nearer to hma.) You were long absent fiom 
 US, friend! 
 
 Max. I urgent business detained me. 
 
 Oct. And, I observe, you are still absent ! 
 
 Max. You know this crowd and bustle always makes me 
 silent. 
 
 Oct. (advameing still nearer.) May I be permitted to ask 
 what the business was that detained you ? Tertshy knows 
 it without asking ! 
 
 Max. What does Tertsky know ? 
 
 Oct. He was the only one who did not miss you. 
 
 Iso. (who has been attending to them from some distance, 
 steps up.) Well done, father! Rout out his baggage! 
 Beat up his quarters ! there is something there that should 
 not be. 
 
 Ter. {with the paper.) Is there none wanting? Have the 
 whole subscribed t 
 
 Oct. All. 
 
 Ter. (calling aloud.) Ho! Who subscribes ? 
 
 But. (to Tertsky.) Count the names. There ought to be 
 just thirty. 
 
 Ter. Here is a cross. 
 ' Tlef. That's my mark. 
 
 Iso. He cannot write ; but his cross is a good cross, and 
 is honoured by Jews as well as Christians. 
 
 Oct. (presses on to Max.) Come, General! let us go. It 
 is late. 
 
 Ter. One Piccolomini only has signed. 
 
 Iso. (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 
 looTcs upon vacantly. ' 
 
 Scene XIV. — ( To these enter Illo from the inner room. Se 
 has in his hand the golden service-cap, and is extremfily 
 distempered with drinking; Goetz and Butler follow 
 him, endeavouring to keep /ram back.) 
 Jllo. What do you want ? Let me go. 
 Goetz and But. Drink no more, lllo ! For heaven's sake, 
 drink no more. 
 
 nio. (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 — for- 
 gotten! I esteem you infinitely. (Embracing him re- 
 " I.) You have not a dearer friend on earth than I^ 
 
310 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 but that you know. The fellow that cries rogue to you 
 calls ine villain — and I'll strangle him! — my dear friend ! 
 
 Ter, {wUapei-ingtoMm.) Art in thy senses ? For heaven's 
 sake, lUo ! think where you are. 
 
 Illo, (aloud.) What do you mean? There are none but 
 friends here, are there? (Looks round the whole circle with, 
 a jolly and triumphant air.) Not a sneaker amoug us, thank 
 heaven ! i 
 
 Ter. (to BtTTLBK, eagerly.) Take him off with you, force 
 him off, I entreat you, Butler ! 
 , But. (to Illo.) Field Marshal ! a word with you. 
 
 \_Lead8 him to the 8ide-l>oard. 
 Illo. (cordially.) A thousand tor one; Fill — Fil! it once 
 more up to the brim. — To this gallant man's health ! 
 
 lao. (to Max. who all the while has been staring on the 
 paper with fixed hut vacant eyes.) Slow and sure, my noble 
 brother ? — Hast parsed it all yet ? — Some words yet to gii 
 through ?— Ha ? 
 
 Max. (waking as from a drearn.) What am I to do ? 
 Ter. and at the same time Isolani. Sign your name. , 
 
 [OcTAViO directs Ms eyes on him with intense anxiety. 
 Max. (returns the paper.) Let it stay till to-morrow. It 
 is 6Msmes8— to-day I am not sufficiently collected. Send it 
 to me to-morrow. 
 
 Ter. Nay, collect yourself a little. 
 
 Iso. 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 all 
 have sighed. 
 
 Ter. (to OCTAVIO.) Use your influence. Instruct him. 
 Oct. My son is at the age of discretion. 
 Illo. (leaves the senice-oap on the side-ioard.) What's the 
 dispute ? 
 
 Ter. 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, goodnight! 
 
 Illo. No you come not off so! The Duke shall learn 
 
 who are his friends. lAll collect round Ii-LO and Max. 
 
 Max. What my sentiments are towards the Duke, tlie 
 
 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 lor 
 little better than _ dullards — nothing pleases him but 
 what's outlandish. 
 
 Tert. (in extreme embarrassment, to the commander, who at 
 Illo's words gave a sudden start,- as preparing to resent them.) 
 It is the wine that speaks, and not his reason. Att^np: 
 pot to him, I entreat you. 
 
FIKST PAKT OF ^VALLENSTEIN. 311 
 
 Iso. (with a Utter laugh.) Wine invents nothing : it only 
 tattles. 
 
 Ilia. He who is not with me is against me. Your tender 
 consciences! Unless they can slip but by a back door, by 
 a puny proviso 
 
 Tert. (inieriiipting him.) He is stark mad — don't listen 
 to him ! 
 
 Illo. (raising his mice to the highest pitch.) Unless they 
 can slip out by a ^i-OMSo.^What of the proviso? Tlio 
 devil take this proviso ! 
 
 Max. (has his attention roused, and looks again into tlio_ 
 paper. ) What is there here then of such perilous import I 
 You make me curious — I must look closer at i t. 
 
 Tert. (in a low voice to Illo.) What are you doing, Illc ? 
 You are ruining us. 
 
 Tie/, (to KOLA'ITO.) Ay, ay! I observed, that before wo 
 sat down to supper, at wag road differently. 
 
 Goetz. Why, I seemed to.thiuk so too. 
 
 Isol. What do I care for that 1 Where there stand other 
 names, mine can stand too. 
 
 Tie/. 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. 
 
 Isol. (to one of the Generals.) DJd the Duke make any of 
 these provisos when he gave you your regiment ? 
 
 Tert. (to GoETZ.) Or when' he gave you the office of ar- 
 my-purveyancer, which brings you in yearly a thousand 
 pistoles I 
 
 Illo. He is a rascal who mates us out to be rogues. If 
 there be any one that wants satisfaction, let him say so, — 
 I am his man. 
 
 Tief. Softly, softly ! 'Twas but a word or two. 
 
 Mw». (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 h^s , 
 sword in the other.) SuhBOiihe — Judas! 
 
 Isol. Out upon you, Illo ! 
 
 Oct. Tert. But. (all together.) Down with the sword! 
 
 Max. (rushes on him and suddenly disarms him, then to 
 Count Tektsky.) Take him off to bed: 
 
 [Max. leares the stage. Illo cursing and raving is held 
 back by some of the officers, and amidst a universal 
 confusion the curtain drops. 
 
312 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 Scene t.—J Chamber inFiccoi^OMrsi'sMansion. — ItiaMgfit. 
 
 OCTAVIO PiCCOLOMiNi. A Valet de Chambre, with lights. 
 
 Oct. And when jny son comes in, conduct him 
 
 What is the hour? [hither. 
 
 Valet. 'Tis on the point of morning. 
 
 Oct. Set down the light. We mean not to undress. 
 fou may retire to sleep. 
 
 lExit Valet. Octavio paces, musing, across the cham- 
 her; 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-r-'tis my nature — 
 Thou know'st, in such matters I must follow 
 My own light, not another's. 
 
 Oct. (goes up to him and 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. 
 
 Oct. I will do so. 
 
 For after what has taken place this night. 
 There must remain no secrets 'twLxt us two. 
 
 \_Both seat themselves. 
 Max. Piccolomini ! what thiukest 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. 
 
 Oct. And on no other ground hadst thou refused ■ 
 The signature they fain had wrested from thee ? 
 
 Max. It was a serious business 1 was absent — 
 
 The. affair itself seemed not so urgent to me. 
 
 Oct. Be open, Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion f 
 
 Max. Suspicion! what suspicion ? Not the least. 
 
 Oct. Thank thy good angel, Piccolomini : 
 He drew thee back unconscious from the abyss. 
 
 Max. I know not what thou meanest. 
 
 Oct. 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! 
 
 Oct. Patience ! Seat yourself. Much yet 
 
 Hast thou to Iiear from me, friend ! — hast fur years 
 Lived in incomprehensible illusion. 
 
FIEST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. ' 3l3 
 
 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 speakest, 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. 
 
 Oot. 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, 
 
 \_MiAng hia eye steadfastly on Ms son's fac6. 
 Which thou concealest, forces mine irom me. 
 
 [Max. iiltempts to answer, iut hesitates, and casts his eyes 
 to the ground embarrassed. 
 
 Oct. (after a pause.) 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 
 Eicpect to hear it from thy mouth. 
 
 Oct. That mouth. 
 
 From which thou hearest it at this present moment, 
 Dotli warrant thee that it is no Priest's legend. 
 
 Max. How mere a maniac they supposed the Duke; 
 What, he can meditate V — the Duke ? — can dream 
 "That he can lure away fulV 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 ? 
 
 Oct. Such a deed, 
 
 With such a front of infamy, the Duke 
 No ways desires — what he requires of us 
 Hears 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 te it. 
 
314 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 All parts of the Empire will he pacify, 
 Aud for his trouble will retain iu payment , 
 
 (What he has already in his^ripe)— Bohemia! 
 I Max. Has he, Octavio, merited of us, 
 That we — that we should tbink so, vilely of hun? 
 . Oct. What we would think is.not the question here. 
 The affair speaks for itself — aud clearest proofs ! 
 Hear me, my sou — '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 iu the camp ! All bands ai-e loosed — 
 Loosed all the bands, that link the officer 
 To his Uege 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 traitors' poulards, 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 torturest, shatterest me. I kno-w 
 That oft we tremble at an empty terror ; 
 But the false phantasm brings a real misery. 
 
 Oct. 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 stiHe it. The Generals 
 Are many of them long ago won over ; 
 The subalterns are vacillating — whole 
 Regiments and garrisons are vacillating. 
 To foreigners our strongholds are entrusted; 
 To that suspected Shafgotoh is the whole 
 Force of Silesia given up : to Tertsky 
 Five regiments, foot and horse — to Isolani, 
 To lUo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops. 
 
 Max. Likewise to both of us. 
 
 Oct. 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 angel 
 With which he doubts not to catch thee. 
 
 Mam. No! nol 
 
 I tell thee — ^no ! 
 
 Oct. O open yet thine eyes ! 
 
 Auil to what purpose think'st thou he has called ita 
 Hither to Pilsen i— to avail himself 
 
FIRST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 315 
 
 Of ouj- 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 ostages. 
 
 Therefore doth noble Galas stand a'oof ; 
 
 Thy father, too,- thou would'st not ave seen here, 
 
 If higher duties haVi not held him lettered. 
 
 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. 
 
 Oct. And know'st thou what it is which we must do 7 
 That Illo's diiinken 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 4 
 
 To nothing good f 
 
 Mcac. That counterfeited paper 
 
 Appear 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 inseparably. Trust me, father, 
 The Duke knows nothing of all this. 
 
 Oct. 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— (a pause) — Max ! I had it all 
 From his own mouth — from the Duke's month I had it. 
 
 Max. {in excessive agitation.) No !— -no ! — never ! 
 
 Oct. 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. 
 
 Oet. Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me: 
 L,^nd having construed my astonishment 
 
316 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Into a scruple of his power, lie 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! — (xm not be! 
 Dost thou not see, it caniiot ! 
 Thou wouldest of necessity have shewn.him 
 Such horror, such deep loathing — that or he 
 Had talien thee for his better genius, or 
 Thou stood'st not now a living man before me^ 
 
 Oct. I have laid open my objections to him, 
 Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness; 
 But my abhorrence, the full sentiment 
 Of my tvhole heart— that I have still kept sacred 
 To my own consciousness. 
 
 Max. . And iliou hast been 
 
 So treacherous ? That looks not like my father ! 
 I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell mo 
 E-fll of him ; much less can I now do it, 
 That thou calumniatest thy own self. 
 
 Oct. I did not thrust myself into his secresy. 
 
 Max. Uprightness taerited his confidence. 
 
 Oct. He was no longer worthy of sincerity. 
 
 Max. Dissimulation, sure, was still less worthy 
 Of thee, Octavio! 
 
 Oct. Gave I him a cause 
 
 To entertain a scruple of my honour? 
 
 Max. That he did not, evinced"' Is confidence 
 
 Oct. Dear son, it is not always possible 
 Still to preserve that infant purity 
 Which the voice teaches iu our inmost heart. 
 Still in alarum, for ever on the watch 
 Against the wiles of wicked men, e'en Virtue 
 Will sometimes bear away her outward robea 
 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 sophismB : 
 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 I 
 
 Mao;. 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 kirn. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 3W 
 
 For a good purpose ! Silence, I entreat thee — 
 My Mend thou stealest not from me — 
 Let me not lose my father ! 
 
 Oct. (suppressing resentment.) As yet thou know'st not all, 
 my son. I have 
 Yet somewhat to disclose to thee. [.After a pause. 
 
 : Duke Friediand 
 
 Hath made his preparations. He relies 
 Upon his stars. He deems us unprovided, 
 And thinks to fall upon us by surprise. 
 Yea, in his dream of hope, he grasps already ' 
 
 The golden circle in his hand. He errs. 
 We too have been in action — he but grasps 
 His-evil fate, most evil, most mystenous I 
 
 Max. O nothing rash, my sire ! By all that's good 
 Let me invoke thee — no precipitation I 
 
 Oct. With light tread stole he on his evil way, 
 And light of tread hath Vengeance stole on after him. 
 Unseen he 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 ? 
 
 Ool. (seizes the patent.) Max! [Apause. 
 
 : 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 thoii nourishest to knit thyself ' 
 Yet closer to him 
 
 Max. Father 
 
 Oct. O my son ! 
 
 I trust thy heart undoubtingly; But am I 
 Equally sure of thy collectedness ? 
 Wilt thou be able, with calm countenance, 
 To cuter 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 tahis a paper out of his escritoirefka/nd gives it 
 to him. 
 
 Mav. What ? how ? a full Imperial patent ! 
 
 Oct. Eead it. 
 
 Max. (just glances on it.) Duke Friediand sentenced and 
 condemned ! 
 
 Oct. Even so. 
 
318 THE PICCOLOMmi, OR THE 
 
 Max. (throws down the paper.) O thisistoomucli! O un- 
 happy eiTor ! 
 
 Oct. Bead on. Collect thyself. 
 
 Mux. {after he Ms read further, loith a look of affright and 
 aatoniahment on Ma father.) How ! what! Thou ! thou! 
 
 Oct. But for the present moment, till the King 
 Of Hungary may safely join the army, 
 Is tiie 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, 
 
 Oct. What hazard I incur thereby, I know 
 In the great band 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 ? 
 
 Oct.< The Emperor is no tyrant. 
 
 The deed alone he'll puuish, 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 f A wicked step 
 Ne'er will he take ; but thou- mightest easily, 
 Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret him. 
 
 Oct. 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 nuinforced 
 Till some a(^ is committed which convicts him 
 Of an high-treason, without doubt or plea. 
 And that shall sentencp him. 
 
 MttiX. J ~ But who the judge ? 
 
 Oct. Thyself. 
 
 Max. For ever, then, this paper will lie idle. 
 
 Oct. Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved. 
 
riRST PART OP WALLENSTEIN. 319, 
 
 After the counter-promise of tins evening, 
 
 II cannot be but be must deem himself 
 
 Secure of the majority with ms ; 
 
 Ami 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 Ehinegrave 
 
 Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches 
 
 To the Bohemian Forest. What this purports, 
 
 Remains unknown ; anil, to confirm suspicion. 
 
 This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here. 
 
 Max. I have thyword. Thou'lt not proceed to action 
 Before thou hast convinced me — me myself. 
 
 Oot. Is it possible f Still, after all thou kuow'st. 
 Canst thou believe still in his innocence ? 
 
 Max. {with enthusiasm.) Thy judgment may mistake ; my 
 heart cannot. {^Moderates hin voice and manner. 
 
 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 vfroug. 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. 
 
 Oct. I will await it. 
 
 Scene II. — Octavio and Max. as Tiefore. . To thprn the Valet 
 of the Chamber. , 
 
 Oct. How now, then ? 
 
 ' Vol. A dispatch is at the door. , 
 
 Oct. So early ? From whom comes he then? Who is it ? 
 
 Vol. That be refused to tell me. 
 
 Oct., Lead him in: 
 
 And, hark you — let it not transpire. 
 
 [Bxii Valet — the Comet steps in. 
 , Oct. Ha! Comet — is it you? and from Count Galas? 
 Give me your letters. 
 
 Cor. The Lieutenant-general 
 
 Trusted it not to letters. 
 
 Oct. And what is it ? 
 
 Cor. He bade me tell you — Dare I speak openly here ? 
 
 Oct. My son knows all. 
 
 Cor. We have him. 
 
 Oct. ■ Whom? 
 
 Cor. Sesina, 
 
 Ths old negotiator. 
 
 Oct. (eagerly.) And yoa have him ? 
 
 Cor. , In the Bohemian Fprest Captain Mohrbrand 
 
320 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Found and secured him yester morning early : 
 He was proceeding then to Regenspurg, 
 And on him were dispatches for the Swede. 
 
 Oct. And the dispatches 
 
 Cor. The Lieutenant-general, 
 
 Sent them that instant to Vienna, and 
 The prisoner with them. 
 
 Oct. This is, indeed, a tiding ! 
 
 That fellow is a precious casket to us, ' 
 
 Enclosing weighty things. — Was much found ori. him ? 
 
 Cor. I think, six packets, with Count Tertsky's d.rms. 
 
 Oct. None in the Duke's own hand ? 
 
 Cor. Not that I know. 
 
 Oct. And old Sesina ? 
 
 Cor. 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. 
 
 Oct. la Altringer then with your Lord ? I heard 
 That he lay sick at Linz. 
 
 Cor. These three days past 
 
 He's with my master, the Lieutenant-general, 
 At Frauenbur^. Already have they sixty 
 Small companies together, chosen men ; 
 EespectfuUy they greet you with assurances. 
 That they are only waiting your commands. 
 
 Oct. In a few days may great events take place. 
 And when must you return ? 
 
 Cor. I wait yonr orders; 
 
 ' Oct. Remain till evening. 
 
 [Cornet signifies his assent and obeisance, and is going, 
 
 Oct. No one saw you — ^ha ? 
 
 Cor. No living creature. Through the cloister wicket 
 The Capuchins, as usual, let me in. 
 
 Oct. 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 mast decide our fortunes will be drawn. [JSJrii Cornet, 
 
 Scene III.— Octavio awdMAX. Piccolomini. 
 
 Oct. Well — and what now, son ? AH will soon be clear; 
 For all, I'm certain, went through that Sesina. 
 Max. (wlw through the whole of the foregoing scene has heen 
 in. a violent and visible struggle offeeiings, at length starit 
 as one resolved.) I will procure me light a shorter way. 
 Farewell. 
 Oct. Where now ? — Remain here. 
 
 Maa. To the Duke. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 321 
 
 Oct. (alarmed.) What 
 
 Max. (reiurning.) If thou hast believed that I shall act 
 
 A part in this thy pl^iy 
 
 Thou has 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 asked him not — 
 
 He did it all at his own hazard — and 
 
 My mouth has never lied to ^im." — No, no ! 
 
 What a friend takes me for, that I must be. 
 
 —I'll to the Duke J ere yet this da^ 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! — / still am his believer. 
 
 Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters 
 
 >lay furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him, 
 
 ilovv far m ly 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. 
 
 Oc(.'Thou wilt? . 
 
 Max. I will, as sure as this heart beats. 
 
 Oct. I have, indeed, miscalculated on thee. 
 I calculated on a prudent son, 
 Who would have blessed the hand beneficent 
 That jilucked him back from the abyss — and lo ! 
 A fascinated being I discover, 
 Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion vrilders, 
 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 yonr state-policy. 
 Compel him to the measure : it may happen. 
 Because you are determined that he is guilty. 
 Guilty ye'H make him. All retreat cut off, 
 You close up ev,ery outlet, hem 'him in 
 Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him— = 
 Yea ye, — -^^ force him, in his desperation. 
 
3J2 THE PICCOLO-MINI, OR THE 
 
 To set fire to his prison. Fatlier! 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_hetwixt 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 hit exit the curtain drops. 
 
 ACT IV. • ' ' 
 
 Scene I. — A Boom' fitted up for astrological Labours, andpro' 
 videdwith celestial Charts, with Globes, Telescopes, Quad- 
 rants, and other mathematical Instruments. — fieven Colos- 
 sal Figures, representing the Planets, each with a trans- 
 parent Star of a different Colour on its Head, stand in a 
 Semicircle in the Background, so that Mars aii^ Saturn are' 
 nearest the Eye. — The Semainder of the Scene, and its Dis- 
 positions, is given in the Fourtk Scene of the Second Act. — 
 there must be a Curtain over the Figures, which may be 
 dropped, and conceal them on Occasions. 
 
 [ire the Fifth Scene of this Act it must be dropped ; but, in the 
 Seventh Scene, it must be again drawnnp wholly or in pari,'] 
 
 Wallbnstbin at a blade Table, on which a Speculum Asl.ro- 
 logicum is described with Chalk. Sbjji is taking Observa- 
 tions through a vjindow. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Wal. 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 corradiato; 
 And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter 
 And Venus, take between, them the malignant 
 
FIRST PAET OP WALLENSTEm, 323 
 
 Slily-malicious Mars, and thus compel 
 luto my service thaD old iniscbief-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 blessedinfluences and sweet aspects. 
 Now they have conquered the old enemy, 
 And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me. 
 
 Seiti. {who has come down from the window.) And in a cop 
 ner house, your Highness — think of that ! 
 That makes each influence of double strength. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Semi. And both the mighty Lumina by no 
 Maleficus affronted. LdT Satumus, • 
 
 Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Domo. 
 
 Wal. The empire of Safcurnus 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, comple,te 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 jonmey still, and sojourn hot. 
 
 \_There are knocks at the door. 
 There's some one knocking there. See who it is. 
 
 Ter. {from without.) Open, and let me in. ^ 
 
 Wal. Aye — 'tis Tertsky: 
 
 What is there of such urgpnce ? We are busy. 
 
 Tm: {from without.) Lay allaside at present, I entreat you. 
 It suffers no delaying. 
 
 Wal. Open, Seni! 
 
 [ WhAle Seni opetns the door for Tbetsk y, Wallbnstbin 
 draws the curtain over thefigwes. 
 
 Ter. (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 Teetsky. 
 
 Wal. {to Tertsky.) Who has been taken ? — ^Who is given 
 
 np? 
 7cr. The man who knows our secrets, who knows every 
 N . ;;ociation with the Swede and Saxon, 
 
5'24 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Through-whose bands all and everything has passed — 
 Wal. ^drawing back, ) Nfliy, not Sesina ? — Say, No ! I 
 entreat thee. 
 ' Ter. All on his road for Eegensptirg to the Swede / 
 
 He was plunged down upon By Galas' a^ent, 
 Who had been long in ambush, lurking tor him. 
 There must have been found on him my whole packet 
 To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstirn, to Ainheim : 
 All this is in their bands ; they have now an insight 
 Into the whole — our measures, and our motives. 
 
 Scene HI. — To fhem enters Illo. 
 
 Illo. (to Tbstsky.) Has he heard it ? 
 
 Ter. He has heard it. 
 
 Illo. (to WALr-ENSTEiN-.) 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 5 
 Eetveat is now no longer in thy power. 
 
 Ter. They have documents against us, and in hands, • 
 Which show beyond all power of contradictioii — 
 
 Wal. 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'niug ? 
 His word must pass for thy word with the Swede, 
 And not with those that hate thee at Vienna. 
 
 Ter. 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 purpose8,-will he retain them? 
 
 Illo. Thyself does not conceive it possible ; 
 And since they now have evidence authentic 
 How far thou hast already gone, speali ! — tell us. 
 What art thou waiting for? thou canst no longei 
 Keep thy opmmand ; and beyond hope of rescue 
 Thon'rt lost, if thou resign'st it. 
 
 IVal. 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 ; bvit grant'st thou them a respito^ 
 
FIEST P4ET OF WALLENSTEIN. 325 
 
 Unheard, uuseen, 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 
 
 Wal. 'Tis a cursed accident ! 
 
 lllo. O I will call it a most blessed one, 
 If it work en thee as it ought to do. 
 Hurry thee on 'to action — to deciaiju — 
 The Swedish General 
 
 Wal. He's arrived ! Know'st thou 
 What his commission is 
 
 lUo. To thee alone 
 
 Will he entrust the purpose of his coming, 
 
 Wal. A cursed, cursedraocident! Yes, yes, 
 Sesina knows too much, and won't he silent. 
 
 T(T. He's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel, 
 His neck his 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 Ac, that dastardling, have strength enough [bly ! 
 
 Wal. (^lost in thought.) Their confidence is lost — ^irrepara- 
 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 
 
 lllo. Buin thee, 
 
 That it will do ! Not thy fidelity. 
 Thy weakness will be deemed the sole occasion — 
 
 TFal. {pacing up and doien in ecptreme agitation. ) What ! I 
 must realize it now in earnest. 
 Because I toy'd too freely with the thought ? 
 Accursed he who dallies with a devil ! 
 And must I — I must realize it now — 
 Now, whilo I have the power, it must take place ? 
 
 lllo. Now — now — ere, they can ward and parry it ! 
 
 Wal. (looking at the paper of signatures.) I have the Gen- 
 erals' word — a written promise ! 
 Max. Pjccolomini stands not here — how's that ? 
 ' Ter. It was he fancied 
 
 lllo. Mere self-willedriess. 
 
 There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you. 
 
 Wal. He is quite right-7-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. 
 
 lllo. Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy 
 To lead them over to the enemy 
 Than to the Spaniard. 
 
 Wal. I will hear, however, 
 
 What the Swede has to say to me. 
 
326 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 lUo. (eagerly to Tertsky.) Go, call him! 
 He stands without the door in waiting. 
 
 Wal. Stay I 
 
 Stay yet a little. It hath taken me 
 All by surprise, — it eame too quick upon me ; 
 'Tis wholly novel, that an accident, , 
 
 With its dark lordship, and blind agency, • 
 Should force me on with it. 
 
 Itlo. First hear him only, 
 
 And after weigh it. • ' lExeunt Tertsky and IlSjO. 
 
 • Scene IV. 
 
 WaUenstein {in soliloquy.) Is it possible ? 
 Is't so ? I can no longer what 1 would f 
 No longer draw back at my liking ? I 
 Must do the deed, because I ihought of it, 
 And fed this heart here with a dream ? Because 
 I did not scowl temptation from my presence. 
 Dallied with thoughts of possible fuMlmenl,, 
 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 ms&e the fancy minister to hope. 
 To fill the air with pretty toys of air. 
 And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'waad me ? 
 Was not (he will kept free ? Beheld I not 
 The road of duty close beside me — hut 
 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, ' 
 Eises obedienjt to the spells I muttered 
 And meant not — my own doings tower behind me. 
 
 \_Pauses and remains in deep though', 
 A punishable man I seem, the guilt, 
 Try what I vfill, 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. 
 Hut being conscious of the iaiuocence 
 Of my intent, myuucorrupted will, 
 I ga\ o way to my humours, to ?:;y iiassion ; 
 
FIEST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 327 
 
 Bold were my -words, becausamy 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 jne. IFausea again. 
 
 How else . si. ce that tLe heart's unbiass'd instinct 
 
 Impelled me to the daring deed, which now ' 
 
 Necessi' , s If-preservatiou, orders. 
 
 Stern is thu On-Iook of Necessity, ■ 
 
 Not without shudder may a human hand 
 
 Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny. 
 
 My deed wa mine, remaining in my bosom. 
 
 Once suffered to escape from its safe corner 
 
 Within the heart, its nursery and birth-place, 
 
 Sent forth i_to the Foreign, it belongs 
 
 For ever to thosp sly malicious powers 
 
 Whom never art of man conciliatecf. 
 
 [ Paoea in agitation through the chamber, then pauses, and 
 after the pause, breaks out again into audible soliloquy. 
 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. 
 Th^it 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 heing, 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 
 
328 THE PICCOLOMINI, OETHE 
 
 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, wlio 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. — Walienstbin and Wkangel. 
 
 Wal. (after having fixed a searching looTc on him.) Your 
 name is Wrangel ? 
 
 Wran. Gustavo Wrangel, General 
 
 Of the Sudermanian Blues. 
 
 Wal. It was a Wrangel 
 
 Who injured me materially at Stralsund, 
 And by his brave re istance was the cause 
 Of the opposition wh ch that sea-port made. 
 
 Wran It was the doing of the element 
 With which you fought, my Lord ! and not my merit. 
 The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom, 
 Tlie sea and land, it seemed, were not to serve 
 One and the same. 
 
 Wal. (makes the motion for Mm to take a seat, and seats 
 himsel".) Aul where are your credentials? 
 Come you provided with full powers, Sir General T 
 
 Wran. There are so many scruples yet to solve 
 
 Wal. (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. 
 
 Wran. He sayg 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. 
 
 Wal. Yes, he might say it safely. — General Wrangel, 
 
 \_Taking his hand affectionately. 
 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 yo.i 
 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 : ami smce 
 Owrintere^tg so run in one direetiou, 
 
FIRST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 329 
 
 K'en let us have a thorough confidence 
 Each in the other. 
 
 Wran. ' Confidence will come 
 
 Has each but only first security. 
 
 Wal. The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust me; 
 And, I confess — the gain does not lie wholly 
 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? 
 
 Wran. I have here an office merely, no opinion. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Wran. That I believe. So far would no one go 
 Who was not forced to it. \_After a pause. 
 
 What may have impeyed 
 Your princely Highness in this wise to act 
 Toward your Sovereign Lord and Emperor, 
 Beseems not us to expound or criticize. 
 The Swede is fighting for his good old cause. 
 With his good sword and conscience. This concurrence. 
 This opportunity, in in our favour. 
 And all advantages in war are lawful. 
 We take what offers without questioning ; 
 And if all have its due and just proportions 
 
 Wal. Of what then are ye doubting it Of my will f 
 Or of my power ? I pledged me to the Chancellor, 
 Would he trust me with sixteen thousand men. 
 That I wouli instantly go over to them 
 With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops. 
 
 Wran. Your Grace is known to be a mighty war-chief, 
 To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus 
 'Tis talked of still with fresh astonislnnent, 
 How some years past, beyond all human faith. 
 You called an army forth, like a creation : 
 But yet 
 
 Wal. , But yet? 
 
 Wran. But still the Chancellor thinks, 
 
 It might yet be an easier thing from nothing , 
 To call forth sixty thousand men of battle, 
 Then to persuade one sixtieth part of "them — 
 
 Wal. What now 1 Out with it, friend ? 
 
 Wran. To break their oatha. 
 
 Wal. And he thinks sof — 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 bauuers. — Among you, whoe'er deserts 
 
330 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 To the enemy, hath broken covenant 
 
 ■\yith two Lords at one time. — We've no such fancies. 
 
 ffm». Great God in Heaven! Have then, the people here 
 No house and home, no fire-side, no altar ? 
 
 Wal. 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 hojises , 
 
 Here in Bohemia, this has none — no country ; 
 This Is an outcast of all foreign lands, 
 Uiiclaim'd by town or tribe, to whom belongs 
 Nothing, except the universal bud. 
 
 Wran. But then' the Nobles and the Oflcers ? 
 Such a, desertion, such a felony, 
 It is without example, my Lord Dute, 
 In tbe world's history. 
 
 Wal. They are all mine — 
 
 Mine unconditionally — mine on all terms. 
 Not me, your own eyes you must trust. 
 
 \_He gives him the paper containing the written oath. 
 ' Wrangel reads it through, and, having read it, 
 lays it on the table, remaining silent. 
 So then ? 
 Now comprehend you? \ 
 
 Wran. Comprehend, who can? 
 
 My Lord Duke ; I will lef the mask drop — yes ! 
 I've fall powers for a final settlement. 
 The Ehinegrave 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. 
 
 Wal. What asks the Chancellor f 
 
 Wran. (considerately.) Twelve regiments, every man a 
 Swede — my head 
 The warranty — and all might prove at last 
 Only false play 
 
 Wal. (starting.) Sir Swede! 
 
 Wran. (calmly proceeding .) Am therefore forced 
 T' insist thereon, that he do formally. 
 Irrevocably break with the Emperor, 
 Else not a Swede is truste.d to Duke Friedland. 
 
 Wal. Come, brief, and open ! What is the demand? ' 
 
 Wran. 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. 
 
 Wal. That is much indeed! • 
 
 Prague I — Egra's granted — But — ^but Prague ! — 'Twon't del 
 I give you every security 
 Which ypu may ask of me in common reason — 
 But Prague — Bohemia — these, Sir General, 
 
FIEST PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 331 
 
 I can myself protect. , 
 
 Wran. We doubt it not. 
 
 But 'tis not the protection that is now 
 Our sole concern. We -want secxirity, 
 That we shall not expend our men and money 
 All to no purpose. 
 
 Wal. 'Tis hut reasonable. 
 
 Wran. And till we are indemnified, so loiig 
 Stays Prague in pledge. 
 
 Wal. Then trust you us so little ? 
 
 Wran. (rising.) The Swede, if lie 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 cMnkiug 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. 
 
 Wal, Help to keep down the common enemy, 
 And the fair border land must needs be yours. 
 
 Wran. But when the common enemy lies vanquished, 
 Who knits together our new fi?iendi3hip then ? 
 We know Duke Friedland ! though perhaps the Swede 
 'Ought not t' have known it, that you carry on 
 Secret negooiations with the Saxons. 
 Who is our warranty, thai.we are not 
 The sacrifices in those articles 
 Which 'tis thought needful to concefil from us ? 
 
 Wdl. (rises.) Think you of something better, Gustave 
 Of Prague no more. [ Wrangel f 
 
 Wran. Here my commission ends. 
 
 Wal. Surrender up to you my capital ! 
 Far lie ver. would I face about, and step 
 Back to my Emperor. 
 
 Wran. IS time yet permits — :— 
 
 * A great stone near Liitzen; since called the Sveede's Stone, the 
 body of thdir great King having been found aii the foot of It, after 
 the battle in which he lost his lite. 
 
332 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 TVal. That lies with me, even now, at any hour. 
 
 U'l-an. Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer, 
 Jfo longer since Sesina's been a prisoner. 
 
 [Wailenstein is strvxil(, and silenced. 
 My Lord Duke hear me — We believe that you 
 At present do mean hononrably 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 
 Contepts himself with Albstadt, to your Grace 
 He gives up Eatschin and the narrow side. 
 But Egfa, above all, must open to us, 
 Ere we can think of any junction. 
 
 Wal. 1 You, 
 
 You therefore must I trust, and you not me ? 
 I will consider of your proposition. 
 
 ffran. I must entreat that your consideration 
 Occupy not too long a time. Already 
 Has this negociation, 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. 
 
 Wal. Ye press me hard. A measure, such as this, 
 Ought to be thought of. 
 
 Wran. ' Ay ! but think of this too, 
 
 That sudden action only can procure i t 
 Success — think first of this, your Highness. 
 
 \_ExU Wrangel. 
 
 Scene VT. — Wallenstein Tertsky, and Illo. (re-enter.) 
 
 Illo. Is't all right ? 
 
 Ter. Are you compromised ? 
 
 Illo. This Swede 
 
 Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compromised. 
 
 Wul. As yet is nothing settled : and (well weiglied) 
 I feel myself inclined to leave it so. 
 
 Ter. How ? What is that « 
 
 Wal. Come on me what will come, 
 
 The doing evil to avoid an evil 
 Cannot be good ! 
 
 Ter. Nay, but bethink you, Duke ? 
 
 Wal, To live upou 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. 
 
 Wal. Who sent for you ? There is no business here 
 For women. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEDC. 333 
 
 Coun. I km come to bid you joy. 
 
 Wal. Use thy authority, Tertsky, bid her go. 
 
 Coun. Come I perhaps too early ? I hope not. 
 
 Wal. Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you. 
 You know it is the weapon that destroys me. 
 I am routed, if a woman hut attack me. 
 I cannot traffic in the trade of words 
 With that unreasoning sex. 
 
 Coun. I had already 
 
 Given the Bohemians a ting. 
 
 Wal. {sarcastically.) They have one, 
 
 In consequence, no doubt. 
 
 Coun. {to the others.) Ha! what new scruple T 
 
 Ter. The Duke wUl not. 
 
 Coun. He will not what he must ! 
 
 IHo. It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced, 
 When folks begin, to talk to me of conscience, 
 And of fidelity. 
 
 Coun. 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 flream is being realized, 
 The purpose ripe, the issue ascertaimed, 
 Dost thou begin to pldy the dastard now 1 
 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. 
 
 Coun. {hastily.) — Must wait. 
 
 Wal. I cannot see him now. Another time. 
 
 Ser. But for two minutes he entreats an audience. 
 Of the most urgent nature is his business. 
 
 Wal. Who knowswhathe maybriugus? I will hear him. 
 
 Coun. {laughs.) Urgent for him, no doubt; but thou may- 
 est wait. 
 
 Wal. What is it ? 
 
 Coun. Thou shalt be informed hereafter. 
 
 First let the Swede and thee be compromised, f Exit Servant. 
 
 Wal. If there were yet a choice! if yet some milder 
 Way of escape were possible— I still 
 Will chuse it, aud avoid the last extreme. 
 
 Coun. Desir'st thou nothing further? Such a way 
 Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off. 
 Forget thou thy old ^^opes, 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 <)hee — say aloud, ^ 
 
 Thou did'st but wish to prove thy fealty ; 
 
334 THE PICCOLOMmr, OE THE 
 
 Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede. 
 
 Ilh. For that too 'tis too late. They know too much, 
 He would but bear his own head to the block. 
 
 Coun. I fear not that. They have not evidence 
 To attaint him legally, and they avoid 
 Tlie avowal of an arhitary 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 | i 
 
 Be understood, that then the Duke retires, 
 There will not want a fonpal declaration. 
 The young King will administer the oath 
 To the whole army j 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 Sre-uew 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. 
 
 Wal. (in extfcme agitation.) Take her away. 
 Let in .the young Count Piccolomini. 
 
 Coun. Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee ! Canst thor 
 Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave. 
 So ignominiously to be dried up ? 
 Thy life, that arrogated such an 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 
 
 Wal. {starts up in violent agitation.) Shew me a way ont 
 of this stifling crowd. 
 Ye powers of Aidance ! Shew me such a way 
 As 2 am capable of going. — I * 
 
 Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler; 
 I cannot warm by thinking ; cannot say 
 To the good hick that turns her back upon me, 
 Magnanimously: "Go; I need thee not." 
 Cease I to work, I am annihilated. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIK. 335 
 
 Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun, 
 
 If HO 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* spealc my name 
 
 With hate and dread ; and Friedland be redemption 
 
 For each accursed deed ! 
 
 Coun. What is there here, then. 
 
 So against nature ? Help me to perceive it ! 
 let not Superstition's nightly goblins 
 Subdue thy clear bright spirit 1 Art thou bid 
 To murder ? — with abhorr'd accursed 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,t 
 Yet not a few, and for a meaner object 
 Have ventured even this, ay, and performed it. 
 What is there in thy dase 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 tiiee quickly 
 Of the power wTiich 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 ? 
 
 Wal. 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 banqueted together. He and I — 
 And the young kings themselves held me the bason 
 Wherewith to wash me — and is't come to this? 
 
 Cotm. So faithfully preserv'st thou each sniall favour. 
 And hast no memory for oontumelieei ? 
 Must I remind thee, how at Eegenspurg 
 This man repaid thy faithful services ? 
 All ranks and all conditions in the empire . [thee, 
 
 Thou hadst wronged, to make him great — ^hadst loaded on 
 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 
 
 * Could I have hazarded such a Germanism, as the use of the 
 ■word after-world, for posterity,—" Es spreche Welt und Nachwelt 
 meinen Nahmen "—might have been rendered with more literal 
 fidelity :— Let world and after-world' speak out my name, &c. 
 
 1 1 have not ventured to affront the fastidious delicacy o£ our 
 age with a literal translation of this line, 
 
 "werth 
 Die Kiageweide schaudemd aufzuregen." 
 
336 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 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 i 
 
 Has made atonement for that first Injustice. 
 V 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. 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Court. Aflection ! 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 tbe spirit giant-born, 
 Who listens only to himself, knows nothing 
 Of stipulations, duties, reverences, . 
 
 And, like the emancipated force of fire, ' 
 
 tJnmastered scorches, ere it reaches them. 
 Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy. 
 
 Wal. '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. 
 
 Coun. 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, Dukto, not th»u, 
 Who has still remained consistent with thyself, 
 But they are in the wrong, who fearing thee, 
 Entrusted such a power in hand tbey fearod. 
 For, by the laws of Spirit, in the right 
 
FIKST PART OF WALLEiSfSTEIN. 337 
 
 Is every individual chaiacter 
 
 That acts in strict consisteDoe with itself. 
 
 Self-contradiction is the only wrong. 
 
 Wert thou another being, then, when thou 
 
 Eight years ago puisuedst thy march with fire 
 
 Aiid 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, 
 
 AH to extend thy Sultan's domination ? 
 
 Then was the time to break thee in, to curb 
 
 Thy haughty wUl, to teach thee ordinance. 
 
 But no I 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 Mm. — O most flimsy superstition ! 
 
 Wal. {risikg.) 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 Ijim, 
 But most high misdemeanours 'gaiust the empire. 
 
 Coun. Then betwixt thee and liim (confess it Friedland !) 
 The point can be no more of right and duty. 
 Only of power and the 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 conc[uest 
 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, " Xow's the time !" The starry courses 
 Hast thou thy life-long measured to no purpose ? 
 The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings f 
 
 \_ Pointing to the different otjecta'iii the roam. 
 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 notlung t 
 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 ? — 
 & 
 
338 THK PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 Wal. (during this last speech walks up and down with inward 
 struggles, labouring with passions ; kops suddenly, 
 stands stUl, then interrupting the Countess.) 
 Send Wrangel to me— I will instantly 
 Dispatch three couriers 
 
 nio. {hurrying out,) God in heaven be praised ! 
 
 Wal. It is hia evil genius and mine. 
 Our evil genius ! It chastises A im 
 Tlu'ough me, the instrument of his ambition ; 
 And 1 expect no less, than that Revenge 
 E'en now is whetting for mg breast the poniard/ 
 Who sows the serpent's teeth, let him not hope 
 To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime 
 Has, in the moment of its perpetration 
 Its own avenging .angel — dark Misgiving, 
 An olninous Sinking at the inmost heiirt. 
 He can uo longer trust me. — Then no longer 
 Can I retreat — so come that which must couie. — 
 Still destiny preserves its due relatious, 
 The heart within us is its absolute 
 Vicegerent. [ To Tertskt. 
 
 Go, conduct you Gustavo Wrangel 
 To my state-cabinet. — Myself will speak to 
 The couriers. — And dispatch immediately 
 A servant for Octavio Piccolomini. 
 
 [ To the Countess who cannot conceal her triumph. 
 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 heis making his exit the curtain drops. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — As in the preceding Act. Wallensteix, Octavio 
 Piccolomini. 
 
 Wal. {coming forward in conversation.) He semis -ne word 
 from Linz, that he lies sick : 
 But I have sure inteliigeuce, that he 
 Secrets himseK at Frauenberg with Galas. 
 Secure the.n both, and send them to me hither. ' 
 
 Remember, thou tak'st on thee the command 
 Of those same Spanish regiments, — constantly 
 Make preparation, and be never ready ; 
 And if they urge thee to draw out against me. 
 Still answer yes, and stand as thou wert fetterad. 
 I know, that it is doing thee a service 
 To keep theo out of action in this business. 
 
: . FIRST PART Ot WALLENSTEIN. 339 
 
 Tlion lovest to linger on in fair appearances ; 
 Stops of extremity are not thy i)rovinc6, 
 Therefore have I sought ont this part forthee. 
 Thoa wilt this time be of most service to nle 
 Ky thy inertness. The mean time, if fortune 
 Declare itself on my side,- thou wilt know 
 What is to do. 
 
 JUnter Max. Picgolomini. 
 
 Now go, Octavio. 
 This night must thou he off, take my own horses : i 
 I lim here I keeji with me — ^make short' farewell — 
 Trust/me, I thinU we all shall meet again 
 In joy and thriving fortunes. 
 
 Oct. {to his San.) I shall see you 
 
 Yet ere I go. 
 
 Scene II.— Wallebtstein, Max. Piccolomini. 
 
 Max. (advances to Mm. ) My General ! 
 
 Wal. That am I no longer, if 
 
 Thou styl'st thyself the Emperor's ofScer. 
 
 Max. Then thou wilt leave the army, General ? 
 
 fl'al. I have renounced the service of the Emperor. 
 
 Max. And thou wilt leave the army ? 
 
 Wal. 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 
 \\ here the sums square in proof; 
 But where it happens, that of two sure evils 
 One must be talsen, where the heart not wholly 
 Brings itself hack 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. 
 
 [fle stops himself, expecting Piccolomini's answer. 
 I have ta'en thee by surprise. Answer me not. 
 I grant thee time to recollect thyself. 
 
 [fie nses, and retires at the back of the stage. Max. 
 remains for a long time motionless, in a trance of 
 excessive anguish. At hiu Ji,rnt motion Walle'^- 
 STEijf returns, and places himself before him. 
 
340 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 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 tronble 
 To find out my own road. Thee have I followed. 
 With most implicit unconditional faith, 
 Sure of the rigiij 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. 
 
 Wal. Soft cradled thee thy Fortune till to-day; 
 Thy [duties thou could'st exercise in sport, 
 Indulge all lovely instincts, act for ever 
 With undivided 'heart. It can remain 
 No longer thus. iLike enemies, the roads 
 Start from each other. Duties strive with duties. 
 Thou must needs chuse 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 ofTieaven! what a change is ^his. 
 Beseems it me to o£fer such persuasion 
 To thee, who like the fixed star of the pole 
 Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless ocean t 
 O ! what a rent thou makest in my heart ! 
 The ingrained instinct of old reverence, 
 The holy habit of obedience. 
 Must I pluck live asunder fiom 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. 
 
 Wal. 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 
 Prom 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. 
 
 Wal, The world will judge me sternly, I expect it. 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 341 
 
 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 f 
 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 mate conquest of whaie'er seems highest ! 
 But he, who once hath acted infamy, 
 Does nothing more in this world. 
 
 Wal. {grasps his hand.) Calmly, Max. I 
 
 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. AH, 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 aU- 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, ray 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, ' 
 
 Aid 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 l— the word 
 
 Is spoken out 
 
 Not to the traitor'cau I yield a pardon. 
 That is no mere excess! that is no error 
 Of human nature — tbatig wholly dififerent, 
 
342 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 O that is black, black as the pit of hell ! 
 
 [Wallenstein betrdys a sudden agitation. 
 Thou can'st not hear it nam'd, and wiH thou do it ? 
 
 turn back to thy duty. That thou canst, 
 
 1 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 Jds confidence to thee. [pened. 
 
 Wdl. It is too late. Thou knowest not what has hap- 
 Max. Were it too late, and were things gone so far, 
 
 That a crime only could prevent thy fall, 
 
 Then — fall ! fall jtionouxably, 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. 
 
 Wal. It is too late ! Even now, while thou art losing 
 
 Thy words, one after the other are the mile-stones 
 
 I>pft fast behind by my post couriers. 
 
 Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra, 
 
 [Max. stands as convulsed, with a gesture and counte- 
 nance expressing the most intense anguish. 
 
 Yield thyself to it. We act as we a?e forced. 
 
 / c.iunot give assent to my own shame 
 
 Aad ruin. Thou — ^no — thou canst not forsake me ! 
 
 So let us do, what must be done, with dignity, 
 
 "With a firm step. What ami doing worse 
 
 Than did famed Csesar at the Kubicon, 
 
 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, tliat other thing I'll bear. 
 
 [Max. quits him abruptly. Wallenstein, startled and 
 overpowered, continues looking after him, and is still 
 in this posture when Tektsky enters. 
 
 ScENB III. — Wallenstein, Teetsky. 
 
 Ter. Max. Piccolomini just left you? 
 
 Wal. If Where is Wrangel ? 
 
 Ter. He is already gone. 
 
 Wal. In su<;h a hurry ? 
 
 Ter. It is as if the earth'had swallowed liiin. 
 He had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him. 
 I wished some words with him — but fie was gone. 
 How, when, and where, could no one tell me. Nay, 
 1 half believe it was the devil Uimsolf ; 
 
FIRST PART 01'' WALLENSTEIN. 343 " 
 
 A human qreature could not so at once 
 Have vanished. 
 
 lUo. (enters.) Is it true that thou wilt send 
 Octavio ? 
 
 Ter. How, Octavio ! Whither send him 
 
 Wal. He goes to !&rauenljerg, and will lead hither 
 The Spanish and Italian regiments. 
 
 Illo. No I— 
 
 Nay, Heaven forhid! 
 
 Wal. And why should Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Jllo. Hira ! — that deceive!'! Would'st thou trust to him 
 The soldiery f Him a. ilt thou lot slip from thee, 
 Now, in the very instant <\ at. decides us 
 
 Tei: Thou wilt not do this ! — ^No ! I pray thee, no ! 
 
 Wal. Ye are whimsical. 
 
 Illo. O but for this time, Duke, 
 
 Yield to our warning ! Let him not depart. 
 
 JFaV And why should I Ij. *; 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 J am a woman. Having trusted him 
 E'en till to-day, to-day will I trust him. 
 
 Tar. Must it be he — he only ? Send another. 
 
 Wal. It must be he, whom I myself have chosen; 
 He is well fitted for the bjiainess. Therefore 
 I gave it him. 
 
 Illo. Because he's an Italian — 
 
 Therefore is he well fitted for the business. 
 
 Wal. I kijow you love them not— nor sire nor son — | 
 Because that 1 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 yon will, 
 I leave to each man his own moods and likings ; 
 Yet know the worth *■* each of you to me. 
 
 Illo. Von Qiiestenberg, while he was here, was always 
 Lurking about with this Octavio. 
 
 Wal. It happened with my knowledge and permission. 
 
 Illo. I know that secret messengers came to him 
 From Galas ^ 
 
 Wal. That's not true. 
 
 nio. O thou art blind 
 
 With thy deep-seeing eye^. 
 
 Wal. Thou wilt not shake 
 My faith for me — iny faith, which founds itself 
 Ou the profoundest science. If 'tis false, 
 I'hou the whole science of the stars is false. 
 
344 THE PICCOLOMINI, OK THE 
 
 For know, I have a pledge from Fate itself, 
 That he is the moat faithful of my firiends. 
 
 Illo. Hast thott a, pledge, that this pledge is not false t 
 
 Wal. 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 Liitzen, 
 Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thonghts, 
 I looked out far upon the ominous plain. 
 My v/hole life, past and future, in this moment 
 Before my mind's eye glided ill 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 ail, this camp included. Great Destiny, 
 Give me a sign f And he shall Ije 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 tider — 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 for 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 lider. 
 
 nio. That was a chance. 
 
 Wal. {significantly.) There's no such thing as chance. 
 In brief, 'tis signed and sealed tbat this Octavio 
 Is my good angel — and now no word more, [fle is retiring. 
 
 Tert. This is my comfort — Max. remains our hostage. 
 
FIRST 'PAET OF WALLENSTEIN. 345 
 
 Illo. And he shall never stir from here alive. 
 
 Wal. (stops and turns himself round.) Are yo not like the 
 women, who for ever 
 Only recur to their first word, although 
 One had been talking reason by the hoar ? 
 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. — A Chamber in Piccolomini's Dwelling-House. 
 OCTAVio PiccoLOMiNl, IsOLANi, entering. 
 
 Isol. Here am I — Well ! who comes yet of the others ? 
 
 Oct. (with an air of mystery.) But, first, a word with you, 
 Count Isolani. 
 
 Isol, (assuming the same air of mystery.) 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. 
 
 Oct. That may happen. 
 
 Iso. 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. 
 
 Oct. That will be seen hereafter. 
 
 Iso. Be on your guard. 
 
 All think not as I think ; and there are many 
 Who still hold with the Court — yes,xaud they say 
 That those stolen signatures bind them to nothing. 
 
 Oct. I am rejoiced to hear it. 
 
 Iso. You rejoice ! 
 
 Oct. That the Emperor has yet such gallant ^servants, 
 And loving friends. 
 
 Iso. Nay, jeer not, I entreat you. 
 
 They are no such worthless fellows, I assure you. 
 
 Oct. I am assured already. God forbid 
 That I should jest! — In yery serious earnest 
 I am rejoiced to see an honest cause 
 So strong. 
 
 Iso. The Devil I — what ! — why, what means this t 
 Are you not, then For what, then, am I here ? 
 
 Oct. That you may make full declaration, whether 
 You will be called the friend or enemy 
 Of the Emperor, 
 
 Iso. (with an air of defiance.) That declaration, friend, 
 O* 
 
348 THE PICCOLOMINl, OR THE 
 
 I'll make to him in whom a right is placed 
 To put that question to me. 
 
 Uut. Whether, Count, 
 
 That right is mine, this paper may instruct you. 
 
 Iso. (siammenng.) Why — why — what! this is the Em- 
 peror's hand and seal ! \_Iieads. 
 " Whereas the officers co ectively 
 " Throughout our army v/V obey the orders 
 " Of the Lieutenant-general Piccolomini. 
 " As from ourselves."-^ — r- Hem .'—Yes! so! — Yes! yes! — 
 I — I give you joy, Lieutenant-general! 
 
 Oct. And you submit you to the order ? 
 
 Iso. I 
 
 But you hare taken me so by surprise — 
 Time fsi reflection one must have — — 
 
 Oct. Two minutes. 
 
 Iso. My God! But then the case is 
 
 Oct. 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. 
 
 Iso. Treason! My God! — But who talks then of treaso!-.' 
 
 Oct. 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 — 
 S.iy, will you breals your oath to the Emperor ? 
 Sell yoursel.'to the enemy? — Say, will you? 
 
 Iso. 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 ? 
 
 Oct. You have not said it yet — not yet. This instant 
 I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it. 
 
 Iso. Ay ! that delights me now, that you yourself 
 Bear witness for me that I never said so. 
 
 Oct. And you renounce the Duke then ? 
 
 Iso. If he's planning 
 
 Treason — why, treason breaks all bonds asunder. 
 Oct. And are determined, too, to fight against him? 
 
 Iso. He has done me service — ^but if he's a villain. 
 Perdition seize hira ! — All scores are rubbed off. 
 
 Oct. I am rejoiced that you're so well disposed. 
 This night break off in the utmost secresy 
 With all the light-armed troops — it must appear 
 As came the order from the Cuke himself. 
 At Frauenberg's the place of rendezvous ; 
 There will Count Galas give you further orders. 
 
 Iso. It shall be done. But you'll remember me 
 With the Emperor— how well-disposed you found me. 
 
 Oct. I will not fail to mention it honourably. 
 
 [Exit IsoLANi. A Servant enters. 
 What, Colonel Butler! — Shew him up. , [father ! 
 
 Iso. {returning.) Forgive me too my bearish ways, old 
 
riEST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 347 
 
 Lord God ! how should I know, then, what a great 
 Person I had befote me. 
 
 Oct. No excuses 1 
 
 lao. I am a merry lad, and if at times 
 A rash word might escape mo 'gainst the court 
 Amidst my wine^You know no harm was meant. [Exit, 
 
 x)ct. You need not be uneasy on that score. 
 That has succeeded. Fortune favour ns 
 With all the others only but as much ! ' 
 
 Scene V. — Ootavio Piccolomini, Butlek, 
 
 But. At your command, Lieuteuaut-general. 
 
 Oct. Welcome, as honoured friend and visitor. 
 
 But. You do me too much honour. 
 
 Oct. {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 
 lu which the honest should unite most closely. 
 
 But. 'Tis only the like-minded oaa unite. 
 
 Oct. 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 1 Tell me. He's my friend. 
 
 But. His words were lost on me. 
 
 Oct. It grieves uie sorely, 
 
 To hear it: for his connsel was most wise. 
 I had myself the like to oifer. 
 
 But. Spare 
 
 Yourself. the trouble — me th' embarrassment 
 To have deserved sp ill your good oijinicm. 
 
 Oct. 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 
 H;ive past, since he a covenant concluded 
 With the enemy. The messengers are now 
 I'uU on their wr.y 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. 
 
348 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 To join and recognize in me their leader. 
 
 Choose — will you share with us an honest cause T , 
 
 Or with the evil share an evil lot. 
 
 But. (rises. ) His lot is mine. 
 
 Oct. Is that your last resolve t 
 
 But. It is. a 
 
 ■ Oct. Nay, but bethink you, Colohel 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. 
 
 But. (going.) Any other 
 
 Commands for me, Lifeutenant General ? 
 
 Oct. See your white hairs ! Recall that word ! 
 
 But. Farewell! 
 
 Oct. 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 ? 
 
 But. (laughing with bitterness.) Gratitude from the house 
 of Austria. IHeis going. 
 
 Oct. (permits him to go as far as the door, tlien calls after 
 him.) Butler! 
 
 But. What wish you ? 
 
 Oct. How was't with the Count f 
 
 Bui, Count? what? 
 
 Oet. (coldly.) The title that you wished I mean. 
 
 But. (starts in sudden passion.) Hell and damnation ! 
 
 Oct. (coldly.) You petitioned for it^ 
 
 And your petition was repelled — ^Was it so ? 
 
 But. Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunished. 
 Draw ! , 
 
 Oct. Nay! your sword to 'ts sheath ! and tell me calmly, 
 How all that happened. I will not refuse you 
 Your satisfaction afterwards. — Calmly, Butler ! 
 
 But. 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 merithas 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 scoru 
 The grey-haired man, the faithful Veteran f 
 Why to the -baseness of his parentage 
 Refer him with such cruel roughness, only 
 Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself T 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 349 
 
 Bat nature gives a Btiug e'en to the worm 
 
 /Which wanton Power treads on in sport and Insult. 
 
 Oct. You must have been calumniated. Guess you 
 The enemy, who did you this ill-service ? 
 
 But. Be't who it wijl — a most low-hearted scoundrel, 
 Some vile court-minion must it he, 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 ! 
 
 Oct. But tell me! Did the Duke approve that measure f 
 
 But.. Himself impelled me to it, used his interest 
 In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship. ' 
 
 Oct. Ay t Are you sure of that ? 
 
 But. I read the letter. 
 
 Oct. And so did I — ^but the contents were different. 
 
 [Butler is suddenly struck. 
 By chance I'm in possession of that letter — 
 Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you. 
 
 [ He gives him the letter. 
 
 But. Ha ! what is this f 
 
 Oct. 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. 
 
 [BuTi.BR reads through tlie letter, his knees tremhU, 
 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 £rom your Emperor — he hoped 
 To gain firom 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 yon, 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 I 
 
 But. (hia voice trembling.) Can e'er the Emperors Kajesty 
 forgive me J 
 
 Oct. More than forgive you. He would fain compensate 
 For that afQx)nt, and most unmerited grievance 
 Sustained by a deserving, gallant veteran. 
 From his free impulse he coniirms the present. 
 Which the Duke made you for a wicked purpose. 
 The regiment, which you now command, is yiouis. 
 
 [BUTLEB attempts to rise, sinks down again. Se la- 
 ioure inwardly with viotent emoftons; tries to 
 
350 THE PICCOLOMINI, OE THE 
 
 speak, cmd cannot. At length Tie talces his sword 
 from the belt, and offers it to Piccolomini. 
 
 Oct^. What wish you? EecoUeot yourself, friend ! 
 
 But. Take it. 
 
 Oct. But to what purpose ? Calm yoniself. 
 
 But. O take it 1 
 
 I am no longer worthy of this sword. 
 
 Oct. Receive it then anew from my hands — and 
 Wear it with honour for the right cause ever. 
 
 But. — — Perjure myself to such a gracious Sovereign! 
 
 Oct. You'll make amends. Quick! break off from the 
 I)uke ! 
 
 But. Break off from him ! 
 
 Oct. What now ? Bethink thyself. 
 
 But. {no longer governing his emotion.) Only break off from 
 him? — He dies! he dies ! 
 
 Oct. 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 bo sure, that you escape from Pilseu. 
 
 But, (strides vp and down in excessive agitation, th-en steps up 
 to OcTAVio with resolved countenance.) Count Pic- 
 colomini! Dare that man speak 
 Of honour to yon, who once broke his troth. 
 
 Oct. He, who repents so deeply of it, dares. 
 
 But. Then leave me here, upon my word of honour! 
 
 Oct. What's your design ? 
 
 But. " Leave me and my regiment. 
 
 Oct. I have full confidence in you. But tell me 
 What are you brooding ? 
 
 But. 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! 
 Parewell [Exit Butler. 
 
 Ser. {enters with abiU^t.) A stranger left it, and is gone. 
 The Prince-Duke's horses wait for you below. [^Exit Servant. 
 Oct. (reads.) " Be sure, make haste ! Your faithful Isolanj" 
 — 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 ? 
 
 SCENB VI.— 0CTA.V10 and Max. Piccolomini. 
 
 [Max. enters almost in a state of, derangement from extreme 
 agitation, his eyes roll wildly, his walk is unsteady, and 
 he appellts no tto observe his father, who stands at a dis- 
 tance, and gases at him with a countenance expressive of com- 
 passion. He paces with long strides through the chamber. 
 
PIEST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 351 
 
 <7(e» stands still again, and at last throws himself into a 
 chair, staring vacantly at the object direotli/ before him. 
 
 Oct. (^advances to htm.) I am going op', my son. 
 
 [_Beceiving no answerihe takes his hand. 
 I My son, farewell. 
 
 Max. Farewell. 
 
 Oct. Thou wilt soon follow me ? 
 
 Max. _ I follow thee? 
 
 Thy way is crooked — it is not my way. 
 
 [OcTAVio drops Ms hand, and sta/rts hack. 
 0, ftadst thou been but simple and sincere, 
 Ne'er had it come to this — kll 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^urking for thy prey ? 
 O, unblest falsehood 1 Mother of all evil ! 
 Thou misery-making dsemon, it is thou 
 Thatsiiik'st us in perdition. Simple truth, 
 Sustainer of the world, had saved us all ! 
 Father, I will not, I ca,nnot excuse thee ! 
 Walleustein has deceived me — O, most foully ! 
 But thou hast acted not much better. 
 
 Oct. Son J 
 
 My son, ah! I forgive thy agony ! 
 Max. (rises, and contemplates Ms father with looks of suspicion.) 
 
 Was't possible f 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. 
 
 Oct. God in Heaven ! 
 
 Mux. 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 1 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 everywhere, hypocrisy. 
 Murder and poisoning, treason, perjury : 
 The single holy Spot is our love, 
 The only unprofaned in human nature. 
 
 Oct, Max! — we will go together. 'Twill be better. 
 
 Moit. What? ere I've taken a last parting leave. 
 The very last— no, never ! 
 
 Oct. Spare thyself 
 
 The pang of necessary separation. ^ Ihim. 
 
 Come with me! Comejmyson! ^Attempts tolake him with 
 
 Vet. (.more urgently.) Come with me, I command thoe ! 1, 
 thy father. 
 
352 THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE 
 
 Max. No! as sure a^ God lives, no! 
 
 Ma,x. Command me what is hnman. I stay here. 
 
 Oct. Max ! in the Emperor's name I hid thee come. 
 
 Max. No Emperor hath power to prescribe 
 Laws to the heart ; and wouldst 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 hert 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 augel. 
 From the black deadly madness of despair 
 Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words 
 Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death ! 
 
 Oct. Thou will not_tear thyself away, thou canst not, 
 O, come, my son ! I bid thee save thy virtue. 
 
 Moic. Squander not tbou thy wdrds in vain. 
 The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it. 
 
 Oct. (trembling, and losing all self-command.) Max! Mas 
 if that most damned thing could be. 
 If thou — ^my son — ^my own blood — (dare I think it ?) 
 Dosell 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 eteel 
 Of the son trickle with the father's blood. 
 
 Max. Ohadst 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. 
 
 Oct. And if I trust thy heart. 
 Will it be always be in thy power to follow it ? [littl'> 
 
 Max. The heart's voice thou hast not o'erpower'd — as 
 Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it. 
 
 Oct. O, Max ! I see thee never more again I 
 
 Max. Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me. 
 
 Oct. I go to Fraueuberg — the Pappenheimers 
 I leave thee here, the Lothrings too; Toskaua 
 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. 
 
 Oct. farewell, my son ! 
 
 Max. Farewell I 
 
 Oct. How ? not one look 
 
 *M filial love I No grasp of the hand at parting f 
 
FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. 353 
 
 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 I 
 lo it then true ? I liave a son no longer 1 
 
 [Max. falls into his arms, they liold each for a long time in 
 a apeechlesa embrace, then go away at different aidei. 
 
 TSa CUKTAIN DROPS. 
 
^■" 
 
 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIK 
 
 A TRAGEDY. IN FIVE ACTS. 
 
 PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR. 
 
 The two Dramas, Piccolomini, or the first part o^ Wallenstein,! 
 and Wallknstkin, are introduced in the, orig-inal manuscript by a 
 iPrtjlude in one Act, entitled Wallenstkin'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 siven a false idea 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, fronl 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 preparec" .Js 
 reader for the Tragedies by a lively picture of the laxity of discipline, 
 and the mutinous dispositions of wailenstein's soldiery.. It is not 
 necessary as a preliminary explanation. For these reasons it has 
 buen thou^^ht expedient not to translate it. 
 
 Theadmu-ers of Schiller, who have abstracted their idea 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 disappointmenttlie 
 Dramas, which it has been my employment to translate They 
 shduki, however, reflect that ttiese are Historical Dramas, takert 
 from a popular German History; that we must therefpre judge of 
 them in some measure with the feelings of Germans; or by analogy, 
 with th© interest excited in us by similar Dramas in our own lan- 
 guage. Few, I trust,, would be rash or ignorant enough to compare 
 tSchlller 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, thei'e exist in these plays more individual beau- 
 ties, more passages, whose excellence will bear reflection, than in 
 th,e former productions of Schiller. The description of the Astrolog- 
 ical 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 flftdeed. if it can have wrholly overclouded the beauties 
 of the Scene m'the first Act of the firat Play between Questenberg, 
 Max. and Octavio Kccolomini- If we except the Scene of thesetting 
 sun in the Robbers, Iknow 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 1 y a CHrtffin 
 lawot subordination, which makes it more decorous to point out 
 excellencies than defects; indeed he is not hkely to be a fair judge 
 of either. The pleasure or disgust frorti his own labouv will mingle 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIK, 35o 
 
 with ttie feelings that arise from an af terview of tho 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 possessesfrom our/ own pleasurable sense of difficulty over- 
 come without effort. 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 Au- 
 thor is encumbered vrith 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 en- 
 deavour to give a work executed according to laWs Of compensation, 
 he subjects nimself to imputations of vanity, or misrepresentation, 
 1 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. 
 
 S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Wallenstein, Zhike of Friedland, Generalissimo of the Imperial 
 
 , Forces in Ihe Thirty-years' War. ' 
 
 Duchess of Fkiedland, Wife of Wallknstein. 
 Thbkla, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland. 
 The Countess Tkrtsky, Sister of the Duchess. 
 Lad7 Neubrunn. 
 
 OoTAVio PiccoLoMiNT, lAeutenant-Qenerol. 
 
 Max. PiccoLOMiNi, his Son, Colonel of a Rkglment of Cuirassier^. 
 OouMT Tertbky, the Commander of severed Regiments, and Brother- 
 in-law o/"Wallenstein. 
 Illo, Field Marshal, Wallknstein's Confidant. 
 Bottler, an Irishvian, Commander ofaEegiment of Dragoons. 
 Gordon, Governor of Egra. ^ 
 
 Major Geraldin, 
 
 CVPTAIN DeVEREUX. 
 
 Captain Macdonald. 
 
 Neumann, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to Tkrtsky. 
 
 Swedish Captain. 
 
 Seni. 
 
 Burgomaster of Egra. 
 
 Anspessade of the Cuirassiers. 
 
 Gboomof the chamber, ^ Belonging to tJie Duke. 
 
 CmiussiBBS, Dragoons, Servants. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Chamber in the hmt^eof iAe Duchess 0/ Fkied- 
 land. Countess Tertsky, Thekla, Lady Neubrunn. 
 ( The two, latter sit at the same table at work. ) 
 
 Coun. {watching them from the opposite side.) So you have 
 nothing, niece, to ask me ? Nothing f 
 I have been waiting for a word from you. 
 And could you then endure in all this time 
 Not once to speak his name ? 
 
 [Thekla remaining silent, the Countess rises and ad- 
 vances to her. 
 
 Why, how comes this ? 
 
356 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Perhaps I am already grown superfluous, 
 And other ways exist, besides through me t 
 Confess it to me, Thekla ! have you seen him ? 
 
 Thek. To-day and yesterday I have not seen him. 
 
 Coun. And not heard from him either ? Come, be open ! 
 
 Thek. No syllable. 
 
 Coun. And still you are so calm f 
 
 Thek. I am. 
 
 Coun. May't please you, leave us, Lady Neuhrunn ! 
 
 lExit Lady, i^dbkunn. 
 
 Scene II.— The Cotintess, Thekla. 
 
 Coun. It does not please me. Princess! that he holds 
 Himself so still, exactly at this time. 
 
 Thek. Exactly at this time ? 
 
 Coun. , He now knows all. 
 
 'Twere now the moment to declare himself. 
 
 Thek. If I'm to understand you, speak less darkly. 
 
 Coun. '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 — t_at you have proved. 
 Your nature moulds tself upon your father's 
 More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you 
 Hear, what were too much for her fortitude. 
 
 Thek. Enough ! no further preface, I. entreat you. 
 At once, out with it ! Be it what it may. 
 It is not possib'-^ that it should torture me 
 More than this introduction. What have you 
 To say to me "< Tell me the whole, and briefly ! 
 
 Coun. You'll not be frightened — 
 
 Thek. Name it, I entreat you. 
 
 C6m(. It lies within your power to do your father 
 A weighty service'^ 
 
 Thek. Lies within my power f 
 
 Coam. Max. Piccolomini loves you. You can link him 
 Indissolublyto your father. 
 
 Thek. I? 
 
 What need of me for that ? And is he not 
 Already linked to him ? 
 
 Coun. He was. 
 
 Thek. And wherefore 
 
 Should he not be so now — not be so always ? 
 
 Coun. He cleaves to the Emperor too. 
 
 Thek. Not more than duty 
 
 And honour maj^demand of him. 
 
 Coun. We ask 
 
 Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honour. 
 Duty and honour ! 
 
 Those are ambiguous words with many meanings. 
 ¥ou should interpret them for him : his love 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 357 
 
 Should be the sole definer of his honour. 
 
 Thek. How ? 
 
 Coun. The Emperor or you mxiet he renounce. 
 
 Theh. He •will accompany my father gladly 
 In his retirement. From himself you heard, 
 How much he wished to lay aside the sword. 
 
 Coun. He must not lay the sword aside, we mean ; 
 He must unsheath it in your father's cause. 
 
 Thek. He'll spend with gladness and alacrity 
 His life, his heart's blood in my father's gause. 
 If shame or injury be intended him. 
 
 Coun. You will not understand me. Well, hear then I 
 Your father has fallen off from the Emperor, 
 And is about to join the enemy 
 With the whole soldiery — 
 
 Thek. Alas, my mother ! 
 
 Coun. 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. 
 
 Thek. Ah, 
 
 My miserable mother 1 what a death-stroke 
 Awaits thee ! — No ! She never will survive it. 
 
 Coun. She will accommodate her soul to that 
 Which is and must be. I do know your mother. 
 The far-off future weighs upon her heart 
 With torture of anxiety ; but is it 
 Unalterably, actually present, 
 She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly. 
 
 Thek. O my foreboding 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, 
 An heavy ominous presentiment 
 Revealed to me, that spirits of death were hovering 
 Over my happy fortune. But why think I 
 First of myse« if My mother! O my mother ! 
 
 Coun. 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. 
 
 Tftefc. Prove good? What good? 
 Must we not p^? Part ne'er to meet again ? 
 
 Coun. He parts not from you ! He cannot part ftom yon 
 
 Thek. Alas for his sore anguish! It will rend 
 His heart asunder. 
 
 Coun. If indeed he loves you, 
 
 His resolution will be speedily taken. 
 
 Thek. His resolution will be speedily taken — 
 
358 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 do not doubt of that ! A resolution 1 
 Does there remain one to be taken ? 
 
 Coun. Hush! 
 
 Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming. 
 Thek. How shall I bear to see her ? 
 Coun. Collect youxself. 
 
 Scene III. — To tkem enter the Duchess. 
 
 Budh. (to the Countess.) Who was here, sister? I heard 
 some one talking, 
 And passionately too. 
 
 Coun. Nay ! There was no one. ■ 
 
 Duck. 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 teU 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 favorable answer ? 
 
 Coun. No, he has not. ' 
 
 Duoh. Alas! then all is lost! I see 't coming. 
 The worst that can come ! Yes, they will depose him ; 
 The accursed business of the Eegenspurg diet 
 Will all be acted o'er again ! 
 
 Coun. No! never! 
 
 Make your heart easy, sister, as to that. 
 
 [Thbkla, in extreme agitation, throws herself upon 
 her Inother, and en/rMs Iwr in her arms, weeping. 
 
 Dnch. Yes, my poor child ! 
 Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother 
 In the Empress. O that stem unbending man ! 
 In this unhappy marriage what have I 
 Not suflfered, not endured. For ev'n as if 
 
 1 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. 
 
 Thek. O let us supplicate him, dearest mother! 
 Quick! quick! here's no abiding-place for us. 
 Here every eoming hour broods into life 
 Some new affirightful monster. 
 
 Dirnh. " Thou wilt share 
 
 An easier, calmer lot, my child ! We too, 
 I and thy fathter, witnessed happy days. 
 
, THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 359 
 
 Still thiuk I with delight of those first years,. 
 
 When he was making progress with glad efforii, 
 
 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 Regenspiirg, 
 
 Which plunged him headlong from liis 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 Innk, and individual power ; 
 
 But thenceforth turned his heart and best affections * 
 
 All to those cloudy sciences, which never 
 
 Have yet made happy Mm who followed them. 
 
 Coun. 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 hii 
 Find her in this condition ? 
 
 Duch. Come, my child ! 
 Come wipe away thy tears, and show thy father 
 A cheerful countenance. See, the tie-knot here 
 Is off — this hair must not hang so dishevelled. 
 Come, dearest! dry thy tears np. They deform 
 Thy gentle eye — well now — what was I saying ? 
 Yes, in good truth, this Piocolomini 
 Is a most noble and deserving gentleman. 
 
 Corni. That is he, sister! 
 
 Ihfk. (to the Countess, with marks of great oppression of 
 «pm<8.) Aunt, you will excuse me? \_Is going. 
 
 Coiiii. But whither? See, your father .comes. 
 
 Thek. I cannot see him now. 
 
 Coun. Nay, but bethink you. 
 
 Thek. Bel ieve me, I cannot sustain his presence. 
 
 Coun. But he will miss you, will ask after you. 
 
 Dueh., What now ! Why is she going ? 
 
 Coun. She's not well. 
 
 Duch. (anxiously.) What ails then my beloved child ? 
 [^Both follow the Princess, and endeavouj; to detain her. 
 During this Wallenstbin appears, engaged in con- 
 versation with ILLO. , 
 
 Scene IV. — Wallenstbin, Illo, Countbss, Duchess 
 
 ^HEKLA. 
 
 Wal. All quiet in the camp ? , 
 
 Illo. It is all quiet. 
 
 Wal. 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 
 
300 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Assembled in this town make known the measure 
 And its result together. In sach cases 
 Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost 
 Still leads the herd. An imitative creature 
 Is ma n . 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. 
 
 JFflsZ. 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 Eevelation, 
 Scattering false oracles. And thus have I 
 To in treat forgiveness, for that secretly 
 I've wronged 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 tnis 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. 
 
 Wal. Go and send 
 
 Isolani hither. Send him immediately. 
 He is under recent obligations to me. 
 With him will I commence the trial. GU). lExit Iixo. 
 
 Wal. (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. . 
 
 Coun.^'TiB long sinpe we've been thus together, brother.' 
 
 Wal. (to th^ Countess aside.) Can she sustain the news? 
 Is she prepared? 
 
 Court. Kot yet 
 
 Wal. 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 for me the evil daemon 
 That beats his black wings close above my head. 
 
 Diioh. Where is thy lute, my daughter t Let thy fatbei 
 Hear some small trial of thy skill. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 361 
 
 Tlielc. My mother I 
 
 I— 
 
 Duck. Trembling ? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer 
 Thy father. 
 
 Vhek. O my mother ! I — I cannot. 
 
 Cown. How, what is that, niece ? 
 
 Thek. (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. 
 
 Duch. How, Thekla ? Humoursome ? 
 
 What ; shall thy &.ther have expressed a wish 
 In vain ? ' 
 
 Coun. Here is the lute. . 
 
 Tlielc. My God! how can I — 
 
 [Tfte 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. 
 
 Ducft. My child! O she is ill — 
 
 Wal. What arls the maiden ? 
 
 Say, is she often so ? 
 
 Coun, Since then herself 
 
 Has now betrayed it, I too must no longer 
 Conceal it. • 
 
 Wal. What? 
 
 Cown, She loves him I 
 
 Wal. Loves him I Whom? 
 
 Coun. Max. does she love ! Max. Piccolomini. 
 Hast thou ne'er noticed it 1 Nor yet my sister ? 
 
 Dach. 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. 
 
 Coun. This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it 
 To thine own self. Thou shouldest have chosen another 
 To have attended her. ' 
 
 Wal. And does he know it ?. 
 
 Cown. Yes, and he hopes to win her. 
 
 Wal. Hopes to win her! 
 
 Is the boy mad? 
 
 Coun. Well — hear it from themselves. 
 
 Wal. He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter! 
 Ay ? — ^The thought pleases me. 
 The young man has no grovelling spirit. 
 
 Coun. Since 
 
 Such and such constant favour you have shown him. 
 
 Wal. 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 ? 
 p 
 
062 , THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Is it daughters only ? Is it only children 
 That we must shew our favour by ? 
 
 Dwili. His noble disposition and his manners — 
 
 Wal. Win him my heart, but not my daughter. 
 
 Duch. Then 
 
 His rank, his ancestors — 
 
 Wal. Ancestors ! What ? 
 
 He is a subject, and my son-in-law 
 I will seek out upon the thrones of Europe. 
 
 Duoli. O dearest Albrecht ! Climb we not too high, 
 Lest we should fall too low. 
 
 Wal. , 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 kiiisman ? 
 Have I for this — [iSfop* suddenly, repressing himself. 
 
 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 — 
 
 [Se recollects himself. 
 And I must now, like a soft-hearted father. 
 Couple together in good peasant fashion , 
 
 The pair, that chance td 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. 
 
 Duch. O my husband! 
 
 You're ever building, building to ihe clouds, 
 Still building higher, and still higher building, 
 And ne'er reflect, that the poor narrow basis 
 Cannot sustain the giddy tottering column. 
 
 Wal. ((0 «Ae CotJNTESS.) Have you announced the place 
 of residence 
 Which I have destined for her f 
 
 Coun. No ! not yet. , 
 
 'Twere better, you yourself disclosed it to her. 
 
 Duch. How ? Do we not return to Kam then f 
 
 Wal. No. 
 
 Duch. And to no other of your lands or seats ? 
 
 Wal. Yon would not be secure there. 
 
 Duch. Not secure 
 
 In the Emperor's realms, beneath the Emperor's 
 Protection ? " 
 
 Wal. Friedland's wife may be permitted 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 363 
 
 No longer to hope that. 
 
 Dueh. O God in heaven ! 
 
 And have you brought it even to this ? 
 
 Wal. In Holland 
 
 You'll find protection. 
 
 Duch. In a Lutheran country 1 
 
 What ? And you Bend us into Lutheran countries ? 
 
 Wal. Duke Fran^ of Lauenberg conducts you thither, i 
 
 Duch. Duke Franz of Lauenberg ? 
 The ally of Sweden, the Emperor's enemy. 
 
 Wal. The Emperor's enemies are mine no longer. 
 
 Duch. (casting a look of terror on the Dcke ana the Coiw- 
 TESS.) Is it then true ? It is. You are degraded ? 
 Deposed from the command ? O God in heaven ! 
 
 Coun. {aside 1o theUvKM.) Leave her in this belief. Thou 
 seest she cannot 
 Support the real truth. 
 
 Scene V. — To them enter Count Tertsky. 
 
 Coun. — Tertsky ! 
 
 What ails him f What an image of aflWght ! 
 He looks as he had seen a ghost. 
 
 Ter. {leading Wallbnstbin aside.) Is it thy command, 
 that all the Croats^- 
 
 Wal. Mine ! 
 
 Ter. We are betrayed. 
 
 Wal. What? 
 
 Ter. • They are off! This night 
 
 The Jagers likewise — all the villages 
 In the whole round are empty. 
 
 Wal. , Isolani ? 
 
 Ter. Him thou hast sent away. Yes, surely. 
 
 Wal. I ? 
 
 Ter. No ! Hast thou not sent him off? Nor Deodate ? 
 They are Vanished bpth of them. 
 
 Scene VI. — To them enter Iix,o. 
 
 ITlo. Has Tertsky told thee t 
 Ter. He knows all. 
 
 Illo. And UkevrlGe 
 
 That Esterhatzy, Goetz, Maradas, Kaunitz, 
 Kolatto, Palfi, have forsaken thee. 
 Ter. Damnation! 
 Wal. {winks at them.) Hush ! 
 Coun. {who has been watching them a/nnsiottsli/ from the fHa- ' 
 
 tance, and now advances to tliem.) Tertsky ! Heavoii ! 
 
 What is it ? What has happened ? 
 Wal. {scarcely suppressing his emotitm.) Nothing! Let us 
 
 be gone ! 
 Ter. {following him.) Theresa, it is,nothinff. 
 
364 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Com. (homng him haoh) Nothing f Do I not see that all 
 the life blood ■■ j. , 
 
 Has left your checks— look you not like a ghost " 
 That even my brother but affects a oaJmness t [Tertsfey. 
 Page, (enters.) An Aide-de-Camp inquires for the Count 
 [Tertsky /oJJow* «fte Page. 
 Wal. Go, hear his business. 
 (To ILLO.) This could not have happened 
 So unsuspected without mutiny. 
 Who was on guard at the gates T 
 Illo. 'Twas Tiefenbach. 
 
 Wal. Let Tiefenbach leave guard without delay, 
 And Tertsky's grenadiers relieve him. [Illo is going. 
 
 Stop! 
 Hast thou heard aught of Butler ? 
 
 Illo. Him I met. 
 
 He will be here himself immediately. 
 Butler remains unshaken, 
 
 [Illo exit. Wallenstein isfollomng Aim, 
 Corm. Let him not leave thee, sister! go, detain him ! 
 There's some misfortune. 
 Buck, (^clinging to him.) Gracious heaven ! What is it T 
 Wal. Be tranquil! leav^me, Bister! dearest wife! 
 We are in camp, and this ffl nought unusual ; 
 Here storm and sunshine :^llow 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 
 111 suit the scene where men must act. 
 
 {_He is going : Tertsky returns. 
 Ter. Remain here. From this window must we see it. 
 Wal. (to tfte Countess.) Sister, retire! 
 Coun. No — never. 
 
 Wal. 'Tismywillf 
 
 Ter. (leads ihe COUNTBSS aside, and drawing Iter attention to 
 
 ffie Duchess.) Theresa! 
 Daeh. Sister, come ! since he commands it. 
 
 Scene VH. — ^Wallenstein, Tertsky. 
 
 Wal. {stepping to the window.) What now, then? 
 
 Ter. 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. 
 Tiefenbaoh's corps make threatening movements ; only 
 The Pappenheimers still remain aloof 
 In their own quarters, and let no one enter. 
 
 Wal. Does Piccolomini appear among them ? 
 
 Ter. We are seeking him : he is nowhere to be met with, 
 
 Wal. What did the Aide-de-Camp deliver. to you.l. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 365 
 
 Ter, My regiments had dispatched him ; yet once more 
 They swear fidelity to thee, aud wait 
 The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager. 
 
 IVal. But whence arose this I arum in the camp ? 
 It should have been kept secret from the army, 
 Till fortune had decided for us at Prague. 
 
 Ter. O that thou hadst believed me l Tester evening 
 Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker, 
 Tliat fox, Octavio, pass.the gates of Pilsen. 
 Thou gav'st him thy own horses to flee from thee. 
 
 Wal. The old tune still! Now, once for all, no more 
 Of this suspicion — it is doting folly. 
 
 Ter. Thou did'st confide in Isolani too ;' 
 And lo ! he was the first that did desert thee. 
 
 Wal. It was but yesterday I rescued him 
 From abject wretchedness. Let that go by. 
 I never reckon'd yet on gratitudiB. 
 And wherein doth he wrong in going from me f 
 He follows still the god whom all bis life 
 He haa 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-please 1 and confident 
 He traversed the open sea; now he beholds it 
 la emiiient 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 theic characters on the smooth forehead. 
 Nought inks into the bosom's silent depth : 
 Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure 
 Moves the light fluids lightly ; but no soul 
 Warmeth the inner frame. 
 
 Ter. Yet, would I rather 
 
 Trust the smooth brow than that deep furrowed one. 
 
 Scene VIIL— Waixenstein, Tebtsky, Illo. 
 
 Ilh. (who enters agitated with rage.) Treason and mutiny! 
 Ter. And what further now J 
 
 Illo. Tiefenbach's soldiers, when I gave the orders 
 To go off guai'd — Mutinous villains! 
 Ter. Well ? 
 
 Wal. What followed? 
 Illo. They refused obedience to them. 
 Ter. Fire on them instantly ! Give one the order. 
 fPal. Grentlyl WTiat cause did they assign ? 
 
366 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Jllo. No other 
 
 They said, had right to issue orders but 
 Lieutenant-General Piceolomini. 
 
 Wal. {in a convulsion of agony.) What ? How is that ? 
 
 Illo. He taiies that office on Mm by oommission, 
 Under sign-manual of the Emperor. 
 , Ter. From the Emperor — hear'st thou, Duke ? 
 
 Illo. ■ At his incitement 
 
 The Generals made that stealthy flight — 
 
 Ter. Duke ! hearest thou ? 
 
 Illo. Caraflfa too, and Montecuculi, 
 Are missing, with six other Generals, 
 All whom he had in-^uced to follow him. 
 This plot he has long had in writing by him 
 Prom the Emperor ; but 'twas finally concluded 
 With all the detail of the operation 
 Some days ago with the Envoy Qnestenberg. 
 
 [Waixenstbin sinks down into a chair and covers his face. 
 
 Ter. O hadat thou but believed me ! 
 
 Scene IX. — To them enter the Countess. 
 
 Coun. This suspense. 
 
 This horrid jfear — I can no longer bear it. 
 For heaven's sake, tell me, what has taken place. 
 
 Illo. "'he regiments are all falling off from us. 
 
 Ter. Octavio Piceolomini Is a traitor. 
 
 Cou,,. O my foreboding ! IBusTies < t of the room. 
 
 Ter. Hadst thou but believed me ! 
 
 Now seest thou how the stars have lied to thee. 
 
 Wal. The stars lie no ; but we have a work 
 Wrought counter to the stars and destiny. 
 The science is still honest: this false heart 
 Forces a lie on the truth-telling hsaven. 
 On a divine law divination rests ; 
 
 Where nature deviates from ttiat law, and and stumbles 
 Out of her limit there all science errs. 
 True, I did not suspect ! Were it superstition 
 Never by such suspicion t' have affronted 
 The human form, O inay *^'at 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 coiiquer 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 chud. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 367 
 
 Scene X. — To tliese enter Butler. 
 
 Ter. (meeting Mm.) O look there ! Batler! Here ■we've 
 still a friend ! 
 
 Wal. {meets Mm with outspread arms, and embrojeea Mm witk 
 
 warmth.) Come t(^ my heart, old comrade ! Not the 
 
 Looks out upon tis more revivingly [sun. 
 
 In the earliest m6nth of spring, 
 
 Than a Mend's coautenance in such an hour. 
 
 Sut. Mt General : I come — [ready? 
 
 Wal. (I 'aning on Bdtler's shoulders.) Know'st thou al- 
 That old tnan has hetrayed nie 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 Mm, 
 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 [ireast. 
 Slowly into my heart. [ He hides his face on Butler's 
 
 But. Forget the false one. 
 
 What 11 your present purpose ? 
 
 fVal. Well remembered! 
 
 Dourage, my soul ! I am still rich in frieuds. 
 Still loved by Destiny ; for in the moment, 
 That it unmasks tbe plotting hypocrite. 
 It sends and proves to me ono fui 'if ul heart. 
 Of the hyprocite no morel Think not, his loss 
 Was that which struck the pang : O no I his treason 
 Is that which strikes this pang! Ko more of him ! 
 Dear to my heart, and honoured were they both. 
 And the young man — yes — he did truly love me, , 
 He — he— his not deceived me. But enough'. 
 Enough of tills — Swift counsel now beseems us. 
 The Courier, whom Count Einsky sent from Prague, 
 1 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. 
 
 But, (detaining Mm.) My General, whom expect you then ? 
 
 Wal. The Courier 
 
 Who brings me word of the event at Prague. 
 
 But. (hesitating.) Hem! 
 
 Wal'. And what now ? 
 
 But. You do not know it? 
 
 Wal. Well? 
 
 But. From what that lamm in the camp arose ? , . 
 
 Wal. From what ? 
 
 But. That Courier— 
 
883 THK DEATH OF WALLENSTEDT. 
 
 Wal. (with eager expectation.) Well? 
 
 But. Is already here. 
 
 Ter. and Illo. {at the same time.) Already here ? 
 
 Wal. My Courier ? 
 
 But. For some hours. 
 
 Wal. And I not know it ? 
 
 But. The sentinels detain him 
 
 In custody. 
 
 Illo. (stamping with his foot.) Damnation! 
 
 But. And his letter 
 
 Was broken open, and is circulated 
 Through the whole camp, 
 
 Wal. You know -what it contains 1 
 
 But. Question me not ! 
 
 ■Ter. Illo 1 alas for us ! 
 
 Wal. Hide nothing from me — I can hear the worst. 
 Prague then is lost. It is. Confess it freely. 
 
 But. Yes ! Prague is lost. And all the several regim'Si.JS 
 At Budweiss, Tabor, Branuau, Konigingratz, 
 At Brun, and Zaaym, 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 luxi express alarm and fwy. iVal- 
 LENSTEIN remains firm and collected. 
 
 Wal. 'Tis decided! 
 
 'Tis well ! I have received a sudden cure 
 From all the pangs of doubt : with steady stream 
 Once more my lite-blood flows! My soul's secure l 
 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 my choice was mine. The mnrderou^ -joiite 
 Is lifted for my heart I Doubt disapi)ears ! 
 I fight now for my' head and for my life. 
 
 [_Exit Wallbnstein ; the othesrn follow him. 
 
 Scene XL-^-Countess Tertsky (enters from ji side-room.) 
 
 I can endure no longer. No ! [iooJis around her. 
 
 Where are tljey ! 
 No one is here. They leave roe all alone, 
 Alone in this sore anguish of suspense. 
 And I must wear this outward show of csimness 
 Before my sister, and shut in within me 
 The pangs and agonies of my crowded bi,dom. 
 It is not to be borne. — If all should fail •, 
 If if he must go over to the Swedes, 
 An empty-handed fugitive. -and not 
 As an ally, a covenanted eqna., 
 A proud commander with his army following, 
 If we must wander on from land to lau 1, 
 
THE DEATH OF WALMNSTEIN. SC9 
 
 Like the Count Palatine, of fallen greatness 
 An ignominious monument — But no ! 
 That day I will not see I And could himself 
 Endure to sink so low, I would not bear 
 To see him so low sunken. 
 
 Scene Xll.— Coumtbss, Duchess, Thekla. 
 
 Thek. {endeavouring to hold lack the Duchess.) Dear 
 mother, do stay here ! 
 
 Duch. No I Here is yet 
 
 Some frightful mystery that is hidden from me. 
 Why does my sister shun me 1 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 stealth wise thou exchangest with her ? 
 
 Thek. Nothing ; > 
 
 Nothing, dear mother !. 
 
 Buch. {to the Countess.) Sister, I will know. 
 
 Couu. What boots it now to hide it from her ? Sooner 
 Or later she must learn to bear and bear it. 
 .'Tis not the time now to indulge infirmity, 
 Courage beseems us now, a heart collect, 
 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 , [ber 1 
 
 Thek. (going to the Countess.) What ! do you wish to kiU 
 
 Coun. The Duke is 
 
 Thek. (Throwing her arms round her mother.) Ostandfirm! 
 stand firm, my mother ! 
 
 Coun. Eevolted is the Duke, he is preparing 
 To join the enemy, the army leave him, 
 And all has failed. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A spacious Boom in the Duke oe FRiEDLANiyd 
 Palace. 
 
 Tfal. (in armour.) Thou has gained thy point, Octavio! 
 Once more am I 
 Almost as friendless as at Begenspurg. 
 There I had nothing left me, but myself — 
 But what one man can do, you have now experience. 
 The twigs have you hewed off, and here I stand , 
 A leafless trunk. But in the sap within 
 Lives the creating power, and a new world. 
 
370 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 May sprout forth from it. . Once already have I 
 
 Proved myself worth an army to you — I alone ! 
 
 Before the Swedish strength your troops had melted ; 
 
 Beside the Lech sunk Tilly, your last hope ; ' 
 
 Into Bavaria, like a winter torrent; 
 
 Did that Gustavus pour, and at Vienna 
 
 In his own palace did the Emperor tremble. 
 
 Soldiers were scarce, for still the multitude 
 
 Follow the luck : all eyes were turned on me, 
 
 Their helper in distress : the Emperor's pride 
 
 Bowed itself down before the man he had injured. 
 
 'Twas I must rise, and with creative word 
 
 Assemble forces in the desolate camps. 
 
 I did it. Like a god of war, my name 
 
 Went through the world. The drum was beat — and, lo! 
 
 The plough, the work-shop, is forsaken, all 
 
 Swarm to the old familiar long-loved banners ; 
 
 And as the wood-choir rich in melody 
 
 Assemble quick around the bird of wonder, 
 
 When first his throat swells with his magic song, 
 
 So did the warlike youth of Germany 
 
 Crowd in around the image of my eagle. 
 
 I feel myself the being that I was. 
 
 It is the soul that builds itself a body, 
 
 And Friedland's camp will not remain unfilled. 
 
 Lead then your thousands out to meet me — true ! 
 
 They are accustomed under me to conquer. 
 
 But not against me. If the head and limbs 
 
 Separate from each other, 'twill be soon 
 
 Made manifest, in which the soul abode. 
 
 Illo and Tektskt ( 
 Courage, Mends ! Courage 1 We are still unvanquished ; 
 I feel my footing firm ; five regiments, Tertsky, 
 Are still our own, and Butler's gallant troops ; 
 And an host of sixteen thousand Swedes to-morrow. 
 I was not stronger, when nine years ago 
 I marched forth, with glad heart and high of hope. 
 To conquer Germany for the Emperor. 
 
 Scene II. — ^Wailenstein, Iixo, Teetskt. (To them enter 
 Neumann, who leads Tertsky aside, and talks with him. 
 
 Ter. What do they want ? 
 
 Wal. What now ? ,. 
 
 Ter. Ten Cuirassiers 
 
 From Pappenheim request leave to address you 
 In the name of the regiment. ■' [mann. 
 
 Wal. (flastiJ^ to Neumann.) Let them enter. [EScstNEU- 
 
 This 
 May end in something. Mark yon. They are still 
 Doubtful, and may be won. 
 
The death 6f WALLENStEiN. 3^1 
 
 Scene III. — Waxlenstein, Tertsky, Illo. Ten Cuiras- 
 siers (led by an Anspeasade, * ) march up and arrange 
 themselves, after the word of command, in one front before 
 the Duke, a/ad make their dbmanoe. Me takes his hat off, 
 and immMiately covers himself again. 
 
 Ans. Halt! Front! Present! 
 
 Wat. (after he has run through them with his eye, to the An- 
 sp-^ssade.) I know thee wpll. Thou art out of Briiggin in 
 Thy name is Mercy. [Flanders: 
 
 Ans. Henry Mercy. 
 
 Wal. Thou wert cut off on the march, surrounded by the 
 Hessians, and didst fight thy way with an hundred and 
 eighty men through their thousand. 
 
 Ans. 'Twas even so, General ! 
 
 Wal. What reward hadst thou for this gallant exploit ? 
 
 Ans. That which I asked for : the honour to serve in this 
 corps. 
 
 Wal. (turning to a second.) Thou wert among the volun- 
 teers that seized and made booty of the Swedish battery at 
 Altenburg. 
 
 2nd Cui. Yes, General! 
 
 Wal. I forget no one with whom I have exchanged words. 
 {Apanse.) Who sends you? 
 
 Ans. Your noble regiment, the Cuirassiers of Piccolomini. 
 
 Wal. Why does not your colonel deliver in your request, 
 according to the custom of service f 
 
 Ans. Because we would first know whom we serve. 
 
 Wal. Begin your address. 
 
 Ans. (giving theword of command.) Shoulder your arms! 
 
 Wal. (turning to a third.) Thy name is Eisbeck, Cologne 
 is thy birth-place, 
 
 ^d Cui. . Eisbeck of Cologne. 
 
 Wal. It was thou that broughtest in the Swedish col- 
 onel, Diebald, prisoner, in the camp atNuremburg. 
 
 3rd Cui. It was not I, General I' 
 
 Wal. Perfectly right ! It was thy elder brother; thou 
 hadst a younger brother too : where did he stay ? [army. 
 
 Srd Cui. He is stationed at Olmutz with the Im oerial 
 
 Wal. (totteAnspessade.) Now then begin. 
 
 Ans. There came to band a letter &om the Emperor 
 Commanding us 
 
 Wal. (interrupting him.) Who chose you? 
 
 Ans. Every company 
 
 Drew its own man by lot. 
 
 Wal. Now ! to the business. 
 
 Ans. There came to haYid a letter &om the Emperor 
 Commanding us collectively, from thee 
 
 "Anspessade, in Gterman, Qefreiter, a soldier inferior to a cor- 
 poral, but above tlie sentinels. The German name implies that be 
 IS exempt from mounting guard. < 
 
372 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 All duties of obedience to withdraw, 
 Because thou wert au enemy and traitor. 
 
 Wal. And whaj did you detennine ? 
 
 Ans. , All our comrades 
 
 At Bruannan, Budweiss, Prague and OlmutE, have 
 Obeyed already, and the regiments here, 
 Tiefenbach and Toscano, instantly 
 Did follow their example. Buij — but we 
 Do not believe that thou art an enemy 
 And traitor to thy country, hold it merely [^warmth. 
 
 For lie and trick, and a trumped-up Spanish story ! [ With 
 Thyself shalt tell us what thy pwpose is. 
 For we have found thee still sincere and true: 
 No mouth shall interpose itself betwixt 
 The gallant General and the gallant troops. 
 
 Wal. Therein I recognize my Pappeaheimrrt. 
 
 Ans. And this proposal makes thy regiment to thee : 
 Is it thy purpose merely to preserve 
 In thy own hands this military sgeptre. 
 Which so becomes thee, which the EmBeror 
 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 ratherlet 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 1 
 Then we too will forsake thee, and obey 
 That letter 
 
 Wal. Hear me, children ! 
 
 Ana. Yes, or no! 
 
 There needs no other answer. 
 
 Wal. 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. — 
 
 Ana, Most fair and noble has thy conduct been 
 To us, my General ! With thy confidence 
 Thou hast honoured iis, and shown us grace and favour 
 Beyond all other regiments ; and thou see'st 
 We follow not the commou lierd. We will 
 Stand by thee faithfully. Speak but one word — 
 Thy woi'd shall satisfy us, that it is not 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 373 
 
 A treason which thou meditatest — that 
 Thou meanest not to lead the army over 
 To the enemy ; nor e'er betray thy country. 
 
 Wal.' 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 
 Eequital for that murderous fight at Lutzen 1 
 For this we threw the naked breast against 
 The halbcrt, made for this the frozen earth 
 Our bed, and the hard stone our pillow ! never stream 
 Too riipid for us, nor wood too impervious ; 
 "With cheerful spirit we pursued that Mansfield 
 Through all the turns and windings of his flight ; 
 Yeaj Our whole life was but one restless march ; 
 And homeless, as the stirring wind, wo travelled 
 O'er the war-wasted earth. And now, ev^n 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, un easy prize ! 
 He'U weave, forsooth, into his flaxen locks 
 The olive branch, the hard-eam'd oruament 
 Of this grey head, grown grey beneath the helmet. 
 
 Ans. 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 toll — 
 
 Wal. What? Think you then at length in late old age 
 To enjoy the fruits of toil ? Believe it not. 
 Never, no never, will you see the end 
 Of the contest! you and me, and all of us. 
 This war will swallow up ! War, war, not peace, 
 Is Austria's wish ; and therefore, because I 
 Endeavoured after peace, therefore I fall. 
 For what cares Austria, how long the war 
 Wears out the armies and lays waste the world ? 
 She will hut wax and grow amid the ruin. 
 And still win new domains. 
 
 [_The Cuirassiers express agitation hy their gestures, 
 Ye're moved — I see 
 A noble rage flash from your eyes, ye warriors ! 
 Oh that my spirit might possess you now 
 Daring as once it led you to the battle I 
 
374 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Ye would stand by me with yonr veteran arms, 
 
 Protect me in my rights ; and this is noble ! 
 
 But think not that you can accomplish it^ 
 
 Your scanty number 1 to no purpose will you 
 
 Have sacrificed you for your General. 
 
 No ! let us tread securely, seek for friends ; [ Confidentially. 
 
 The Swedes have proifered us assistance, let us 
 
 Wear for a while the appearance of good will, 
 
 And use them for your profit, till we both 
 
 Carry the fate of Europe in our hands, 
 
 And from our camp to the glad jubilant world 
 
 Lead Peace forth with the garland on her head ! 
 
 Ans. 'Tis then but mere appearances which thou 
 Dost put on with the Swede f Thou'lt not betray 
 The Emperor f Wilt not turn us into Swedes ! 
 This is the only thing which we desire 
 To learn from thee, 
 
 Wal. What care I for the Swedes 1 
 
 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 twain 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 yonr assistance to accomplish it. 
 
 Scene IV. — To these enter Butler. 
 
 But. (passionately.) General! This is not right' 
 
 Wal. What is not right ? 
 
 But. It must needs injure us with all honest men. 
 
 Wal. But what? 
 
 But. It is an open proclamation 
 
 Of insurrection. 
 
 Wal. Well, well— but what is it f 
 
 But. Count Tertsky's regiments tear the Imperial Eagl^ 
 From off the banners, and instead of it, 
 jHavQ reared aloft th^ arms. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 375 
 
 I I 
 
 Ans. {abruptly to the Cuirassiers.) Bigbt about ! March 1 
 Wal. Cursed be this counsel, and accursed who gave it! 
 \_'To the CuirassieTS, 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 mej cost what it may. [Illo hurries 
 
 This hurls us headlong. Butler! Butler! lout. 
 
 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 placing with me. 
 
 The zeal of friends it is that razes me, 
 
 And not the hate of enemies. 
 
 Scene V.i— To these enter the Duchess, who rushes into the 
 Chamber. Thekla. and the Countess /oKow /ler. 
 
 Duch. O Albrecht ! 
 
 What hast thou done ? 
 
 Wal. And now comes this beside, 
 
 Coun. Forgive me, brother ! It was not in my power. 
 They know all. 
 
 Duch. What hast thou! done ? 
 
 Coun. (toTERTSKY.) Istherenohope? Is all lost utterly? 
 
 Ter. All lost. No hope. Prague in the Emperor's hands. 
 The soldiery have ta'en their oaths anew. 
 
 Coun. That lurking hypocrite, Ootavio ! 
 Count Max. is off too ? 
 
 Ter. Where can he bo ? He's 
 
 Gone over to the Emperor with his father. 
 
 [Thekla rushes out into the arms of her mother, hiding 
 her face in her iosom. 
 
 Duch. (enfolding^ her in her arms. ) Unhappy child I and 
 more unhappy mother ! [readiness 
 
 WaL (osMetoTEETSKY.) Quick! Let a carriage stand in 
 In the court behind the palace. Scherfenberg 
 Be their attendant ; ho is faithful to us ; 
 To Egra he'll conduct them, and we follow. 
 Thou hast not brought them back? [ To Illo who returns. 
 
 Illo. Hear'st thou the uproar t 
 
 The whole corps of the Pappenheimers is 
 Drawn out : the younger Piccolomini, 
 Their colonel, they require ; for they a£Srm, 
 That he is in the palace here, a prisoner; 
 And if thou dost not instantly deliver him, ^amazed. 
 
 They will find means to free him with the sword. [_AU stand 
 
 Ter. What shall we make of this ? 
 
 Wal. , Said I not so? 
 
 O my prophetic heart! he is still here. 
 Jle has not betrayed me — he could pot betray me. 
 
376 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 I never doubted of it. 
 
 Coun. If he be 
 
 Still here, then all goes well ; for I know what 
 
 lEmbracing Thekla. . 
 Will keep him here for ever. 
 
 Ter. It can't be. 
 
 His father lias betrayed us, is gone over 
 To the Emperor— the son could not have ventured 
 To stay behind. 
 
 Thek. (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. 
 
 [^Advandng to Thekla, who has thrown herself into her 
 mother's arms. 
 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. 
 
 [_Heobserves the Countess looMng o:i Thekla with ex- 
 pressions of triumph. 
 
 No, Lady 1 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. 
 
 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 looTc, points with her Tiand to her 
 father. Max. turns round io the Duke, whom he had 
 not till then perceived. 
 Thou here? It was not thou, whom here I sought. 
 
 1 trusted never more to have beheld thee. 
 My business is with her alone. Here will I 
 Keceive a full acquittal from this heart — 
 Fpr any other I am no more concerned. 
 
 Wal. Think'st thou, that fool-Uke, I shall let thee go, 
 And act the mock-magnanimous with thee ? 
 Thy father is bocoiiie a villain to mc; 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 377 
 
 I hold tLee for his son, and nothing more; 
 Nor to no purpose shalt thou have oeen given 
 Into my power. Think not, that I will Honour 
 That ancient Jove, which so remorselessly 
 He mangled. They are now past by, those hours 
 Of flienaship 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 ! [power. 
 
 Max. {calmly.) Thou wilt proceed with me, as thou hast 
 Thou know'st, I neither brave nor fear thy rage. 
 What has detained me here, that too thou know'st. 
 
 [ Taking Thekla Jry the liand. 
 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 
 l;aid waste for ever — ^that concerns not thee. 
 Indifferent thou tramplest in the dust 
 Their happiness, who most are thine. The god 
 AVhom thou dost servo, is no benignant deity. 
 Like as the blind irreconcileablo 
 Fierce element, incapable of compact. 
 Thy heart's wild impulse only dost thou follow.* 
 
 * 1 have here ventured to omit a considerable number of lineSj I 
 fear that I should not have done amiss, had I taken this liberty more 
 frequently. It is, however, incumbent on me to give the.original 
 tv'itn a literal translation. 
 
 Weh denen die auf dich Vertraun, an Dich 
 Die sichre Hiltte ihres Gltickes lennen, 
 -, Gelockt von deiner gastlichen Gestalt. 
 Schnell unver holft, by n^chtlich stiller Welle 
 G&hrts in dem tUckschen Feuerschlunde, ladet 
 Sich aus mit tobender Gervalt, und weg 
 Treibt iiber alle Pflanzunger der Menscnen 
 Der wilde Strom in grausender zerstShnlug. 
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Du schilderst deines Vaters Herz. Wie Du'a 
 Beschreibst, so ists in seinem Eingeweide, 
 In dieser schwarzen Heuchlers Brust gestaltet. 
 O mioh hat HSUenkunst getiiuscht. Mir Sandte. 
 Der Abgrund den verflecktestnn der Geister, 
 Den LUgekundigsten herauf, und stellt' ihn 
 Als Freund an meine Seite. Wer vermag 
 DerHBUeJUachtzu widerstehn! Ichzog 
 Den Basilisken auf an meinern Busen, 
 Mit mejnem Herzblut n^hrt ioh ihn, er sog 
 Sich schwelgend vol! an meiner Liebe Brllsten, 
 Ich hatte nlmmer Arges gegen ihn, 
 Weit oflEen liefs ich des Oedankeus There, 
 Und warf t die Schifssel weiser Voraicht weg. 
 Am Sternenhimmel, &c. 
 
 LITERAL TRANSLATION. 
 
 Alas! for those who place their confidence on th'ee, against thee 
 lean the secure hut of their fortune, allured by thy hospitable form. 
 Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a moment still as night, there is a fer- 
 
. sys The Math op wALtENSTiEm. 
 
 Wal. Thou art describing thy own father's heart. 
 The adder I O, the charms of hell o'erpowered me. 
 lie dwelt -within me, to my inmost soul 
 Still to and trd he passed, suspected neverl 
 On the wide ocean, in the starry heaven 
 Did mine eyes seek the enemy, whom I 
 In my heart's heart had folded I Had I heen 
 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 cnnning and suspicion; 
 Peace exists only betwixt confidence 
 And faith. Who poisons confidence, he murders 
 The future generations. 
 
 Max. I will not 
 
 Defend my father. Woe is me, I cannot ! 
 Hard deeds and luckless have ta'en place, one crime 
 Drags after it the other in close link. 
 But we are innocent ; how have we fallen 
 Into this circle of mishap and guilt? 
 To^whom have wo been fai thless ? Wherefore must 
 The evil deeds and guilt recipropal 
 Of our two fathers twine like serpents round us ? 
 Why must our fathers' 
 Unconquerable hate rend us asunder, 
 Who love each other? 
 
 Wal. Max., remain with me. 
 
 Go you not irom me. Max. 1 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 Gernian 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 
 
 mentation in the treacherous gulf of fire; it discharges Itself with 
 raging force, and away over all the ^antations of men drives the 
 wild stream in frightful devastation, wallenstkin. Thou art por- 
 traying thy father's heart, as thou describest, even so is it shaped in 
 his entrails, in this black hypocrite's breast. O. the art of hell has 
 do'celved me? The Abyss pent up t« me the most spotted of the 
 spiritsjbhe most skilful in lies, f^nd placed him as a friend at my 
 side. Who may withstand the power of hell f 1 took the basilisk to 
 my bosom, with my heart'&blooa I nourished him ; he sucked himself 
 glut-full at the breasts of my love. I never harboured evil towards 
 him ; wide open did I leave the door of my thoughts; I threw away 
 the key of wise foresight. In the starry heaven &o.— We find a 
 difBculty in Relieving this to have been written by Schiller, 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 379 
 
 * 
 
 To do for thee all little offices, 
 
 However strange to me ; I tended thee 
 
 Till life returned; ancj. -when thine eyes first opened, 
 
 I had thee in my arms. Since then, when have I 
 
 Altered my feehngs 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! 
 
 Wal. I have 
 
 Held and sustained thee from thy tottering childhood. 
 What holy bond is there of natural lovef 
 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 1 Am I not forced to do it ? 
 My oath — my duty — ^honour — 
 
 Wal. How? Thycluty? 
 
 Duty to whom ? Who art thou? Max. 1 bethink thee 
 What duties mayst thou have ? If I am acting 
 A criminal part toward the Emperor, 
 It is my crime, notthine. Dost thou belong 
 To thine own self ? Art thou thine owu 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 ielong 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, 
 I{ 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, 
 
 * This is a poor and inadequate translation of the affectionate 
 Bimplicity of the original— 
 
 Sie alle Waren Fremdlinge, Du warat 
 Das li:ind des Hauses. 
 
 Indeed the whole speech is in the best style of Massinger. O si 
 sic omnia 1 r 
 
^30 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 For that thott lieldst thy friend more worth to thee 
 
 Than names and influences more removed 
 
 For jnatice is the virtue of the ruler, 
 
 AffSiGtiOD and fidelity the subject's. 
 
 "Not every one doth it beseem to question 
 
 I'lke far-oflf 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. 
 
 Wal. What now ? 
 
 NeH. The Pappenheimers are dismounted,. 
 
 And are advancing now on foot, determined 
 With eword in hand to storm the house, aud free 
 'The Count, their Colonel. 
 
 IFttl. (<oTbestky.) Have the cannon planted. 
 JT 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 tlwwindi w.^ 
 
 Coiin. Let him go, I entreat thee, let him go. 
 
 Illo. {at the window.) Hell and perdition ! 
 
 Wal. ' What is it ? 
 
 Illo. They scale the council-house, the roof's uncovero t. 
 They level at this house the cannon 
 
 Max. Madmen ! 
 
 Illo.. They ar/malcing preparations now to fire on us. 
 
 Duch. and Coun. Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 Max. {to Wallbnsteik.) Lot me go to tlieui 
 
 Wal. Not a ste) ' 
 
 Max. {pointing to TmiKi,A. and the DvcHK&s.) But the r 
 life! Thine! 
 
 Wal. What tidings bring'st thou, Tertsky ! 
 
 Scene VIII. — To these Tertsky {returning). 
 
 Ter. Message and greeting from our faithful regiments 
 Their ardour may no longer be curbed iu. 
 They iutreat iiermission 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 I 
 
 Let not their ardour cool. The soldiery 
 Of Butler's corps stand by vis faithfully ; 
 We are the greater number. Let us charge them, 
 And fiiush here in Pilsen the revolt. 
 
 Wal. What t shall this town become a field of slaughter) 
 And brotbei-kiUing Discord, fire-eyed. 
 
THE DEATH OF V/ALLENSTEPST. 331 
 
 Be let loose through its streets to roam and rage ? 
 
 Shall the decision bp delivered over 
 
 To deaf remorseless Eage, that hears no leader t 
 
 Here is not room for battle, only for butchery. 
 
 Well , let it be 1 I have long thought of it, 
 
 So let it burst then ! ITurna to Max. 
 
 Well, how is it with thee ? 
 Wilt thou attempt a heat with me. Away! 
 Thou art free to go. Oppose thyself to me. 
 Front against front, and lead them to the battle ; [me, 
 Thou'rt skill'd in war, thou hast learned somewhat under 
 I need not be ashamed of thy opponent, ' 
 
 And never hadst thou fairer opportunity 
 To pay me for thy schooUug. 
 
 Cuun. Is it then, 
 
 Can it have come to this ? — ^Whatl 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 
 Eequires of me. I will not fight aginst thee, 
 Unless compelled ; for though an enemy, 
 Thy head is holy to me still. 
 
 [_Two reports of cannon. Illo and TeRtsky hmry 
 to the window, 
 
 Wal. What's that? 
 
 Ter. He falls. 
 
 Wal. Falls! Who? 
 
 Ilh. Tiefenbach's corpk 
 
 Discharge the ordnance. 
 
 Wal. Upon whom? 
 
 Illo. On Neumann, 
 
 Tour messenger. 
 
 Wal. {ata/rting up. ) Ha ! Death and hell ! I will — 
 
 Ter. Expose thyself to their blind frenzy ? 
 
 Duch. and Coun. No 1 
 
 For God's sake, No ! 
 
 Illo. Not yet, my General ! 
 
 Coun. O, hold him ! hold him ! 
 > Wal. Leave me •■ 
 
 Max. Do it not', 
 
 Not yet ! This rash and bloody deed has thrown them 
 Into a frenzy-fit — allow them time 
 
 Wal. 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 vgioe 
 
 Are they not my troops ? Am I not their General, 
 And their longrfeared commander! Let me see. 
 Whether indeed they do no longer know 
 'luat countenance, which was their sun in battle? 
 
3S2 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 From the balcony, (mark!) I shew myself 
 To these rebellious forces, and at once 
 Eevolt is noimded, and the high-swoln current 
 Shrinks back into the old bed of obedience. 
 
 lExit Waixbnstein ; Illo, Tektsky, and Butler 
 follow. 
 
 Scene IX. — Coxtntess, Duchess, Max. and Thekxa. 
 
 Coun, (to the Duchess.) Let them but see him — ^there 
 is hope still, sister. 
 
 Duch. Hope t I have none ! 
 
 Max. {who during the last scene has been standing at a dis- 
 tancein a visible struggle of feelings, advances.) This can 
 I not endure. 
 With most determined soul did I come hither. 
 My purposed iaction seeraed 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 lore 1 
 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. 
 
 Coun. What! you know not? 
 
 Does not your own heart tell you ? Oh ! 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 I 'Tis yours 
 To make the amends — Make you the son's fidelity 
 Outweigh the father's treason, that the name 
 Of Ficcolomini 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 pur^ Fount of Light. 
 
 [ His eyes glance on Thekla, 
 What other angel seek I ? To this heart, t 
 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 dis(iuieted and guilty — canst thou 
 
THE DEATH OP* WALLEKSTEIN. 383 
 
 Still love me, if I stay t Say that thou canst, 
 And I am the Duke's- 
 
 Coun. Think, nieoe- 
 
 Max. Think nothing, Theklal 
 
 Speak what thou feelest. 
 
 Court. 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. Whars at stake t 
 Not wh'ether 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 Oetavio'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. 
 
 Theh. Ohl Max. [Thekla. 
 
 Max. (^interrupting her.) Nay, not precipitately either, 
 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 firiend's 
 Faithful attachment, these too are a holy 
 Religion to the heart ; and heavily 
 Tbe shndderings of nature do avenge 
 Themselves on the barbarian that insults thbm. 
 Lay all upon the balance, all — then speak, 
 And let thy heart decide it. 
 
 Thek. O, thy own 
 
 Hath long ago decided. Follow thou 
 Thy heart's first feeling 
 
 Comb. Oh ! ill-fated woman ! 
 
 Thek. 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. [acted 
 
 What e'er thou hadst chosen, thou would'st still have 
 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! 
 
 Thek. Being faithful 
 
384 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 To thine own self, thou art faithfal too to me ; 
 
 If our fates part, our hearts remain united. 
 
 A bloody hatred will divide for ever 
 
 The bouses Piccolomini and I'riedland; 
 
 But we belons not to our houses — Go I 
 
 Quick! quick I and separate thy righteous cause 
 
 From our unholy and unblessed one I 
 
 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 wiU quickly be decided. 
 
 [Max. clasps her in his arms in extreme emotion. There 
 is heard from behind the Scene a loud, wild, long 
 continued cry, Vivat Ferdinandus, accompanied 
 hy warlike instruments. Max. and Thekla re- 
 mMin without motion in each other's embraces. 
 
 Scene X. — To these enter Teetsky. 
 
 Coun. (meeting him.) What meant that cey-t What was it? 
 
 Ter. All is lost! 
 
 Coun. What ! they regarded not his countenance ? 
 
 Tei: 'Twas all in vain. 
 
 Duch. They shouted Vivat ! 
 
 Ter. ■ To the Emperor. 
 
 Coun. The traitors ! 
 
 Ter. Nay ! he was not once permitted 
 
 Even to address them. Soon as he began, 
 With deafening noise of warlike instruments 
 They drown'd his words. But here he comes. 
 
 Scene XI. — To these enter Wallenstein, accompanied by 
 Illo and Butler. 
 
 Wal. {as he enters.) Tertsky! 
 
 Ter. My General? 
 
 Wal. Let our regiments hold themselves 
 
 In readiness to march ; for we shall leave 
 Pilsen ere eTening. [£iit Tertsky. 
 
 Butler I 
 
 But. Yes, my General. 
 
 Wal. The Governor at Egra is your friend 
 And countryman. Write to himinstantly 
 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. 
 
 But. It shall be done my General ! 
 
 Wal. {steps between Max. and Thekla, who have remained 
 during this time in each other's arms.) Part! 
 
 Maa. OGod! 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 385 
 
 ' [Cuirassiers enfer with drawn swordu, and asaembie in 
 
 the hack-ground. At the same time there areheardfrom 
 
 ' ielow some spirited passages out of the Pappenheim 
 
 March, which seem to address Max. . [keep him 
 
 Wal. {to the Cuirassiers.^ Here he is, he is at liberty : I 
 
 No longer. 
 
 \_He turns away, and ands so that ilkx. cannot pass 
 by hivi nor o.. roa h <fe Princess. 
 Max. Thou know'st that I h ve not yet learnt to live 
 Without thee 1 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 coun -enance. 
 
 [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 ? 
 
 IThe CpuNTBSS turns away from him; he turns to the 
 , Duchess. 
 My mother 
 
 Dvich. Go where duty calls y-ou. 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 I No! 
 Mine is a certain misery — Thanks to heaven 
 That offers me a means of ending it. 
 
 [ The military musie begins again. The stage fills more 
 and more with armed men. Max. sees Butler, 
 an4 addresses him. , 
 
 And you here. Colonel Butler — and will you 
 Nat follow me f 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 bis princely head 
 Fair booty for eacli slave tb at trades in murder. 
 Now he doth need the faithful eye of friendship, 
 And those whom here I see — 
 
 [ Casting sagpieious looks on Iixo for Butler. 
 Hlo. Go — seek for traitqrs 
 
 In Galas', in your father's quarters. Here 
 la only one. Away! Away 1 .and free us 
 From his detested sight ! Away I 
 
 [Max. attempts once more to approach Thekla. Wallen- 
 STEiNf reven<s him. Max. sta/ads irresolute, and in ap- 
 parent anguish. In the mean time the stage fills mtore 
 and more; and the horns sound from below louder and 
 louder, and each time after a shorter interval. 
 Max. Blow, blow I O were it but the Swedish trumpets, 
 And all the naked swords, which I see here, 
 (I 
 
386 THE DEATH OF WAJLLENSTEIN. 
 
 Were plunged into my breast ! What purpose you ? 
 
 You come to tear me from this place ! Beware 
 
 Ye drive me not to 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 wefl done 
 
 To choose a man despairing for your leader ; 
 
 You tear me from my happiness. Well, then, 
 
 I dedicate your souls to vengeance. Mark I 
 
 For your own ruin you have chosen me : 
 
 Who goes with me, must be prepared to perish. 
 
 [&e turns to the haek-ground, 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 inotlici's 
 arms. The curtain falls. The music hecom^s loud and 
 overpowering, and passes into a complete war-march — 
 the orchestra joins it— and continues during the interval 
 ietween the second and third Act. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENB I. — The Burgomaster's House at Egra. 
 
 But. (just arrived.) Here then he is, by his destiny con- 
 Here, Friedland! and no farther! From Bohemia [ducted. 
 Thy meteor rose, traversed the sky awhile, . 
 And here upon the borders of Bohemia 
 Mujst sink. 
 
 Thou hast forsworn the ancient colours, 
 Blind man 1 yet trustest to thy ancient fortunes. 
 Profaner of the altar and the hearth. 
 Against thy Emperor and fellow-citizens 
 Thou mean'st to wage the war. Friedland, beware — 
 The evil spirit of revenge impels thee — 
 Beware thoa, that revenge destroy thee not ! 
 
 Scene II. — Butler and Gordon. 
 
 Got. Is it you ? 
 How my heart sinks i The Duke a fugitive traitor ! 
 His princely head attainted ! my Sod ! 
 
 But. You have received the letter which I sent you 
 By a post-courier. 
 
 Gor, Yes ! aud in obedience to it 
 
 Opened the stronghold 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 DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 387 
 
 The Duke himael^ my Bcruples recommenced. 
 For truly, not like an attainted man 
 Into this town did Fiiedland 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 ; 
 'Tls said, that fallen pride learns condescension : 
 But sparing and with dignity the Duke 
 Weighed every syllable of approbation, 
 t As masters praise a sei'vant who has done 
 His duty, and no more. 
 
 Sut. 'Tis all precisely t 
 
 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 oq him. 
 And every loyal subject is required 
 To give him into justice, dead or living. 
 
 Gor. A traitor to the Emperor — Such a noble ! 
 Of such high talents! What is hnm^n greatness t 
 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 cles^r 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 I for where he fell, I deem 
 Might none stand firm. Alasl 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. 
 
 But. 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 stronghold on free footing; for I have 
 Fledged life and honour here to hold Tihti prisoner, 
 And your assistance 'tis on which I calculate. 
 Gor. O that I had not lived to see this day I 
 From his hand 1 received this dignity. 
 He did hiiuself entrust this stronghold to me, 
 
38g THE DEATH 01? WALLENSTEDJ'. 
 
 Which I am now required to make his dungeoU* 
 We subalterns have no will of our own : 
 The free, the mighty man alone may listea 
 To the fair impulse of his human nature. 
 Ah I we are but the poor tools Of the law, 
 Obedience the sole virtue we dare aim at I 
 
 But. Nay, let it not afflict you, that your power 
 Is circumscribed. Much, liberty, much error 1 
 The narrow path of duty is securest. 
 
 Gor. 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 1 Many a one from dust 
 
 [ With a side glance on Bdtleb. 
 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. 
 
 But. Here's one, I see. 
 
 Gor. 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 cldatel 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. ■■ 
 
 But. Say, then, will you fulfil the attainder on him t 
 
 Gor. (pauses reflecting — then as iji deep dyeetion.) 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 strongholds of the country to the enemy — 
 Yea, truly 1 — 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 : buti was the senior. 
 
 But. I have heard so 
 
 Gor. '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 s 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 
 
THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 389 
 
 That we looked round perplexed upon each other^ 
 
 Not knowing whether it was craziness, ' 
 
 Or whether it were a god that spoke in him. 
 But. But was it where he fell two stories high 
 
 From a window-ledge, on which he had fallen asleep 
 
 And rose up free from injury ? From this day 
 
 (It is reported) he hetrayed clear marks 
 
 Of a distempered fancy. 
 
 dor. 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 be'ng, 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 bim ; 
 
 He stretches forth his hands for a king's crown, 
 
 And plunges in unfathomable ruin. 
 But, No more, he conns. 
 
 SCEITE III. — To these enter Wallenstein, in convtrsation 
 loith the Burgomaster of Egra. 
 
 Wal. You were at one time a free town. I see, 
 Ye hear the half eagle in your city arms. 
 Why tlie Ao// eagle only ? 
 
 Burg. We were free. 
 
 But for these last two hundred years has Egra 
 Bemained 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. 
 
 Wal. Ye merit freedom. 
 
 Only be firm and dauntless. Lend your ears 
 To no designing, whispering court-minions. 
 What may your imposts be ? 
 
 Burg. So heavy that 
 
 We totter under them. The garrison 
 Lives at our costs. 
 
 Wal. 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 — 
 
 [ Fixes his eye on him. The Burgomaster alarmed 
 Be not alarmed. I hate the Jesuits. 
 Could my will have determined it, they had 
 Been long ago expelled the empire. Tnist me— 
 
390 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Mass-book or bible — 'tis all one to me. 
 Of tbat the world has had sufficient proof. 
 I built a chuTcli for the reformed in Glogan 
 At my own instance. Hark'e Burgomaster I 
 What is your name ? 
 
 Burg. Pachhalbel, may it please you 
 
 . Wal. Hark'e! 
 
 But let it go no further, what I now 
 Disclose to you in confidence. 
 
 [Laying his hand on the Burgomaster's shoulder j 
 a certain solemnity. 
 
 The times 
 Draw near to their fulfilment. Burgomaster! 
 The high will fall, the low will be exalted. 
 Hark'e! But keep it to yourself ! The end 
 Approaches of the Spanish double monarchy — 
 A new arrangement is at hand. You saw 
 The three moons that appeared at once in the Heayen. 
 
 Burg. With wonder, and affright! 
 
 Wal. Whereof did two 
 
 Strangely transform themselves to bloody daggers, 
 And only one, the middle moon, remained 
 Steady and clear. • 
 
 Burg. WeappUedit to the Turks. [pires 
 
 Wal. The Turks! That all?— I tell you, that two em- 
 Will set in blood, in th'e East and In the West, [Butler. 
 And Luth'ranism alone remain. [Observing Gordon and 
 
 ' I'faith, 
 
 'Twas a smart cannonading that we heard 
 This evening, as we journeyed hitherward; 
 'Twas on our left hand. Did you hear it here ? 
 
 Gor. Distinctly. The wind brought it from the South. 
 
 But. It seemed to come from Weiden or from Neustadt. 
 
 Wal. 'Tis likely. That'stheroute the Swedes are taking. 
 How strong is the garrison ? 
 
 Gor. Not quite two hundred 
 
 Competent inen, the rest are invalids. ' 
 
 Wal. Good ! And how many in the vale of Jochim ? 
 
 Gor, Two hundred Arquebussiers have I sent thither 
 To fortify the posts against the Swedes. ftPO 
 
 Wal. Good ! I commend your foresight. At the works 
 You have done somewhat? 
 
 Gor. Two additional batteries 
 
 ' I caused to be run up. They were needless. 
 The Rhinegravo presses hard upon us, General ! 
 
 Wal. You have been watchful in your Emperor's servire. 
 I am content with you, Lieutenant-Colonel. [To Butlk.r. 
 Kelease 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 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 391 
 
 Of letters, to take leave of you, together 
 With all the regiments. 
 
 Scene IV. — To these enter Count Tertsky. 
 
 Ter. Joy, General ; joy ! I bring you welcome tidings. 
 
 TVal. And what may they be ? 
 
 Ter. There has been an engagement 
 
 At Neustadt ; the Swedes gained the ■victory. 
 
 Wal. From whence did you receive the intelligence T 
 
 Ter. A conntryman from Tirschenseil convey ea it. 
 Soon after sunrise did the fight begin I 
 A troop of the Imperialists &om Facbau 
 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. 
 
 Wal. ■ 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 1 , 
 
 It cannot be. 
 
 Ter. "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 t« 
 
 speak with thee. 
 Ter. (eagerly.)T>oes he biding confirmation of the victoiy ! 
 Wal. {at the same time.) What does he bring? Whence 
 
 comes he ? 
 Illo. From the Ehinegrave. 
 
 And what he brings I can announce to you 
 Before hand. Seven leagues distant are the Swedes ; 
 At Neustadt did Max. Piccolomini 
 Throw himself on them with the cavalry; 
 A murderous fight took place ! o'erpowered by numbers 
 The Pappenheimers all, with Max, their leader, 
 
 [Wallenstein shudders and turns pale. 
 Were left dead on the field. 
 
 Wal. {after a pause, in a low voice.) Where is the messen- 
 ger J Conduct me to him. 
 [WALLENSTEIN IS going, when Lady Neubrunn nishea 
 into the room. Some Servants /oliow her and run 
 across the stage. 
 Neu. Help! Help! 
 
 Illo. and Tertsky. {at the same time.) What now ? 
 Neu. The Priucesa I 
 
392 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Wal. and Ter. Does she know it ? 
 
 Ifeu. (at the same time with them.) Sbe is dying ! 
 
 IHurriea off the stage when Wallenstein andTEKTSKY 
 follow her. 
 
 Scene "VI. — Butlbk and Gordon. 
 
 Gor. What's tjiis ? 
 
 But. Sbe has lost the man she lov'd — 
 
 Young Piocolomini who fell in the battle. 
 
 Gor. Unfortunate Lady ! 
 
 But. You have heard what Illo 
 
 Eeporteth, that the Swedes are conquerors, ^ 
 
 And marching hitherward. 
 
 Gor. Too well I heard it. [five 
 
 But. They are twelve regiments strong, and there are 
 Close by us to protect the Duke. We have 
 Only my single regiment ; and the garrison 
 is not two hundred strong. 
 
 Gor. • 'Tis even so. 
 
 But. It is not possible with such small force 
 To liold in custody a man like him. 
 
 Gor. I grant'ifc. 
 
 But. Soon the numbers would disai-m us, 
 
 And liberate him. 
 
 Gor. It were to be feared. 
 
 But. {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 ! 
 
 Gor. Butler! whatt 
 
 Do I understand you ? Gracious God ! ¥ou could — 
 
 But. He must not live. 
 
 Gor. And you can do the deed! 
 
 But. Either you or I. This morning was his last. 
 
 Gor. You would assassinate him. 
 
 But. 'Tis my purpose. 
 
 Gor. Who leans with his whole confidence upon you! , 
 
 But. Such is his evil destiny I 
 
 G(yr. Your General! 
 
 The sacred person of your General ! 
 
 But. My General he has been. 
 
 Gor. That 'tis only 
 
 An " has been" washes out no villany. 
 And without judgment passed ? 
 
 But. The execution 
 
 Is here instead of judgment. > 
 
 Gor. This were murder, 
 
 Not justice. The most guilty should be heard. 
 
 But. His guilt is clear, the Emperor has Jiassed judgment, 
 And we but execute his will. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 393 
 
 Gor. We should not 
 
 Hurry to realize a bloody sentence. 
 A word may be recalled, a life can never be, 
 
 Bat. Dispatch in service pleases sovereign 
 
 Gor. No honest man's ambitious to press forward 
 To tho hangman's service. 
 
 But. And no brave man loses 
 
 Hi^ colour at a daring enterprize. 
 
 Gor. A brave man hazards life, but not his conscience. 
 
 But. What then ? Shall he go forth anew to kindle 
 The unextiuguishable flame of war ? 
 
 Gor. Seize nim, and hold him prisoner — do not kill him! 
 
 Bat. Had not the Emperor's army been defeated, 
 I might have done bo. — But 'tis now past by. 
 
 Gor. O, wherefore opened I the stronghold to him ? 
 
 But. His destiny and not the place destroys him. 
 
 Gor. Upon these ramparts, as beseemed a soldier, 
 I had fallen, defending the Emperor's citadel ! 
 
 Bat. YesI and a thousand gallant men have perished. 
 
 Gor. Doing their duty-^that adorns the man ! 
 But murder's a black deed, and nature cuises it. 
 
 But. (brings out a paper.). Here is the manifesto which 
 To gain possession of his person. See — [commands us 
 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. 
 
 Gor, I f — Gracious God ! 
 
 But. \ Take it on yourself. 
 
 Come of it what it may, on you I lay it. 
 
 Gor. O God in heaven ! 
 
 But. Can yon advise aught else 
 
 Where wi th to execute the Emperor's purpose ? 
 Say if you can. For I desire his fall, 
 Not his destruction. 
 
 Gor. Merciful heaven ! what must be 
 
 I see as clear as you. Yet still the heart 
 Within my bosom beats with other feelings I 
 
 But. Mine is of harder stuif ! Necessity 
 In her rough school bath steeled me. And this Hlo 
 And Tertsky likewise, they must not survive him. 
 
 Gor. I feel no pang for these. Their own bad hearts 
 Impelled them, not the influence of the stars. 
 'Twa3 they who strewed the seeds of evil passions 
 In his calm breast, and with officious villany 
 Watered and nursed the pois'nous plants. May they 
 Receive their earnests to the uttermost mite ! 
 
 But. And their death shall precede his ! 
 We meant to have taken them alive this evening 
 Amid the merry-making of a feast, 
 And keep them prisoners in the citadels. 
 Bnt this makes shorter work. I go this instant 
 To give the necessary orders. 
 
 4* 
 
394 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN". 
 
 ' Scene VII. — To these enter Illo and Tkrtsky. 
 
 Ter. Onr luok is on the turn. To-morrow eome 
 The Swedes — ^twelve thonsand gallant warriors, Illo I > 
 Then straightways for Vienna. Cheerily friend! 
 What! meet snch news with such a moody face t 
 
 Illo. It lies with us at present to prescribe 
 Laws, aad take vengeance on those worthless traitors, 
 Those skulking cowards that deserted ns; 
 Odb 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 tiis only son. 
 • But. 'Twas pity though! A youth of snch heroic 
 Aiid gentle temperament I The Duke himself, 
 'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart, 
 
 Illo. Hark'e, old friend! ThatSs the very point 
 That never pleased me in our General — 
 IJe 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. [Imsiness 
 
 Ter. Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! This evening's 
 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 Avantgardfe. 
 
 Illo. Yes, let us be of good cheer for to-day, 
 For there's hot work before us, friend ! This sword 
 Shall have no rest, till it be bathed to the hilt 
 In Austrian blood. 
 
 Gor. Shame, shame ! what talk is this, 
 
 My liord Field Marshal f Wherefore foam you so 
 Against your Emperor ? 
 
 But. 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 t He's no luck, 
 And was of old the miner of armies. 
 And then this Viper, this Octavio, 
 Is excellent at stabbing in the back, 
 But ne'er meets Friedland in the open field. 
 
 Ter. Trust me, my friends, it cannot but succeed ; 
 Fortune, we know can ne'er forsake the Duke ! 
 And only under Wallensteiu can Austria 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 395 
 
 Be conqueror. 
 
 Illo. The Duke will soon assemble 
 
 A mighty army, all comes crowding, streaming 
 To banners, dedicate by destiny, 
 To fame, and prosperous fortune. I behold 
 Old times come back again, be will become 
 Once more the mighty Lord which he has been. 
 How will the fools, who've now deserted him'. 
 Look then f 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 : out we've the nearest claims. [_To Gordon. 
 You will not be forgotten, Governor ! 
 He'U take you from this nest and hid you shine 
 In higher station : your fidelity 
 Well merits it. 
 
 Gor. 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 T 
 Say, shall we have the State illuminated 
 In nonor of the Swede t And who refuses 
 To do it is a Spaniard and a traitor. 
 Ter. Nay! Nay! not that, it will not please the Duke — 
 ■Illo. What I we are masters here ; no soul shall dare 
 Avow himself imperial, where we've the rule. 
 Gordon ! Good night, and for the last tirae,.take 
 A fair leave of the place. Send out patroles 
 To make secure, the watch-word may be altered 
 At the stroke often ; deliver in the keys 
 To the/ Duke himself, and then you're quit for ever 
 STour wardship of the gates, for on to-morrow 
 The Swedes will take possession of the citadel. [castle. 
 Ter. (as fte is going, to Butlek.} You come though to the 
 £ut, . At the right time. 
 
 lEmeunt Tertsky and Illo. 
 
 ScENB VIII. — Gordon and Butler. 
 
 Gor. (looking afte>- them.) Unhappy men! How free 
 fi?om all foreboding ! 
 Phey rush into the outspread net of murder, 
 tn the blind drunkenness of victory ; 
 1 have no pity for their fate. This Illo, 
 This overflowing and fool-hardy villain \ 
 That would fain bathe himself in his Emperor's blood. 
 
 But. Do as he ordered yon. Send round patroles, 
 Take measures for the citadel's security ; 
 When they are within I close the castle gate 
 That nothing may transpire. 
 
 Gor. (wifA earnest atmety.) Oh ! haste not so I * 
 
396 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Nay, stop ; first tell me- 
 
 But. ' 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. 
 
 Gor. Ah ! your looks tellme nothing good. Nay, Butler, 
 I pray you, promise me ! 
 
 But. 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 it4 
 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. 
 
 Gor. 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 aim, unseen 
 Arrest the lifted sword. 
 
 But. It is too late. 
 
 I suffer not myself to feelcompassion. 
 Dark thoughts and bloody are my duty now ! 
 
 [_Grasping Gordon's hand. 
 Gordon ! 'Tis not my hatred (Ijretend 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. 
 
 Gor. If your heart speak to jou. 
 
 Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God. 
 Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous 
 Bedewed with blood — his blood ? Believe it not ! [pen. 
 
 But. You know not — Ask not ! Whei-efore should it hap- 
 * We dniibt the propriety of putting so blasphemous a sentiment 
 in the nioutii of any character. — T; 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 397 
 
 That the Swedes gained the victory, and hasten 
 
 With such forced marches hitherward 1 Fain would I 
 
 Have given him to the Emperor's mercy. — Gordon ! 
 
 1 do not wish his blood — But I must ransom 
 
 The honour of my word — it lies in pledge^ [ hand. 
 
 And he must die, or IPaasionately grasping Gordon's 
 
 Listen then, and know I 
 I am duiAonowed if the Duke escape us. 
 
 Gar. O ! to save such a man 
 
 But. What! 
 
 Cror. It is worth 
 
 A sacrifice, — Come, friend! Be nohle-minded! 
 Our own heart, and not other men's opinions. 
 Forms our true honour. 
 
 But. (^witha coldandhaughtgair.) He is a great Lord, 
 This Dnke — ^and I am but of mean importance. 
 This is what you would say I Wherein concerns it 
 The world at large, you mean to hint to me, 
 Whether the man of low extraction keeps 
 Or blemishes his honour — 
 Bo 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, 
 Tbat I despise myself compared with him, 
 Man is made great or little by his own will; 
 Because 1 am true to mine, therefore he dies. 
 
 Gor. I am endeavouring to move a rock. 
 Thou hadst a mother, yet no human feelings. 
 1 cannot hinder you, but may some God 
 Itescue him from you 1 [ Exit Gordon. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 , But. (aUme.) Itreasured my good name all my life long; 
 The Dnke 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 
 tie subjugates himself to an iron djity. 
 Me in a weakermoment passion warped; 
 I stand beside him, and must feel myself 
 "the worse man of the two. What,tbough the world 
 Is ignorant of my purposed treason, yet 
 One man does know it, and can prove it too — 
 High-minded Plccolomini I 
 There lives the man who can dishonour me ! 
 This ignominy blood alone can cleanse 1 , 
 
 Duke Friedland, thou or I — Into my own hands [self. 
 
 Fortune delivers me — ^Ttie dearest thing a man has is him- 
 
398 THE BEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Butlek's Chamber. 
 
 Butler, Major, and Geraldin. 
 
 But. Find me twelve strong Dragoons, arm them yrifh 
 pikes, I 
 
 For there must be no firing 
 
 Conceal them somewhere near the banquet room. 
 And soon as the dessert is served up, rush all lu 
 And cry — Who is loyal to the Emperor ; 
 
 I will overturn the table — while you attack 
 
 II lo 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 Deverpux 
 And the Macdonald ? 
 
 Gei: They '11 be here anon. [ Ejcit Gbsjoxos. 
 
 Bui. 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 an hundred citizens 
 Have volunteered themselves to stand on gnard. 
 Dispatch then be the word. For enemies 
 Threaten us from without and from within. 
 
 Scene II. — Butler, Captain Dbvereux, anti Macdonald. 
 
 Mac. Here we are, General. 
 
 Dev. What's to be the watchword? 
 
 Sut. Long live the Emperor ! 
 
 Both (reeoilmg.) How T 
 
 But. Live the House of Austria. 
 
 Dev. Have we not sworn fidelity to Friedland f 
 
 Mae. Have we not marched to this place to protect him t 
 
 But. Protect a traitor, and his country's enemy ! 
 
 Den. Why, yes ! in his name you administered 
 Dur oath: ^ 
 
 Mac. And followed him yourself to Egra. 
 
 But. I did it "the more surely to destroy him. 
 
 Dev. So, then I 
 
 Mae. An altered case ! 
 
 But. (to Devereux.) Thou wretched man! 
 
 So easily leav'sl thou thy oath and colours 1 
 
 Dev., The devil! — I but followed your example. 
 If you could prove a villain, why not we? [ness. 
 
 Mao. We've nought to do with thinking — ^that's your busi- 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 399 
 
 Ton are our General, and give out the orders ; 
 We follow you, though the track lead toTiell. 
 
 But. (appeased.) Good then! we know each other. 
 
 Mac. , ' I should hope bo, 
 
 Dev. Soldiers of fortune are we — who bids most, 
 He has us. 
 
 Mac. 'Tis e'en so ! 
 
 But. Well, for the present 
 
 Yo must remain honest and faitful soldiers. 
 
 Bem. We wish no other. ' 
 
 But. Aye, and make your fortunes. 
 
 Mac. That is still better. 
 
 But. Listen ! 
 
 Both. We attend. 
 
 But. It is the Emperor's will and ordinance 
 To seize the person of the Prince-Duke Friedland, 
 Alive or dead. 
 
 Den. It runs so in the letter. 
 
 Mao. Alive or dead — ^these were the very words. 
 
 But. And he shall be rewarded from the State 
 lu land and gold who proffers aid thereto. [well 
 
 2)e». Ayf That sounds well. The words sound always 
 That travel hither from the Court. Yes ! yes I 
 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. 
 
 Mac. Yes, 
 
 The Duke's a splendid paymaster. 
 
 But. All over 
 
 With that, my friends. His Incky stars are set. 
 
 Mac, And is that certain ? 
 
 But. Yon have my word for it. 
 
 Dev. His lucky fortunes all past by ? 
 
 But. For ever. 
 
 He is as poor as we. 
 
 Mae. As poor as we T 
 
 Dev. Macdonald, we'll desert him. 
 
 But. We'll desert him? 
 
 Full twenty thousand have done that already ; 
 We must do more, my countrymen ! In short-- 
 Wb — we must kill him. 
 
 Both, {starting back.) Kill him! 
 
 But. Yes ! must kill him. 
 
 And for that purpose have I chosen you. 
 
 Both. Us ! 
 
 But. You, Captain Devereux, and the Macdonald. 
 
 Dev, {after a pause.) Chnse jou some other. 
 
 But. What? art dastardly? 
 
 Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for — 
 Thon conscientious of a sudden ? 
 
 Dee. Nay, 
 
400 THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 To assassinate our Lord and General — 
 
 Mac, To whom we've sworn a soldier's oath — 
 
 But. The oath 
 
 Is null, for Friedland is a traitor. 
 
 I)ev. No, no ! It is too bad ! 
 
 Mac. Yes, by my soul I 
 
 It is too bad. One has a conscience too — 
 
 Dev. If it were not our Chieftain, who so long 
 Has issued the commands, and claim'd our duty. 
 
 But. Is that the objection ? 
 
 Dev. 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 ot Confessor absolves us. 
 
 But. I am your Pope, and give you absolution. 
 Determine quickly 1 
 
 Deo. 'TwiU not do ! 
 
 Mac. 'Twont do ! 
 
 But, Well, ofif then ! and — send Pestalutz to me. 
 
 Dev. (hesitates.) The Pestalutz — 
 
 Mac. What may yon want with him T 
 
 But. If you reject it, we can find enough — 
 
 Dev. Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty 
 As well asany other. What think you, 
 Brother Macdonald ? 
 
 Mac, Why if he must fall. 
 
 And will fall, and it can't be otherwise. 
 On . w^uld not give place to tliis Pestalutz. [fall f 
 
 Dev. (after some reflection.) When do you purpose he shoold 
 
 But. This night. 
 
 To-morrow will the Swedes be at our gat^s. 
 
 Dev. You take upon you all the consequences T 
 
 But. I take the whole upon me. 
 
 Dev. 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 murdeier. 
 
 But. The manifesto says — ^live or dead. 
 Alive — ^"tis not possible — you see it is not. [him t 
 
 Dev. Well, dead then ! dead I But- how can we come at 
 The town is fill'd with Tertsky's soldiery. 
 
 Mac. Ay ! and then Tertsky still remains, and Illo — 
 
 But. With these you shall begin — you understand met 
 
 Dev. How ? And must they too perish ? 
 
 But. They the first. 
 
 Mac. Hear, Devereux ? A bloody evening this. 
 
 Dev. Have you a man for that ? Commission me — 
 
 But. 'Tis given iu trust to Major Geraldin ; 
 This is a carnival night, and there's a feast 
 Given at the Castle — there we shall surprise them, 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 401 
 
 And hew them down. The PAtalutz, and Lesley 
 Have that commission — soon as that is finished — 
 
 Dm. Hear, General ! It will be all one to you. 
 Hark'e ! lot me exchange with Geraldin. 
 
 But. 'Twill he the lesser danger with the Duke. [eral ? 
 
 i)ev. Danger! The devil! What do you think me, Gen- 
 'Tis the Duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear. 
 ' But. What can his eye do to thee ? 
 
 Der. Death and hell! 
 
 Though know'st th^it I'm no milk-sop, General ! 
 But 'tis not ei^ht days since the Duko did send me 
 Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat 
 Which I nave on ! and then for him to see me 
 Standing before him with the pike, his murderer, 
 That eye of his looking upoh this coat — 
 Why — why — the devil fetch me ! I'm U3 milk-sop ! 
 
 But. 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 fax better and far warmer 
 Did the Emperor give to him, the Prince's mantle. 
 How doth he thank the Emperor ? With revolt. 
 And treason. 
 
 Dev. That is true. The devil take 
 
 Such thankers ! I'll dispatch him. 
 
 But. - And would'st quiet 
 
 Thy conscience, thou hast naught to do but simply 
 Pull off the coat ; so can'st thou do the deed 
 With light heart and good spirits. 
 
 Dev. Yon are right. 
 
 That did not strike me. I'll pull off the coat — 
 So there's an end of it. 
 
 Mac. Yes, hut there's another 
 
 Point to he thought of. 
 
 But. And what's that, Macdonald ? 
 
 Mat. What avails sword or dagger against him f 
 He is not to be wounded — he Is — 
 
 Bal. (startmg up.) What? 
 
 ~ Mae. Safe against shot, and stab and flash! Hard frozen, 
 Secured, and warranted by the black art ! 
 His body is impenetrable, I tell you. 
 
 Dev. In Inglestadt there was just such another. 
 Ris whole skin was the same as steel ; at last 
 We were obliged to beat him down with gunstocks. 
 
 Mae. Hear what I'll do. 
 
 Dev. Well? 
 
 Mac. 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 I 
 Nothing can stand 'gainst ^hat. ^ 
 
402 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 But. ^ ' So do, MacdonaW! 
 
 But now go and select from out the regiment 
 Twenty or thirty abled-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. 
 
 Dev. But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon, 
 That stand on guard there in the inner chamber f 
 
 £ut. 1 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 
 CutHartschier's wind pipe, and make way for you. [gain 
 
 Dev. And. when we aie there, by what means shall we 
 The Duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming 
 The servants of the Court ; for ho has here 
 A numerous company of followers ? 
 
 But. The attendants fill the right wing; he hates bustle, 
 And lodges in the left wing quite alone. 
 
 Dei'. Wereit well over — hey, Macdonald? I 
 Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows ! 
 
 Mac. And I too. 'Tis too great a personage. 
 People will hold nsfor a brace of villains. 
 
 Bult. In plenty, honour, 'splendour — You may safely 
 Laugh at the people's babble. 
 
 Dev. If the business 
 
 Squares with one's honour — ^if that be quite certain — [nand 
 
 But. Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdi- 
 His crown and Empire. The reward can be 
 No small one. 
 
 Dee. And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the Emperor ? 
 
 But. Yes ! — ^Yes ! — to rob him of h is Crown and Life. 
 
 Dev. And he must fall by the executioner's hands, 
 Should we deliver him up to the Emperor 
 Alive? 
 
 But. It were his certain destiny. 
 
 Dev. Well! Well! Come then, Macdonald, he shall ndt' 
 Lie long in pain. 
 
 ^Exeunt Butler through one door, Macdonald and 
 Devereux through the other. 
 
 Scene HI. — A Gothic and gloomy Apartment at the Duchess 
 Fmbdland's. Thbkla on a seat, pale, her eyes closed. 
 2^ Duchess and Lady Neubrunn husiM about her. 
 Wallbnstein and the Countess in conversation. ' 
 
 Wal. How knew she it so soon ? 
 
 Coun. , She seems to have 
 
 Foreboded some misfortune. The report 
 Of an engagement, in the which had fallen 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 403 
 
 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. 
 
 Wo found her lying in Ilia arms, all pale 
 
 And in a swoon. 
 
 Wal. A heavy, heayy blow! 
 
 And she so unprepared ! Poor child! How is it ? 
 
 [ Turning to the DtJCTIESB. 
 Is she coming to herself! 
 
 Duch. Her eyes are opening, 
 
 Coun. She lives. 
 
 Thek, {JooMng round her.) Where am If 
 
 Wal. (steps to her, raising her up in his arms.) Come, cheerly, 
 Thekla ! be my own brave girl I 
 See, there's thy loving mother. Thou art in 
 Thy father's arms. 
 
 Th k. (standing up.) Where is he ? Is he gone ? 
 
 Duoh. Who gone, my daughter ? 
 
 Tiiek. He — the man who uttered 
 
 That word of misery. 
 
 Duch. O ! thinly not of it, 
 
 My Thekla 1 
 
 Wal. Give her sorrow leave to talk ! 
 
 Let her complain — mingle your tears with her'a, 
 I'or she hath suffered a deep anguish ; but 
 She'll rise superior to it, for ray Thekla 
 Hath all her father's unsubdued heart. 
 
 I'hek. I am not ill. See, I have power to stand. 
 AVhy does my mother weep ? Have I alarmed her? 
 It is gone by — I recoUectmyself. 
 
 [^She casta her eyes around 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. 
 
 Dueh. No, never shall this messenger of evil 
 Eiiter again into thy presence, Thekla ! 
 
 Thei. My father— 
 
 Wal. Dearest daughter ! 
 
 Thek. I am not weak — 
 
 Shortly I shall be quite myself again. 
 You'll gran j me one request ? 
 
 Wal. . Name it, my daughter. 
 
 ■ Tliek. Permit the stranger to be called to me, 
 An(^ grant me leave, that by myself I may 
 Hear his report and question him. 
 
 JUnch. No, never I 
 
 Coun. 'Tis not advisable — assent not to it. 
 
 Wal. Hush! Wherefore would'st thou speak with him, 
 my daughter ? 
 
 Thek. Knowing the whole, I shall be more collected ; 
 I will not be deceived. My mother wishes 
 
404 T}1E DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Only to spare me. I will not be spared. 
 Tlie worst is ^id already : I can bear 
 Nothing of deeper angaish ! 
 
 Coun. and Duck. Do it not. 
 
 Thek. 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 bis 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. 
 
 fVal. i see she is in the right, and am inclined 
 To grant her this request of ber's. Go, call him. 
 
 [Lady Neubkunn goes to call him. 
 
 Duck. But I, thy mother, will be present— 
 
 Thek. 'Twere 
 
 More pleasing; to me, if alone I saw him : 
 Trust me, I shall behave myself the more 
 Collectediy. 
 
 Wal. Permit her her own wUl. 
 
 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 lier mothei''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. [_G'>itig. 
 
 Coun. I detaining Mm.) Where art thou going f I heard 
 Tertsky say 
 That 'tis thy purpose to depart from hence 
 To-morrow early, but to leave us here. 
 
 Wal. Yes, ye stay here, placed under the protection 
 Of gallant men. 
 
 Coun. 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. 
 
 Wal. Who speaks of evil ? I entreat you, sister. 
 Use words of better omen. 
 
 Conn. Then take us with you. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 cannot tell you, brother, how this place 
 Doth go against my nature. Take ns with yon. 
 Come, sister, join you yonr entreaty 1 — ^Niece, 
 Tour's too We all entreat you, takeus with you ! 
 
 Wal. The place's evil omens will I change, 
 Making it that which shields and aholters for me 
 My best-beloved. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 405 
 
 Lady Neu. (returning.) The Swedish officer. 
 Wal. Leave her alone with me. IJSxil. 
 
 Duch. (to TheKlX, who starts and shivers.) There — paleais 
 death! — Child, ' a impossible 
 That thou should'st speak with him. Follow thy mother. 
 Thek, The Lady Neubrunn then may stay with me. 
 
 [_E3j,eunt Duchess and Countess. 
 
 Scene rv. — Thekla, the Swedish Captain, Lady 
 
 Neubkcnn. 
 
 Cap. (respeclfttlltj approaching her.) Princess — I must en- 
 treat your gentle jiardon — 
 My inconsiderate rash speech. — How could I — 
 
 Thek. (with digfiily.) Yon have beheld me in my agony. 
 A most distressful accident occasioned 
 You from a stranger to become at once 
 My confidant. 
 
 Cap. I fear you hate my presence, 
 
 For my tongue spakj a melancholy word. 
 
 Thek. The fault is inine. 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. 
 
 Cap. ' Princess, 'twill 
 
 Renew your anguish. 
 
 Ihek. I am firm. — 
 
 I will be firm. Well — how began the engagement f 
 
 Cap. 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- 
 
 Trekla letrdys agitation in her gestures. The Officer 
 pauses till she makes a sign to him to proceed. 
 
 Cap. Both in van and flanks 
 
 With our whole cavalry we now received them. 
 Back to the trenches drove them, where the foot 
 Stretched out a solid ridge of pikes to meet them. 
 They neither could advance, nor yet retreat; 
 And as they stood on every si dp wedged in, 
 The Rhinegrave to their leader called aloud. 
 Inviting a surrender ; but their leader. 
 
 Young Piccolomini 
 
 Thekla, as giddj/j-grasps a chair. 
 
406 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTBIN; 
 
 Known by his plume, 
 And his long hair, gave signal for the wenches ; 
 Himself leapt first, th3 regiment all plunged after. 
 His charter, by an halbert gored, reared up, 
 Flung him with violence off, and over him 
 
 The horses, now no longer to be curbed, 
 
 [Thekla, wAo has aecompanied the last speech with all 
 the marks of increasing agony, trembles through her 
 whole frame, and is failing. The Lady Neubrunn 
 runs to. her, amd receives her in her arms. 
 
 Neu. My dearest lady 
 
 Cap^ I retire. 
 
 Thek. 'Tis over. 
 
 Proceed to the conclusion. - 
 
 Cap. Wild despair 
 
 Inspired the troops with fren2y when they saw 
 Their leader perish ; every thought of rescue 
 AVas spuxu'd ; they fought like wounded tigers ; their 
 Frantic resistance rousM our soldiery ; 
 A murderous fight tofit place, nor was the contest 
 Finish'd before their last man fell. 
 
 Thek. (faltering.) ' And where 
 
 Where is — You have not told me all. 
 
 Cap. (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 Ehinegrave's self. 
 Noir tears were wanting : for there are among us 
 Many, who had themselves experienced 
 The greatness of his mind, and gentle manners ; 
 AH wfere affected at his fate. The Khinegrave 
 Would willingly have saved him ; but himself 
 Made vain the attempt — 'tis said he wished to die, 
 
 Neu. (to THKKLAwfto has hidden her countenance.) Lookup, 
 my dearest lady 
 
 Thek. Where is his grave ? 
 
 Cap. At NenStadt, lady ; in a cloister church i 
 
 Are his remains deposited, until ' 
 
 We can receive directions from his father. 
 
 Tliek. What is the cloister's name ? 
 
 Cap. Saint Catharine's. 
 
 Thek. And how far is it thither ? 
 
 Cap. Near twelve leagues. 
 
 , Thek. And which the way ? 
 
 Cap. You go by Tirschenreit 
 
 And Falkenberg, through our advanced posts. 
 
 Thek. Who 
 
 Is their commander f 
 
 Cap. Colonel Seckendorf. 
 
 [Thbkla steps to the table, and takes a ring from a casket. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 40r 
 
 Tkek. You have beheld me in my agony, 
 And shewn a feeling heart. Please you, accept 
 
 \_Giving him the ring, 
 A small memorial of this houi-. Now go ! 
 
 Cap. (confused.) Princess 
 
 [Thekla si?en% makes signs to Aim 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. 
 
 Thek. {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 a way ! ^ 
 
 Neu. Away! and whither t 
 
 Thek. Whither ! There is but one place in the world. 
 Thither where he lies buried ! To his coffin ! 
 
 Neu. What would you do there ? 
 
 Thek. 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 I 'ngle spot is the whole earth to me. 
 
 Nea. That place of death 
 
 Thek. 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. 
 
 Nea. Your father's rage 
 
 Thek. That time is past 
 
 And now I fear no human being's rage. [umny 
 
 Nea. The sentence of the world! The tongue oif cal- 
 
 Thek. 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. 
 
 Nea. And we alone, two helpless feeble women ? 
 
 Thek. We will take weapons : my arm shall protect thee. 
 
 Nea. In the dark night-time t 
 
 Thek. Darkness will conceal us. 
 
 Nea. This rough tempestuous night 
 
 Thek. Had he a soft bed 
 
 Under the hoof^of his war-horses ? 
 
 jTew. Heaven ! 
 
 And then the many posts of the enemy ( — 
 
 Thek. They are human beingS. Misery travels free 
 Through the whole earth. 
 
 Nea. - The jotimey's weary length— 
 
 Thek. , The pilginm, travelling to a distant shrine 
 Of hope and healing, doth not count the leagues. 
 
 Neu. How can we pass the gates ? " 
 , IheU. Gold opens them. 
 
408 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Go, do bat go. 
 
 Nea. Should vre be recognised — 
 
 • Thek. In a despairing woman, a poor fugitive, 
 WUl no one seek the daughter of Duke Fnedland. 
 
 Neu. And where procure we horses for our fligtt f 
 
 Thek. My equerry procures them. Go and fetch him. 
 
 Neu. Dares he, without the knowledge of his lord T 
 
 Thek. He will. Go, only go. Delay no longer. 
 
 Neu. Dear lady ! and your mother ? 
 
 Thek. Oh ! my mother ! 
 
 Neu. So much as she has suffered too already; 
 Tour tender mother — Ah ! how ill prepared 
 For this last anguish I 
 
 Thek. Woe is me ! my mother I [Pauses. 
 
 Go instantly. • 
 
 Neu. But think what you are doing ! 
 
 Thek. What can be thought, already has been thought. 
 
 Nen. And being there, what purpose you to do 1 
 
 Thek. There a Divinity will prompt my lonl. 
 
 Neu. Your heart, dear lady, is disquieted! 
 And this is not the way that leads to quiet. 
 
 Thek. 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 I 
 Mercy! Still more! Morestilll The hideous swarm! 
 They press on me ; they chase me from these walls — 
 Those hollow, bodiless forms of living men ! 
 
 Neu. You frighten me so, lady, that no longer 
 I dare stay here myself. I go and call 
 Rosenberg instantly. [JSiit Lady Nbubbunn. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Thek. His spirit 'tis that calls me^ 'tis the troop 
 Of his true followers, who offered up 
 Themselves to avenge his death : and thay accuse me 
 Of an ignoble loitering — th^y would not 
 Forsake their leader even in his death — thsy died for him I 
 
 And shall J 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 1 [Exit Thebxa.* 
 
 * The soliloquy of Thekla consists in the original oC six and twenty. 
 
' THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 409 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A Saloon, terminated by a gallery which extends far 
 into the back-ground. Wallenstein sUiing at a table. 
 The Swedish Captain standing before him. . 
 Wal. 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 ofgood will, i \ 
 
 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. 
 
 [T/i« Swedish Captain retiree. Waixenstbin site lost 
 in thouglii, his eyes fixed vacantly, atid his head sus- 
 tained by his hand. The Couktkss Tertsky enters, 
 stands before him awhile,unobsei-ved by him; at length 
 he starts, sees her, and recollects himself. 
 JFoZ. Com'st thou from her? Is she restored ? How is she? 
 Coun. My sister tells me, she was more collected 
 After her conversation with the Swede. 
 She' has now retired to rest, % 
 
 Wal. The pang will soften, 
 
 She will shed tears. 
 
 Coun. 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. 
 
 Wal. Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's 
 Thy husband? 
 
 Coun. At a banquet — he and lUo. 
 
 Wal. {rises and strides across the saloon.) The night's far 
 
 spent. Betake thee to thy chamber. 
 Coun. Bid me not go, O let me stay with thee ! 
 Wal. (moves to the window.) There is a busy motion in the 
 Heaven, 
 The wind doth chase the fla^ upon the tower, 
 Faat sweep the clouds, the sickle* of the moon, 
 
 lines, twenty of which are in rhymes of irregular recurrence. I 
 thought it prudent to abridge it. Indeed the wbole scene between 
 Thekia and Lady Neubrunn might, perhaps, have been omitted 
 without injury to the play. 
 
 * These four lines aVe expressed in the original with exquisite 
 felicity. 
 
 Am Himmel ist geschfif tige Bewe 
 
 Des Thurmes Fahue jagt der Wind, schnell geht ' 
 Der Wolkeu Zug. die Mondes-sichel wankt, 
 t TJnd durch die Nacht zuckt ungewlsse Helle. 
 The word "moon-sickle," reminds me of a passage in Harris, as 
 
410 . THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Straggling, darts snatches of uncertain light. 
 
 No form of starts visible ! That one 
 
 White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder, 
 
 la from Cassiopeia, and therein , ' 
 
 Is Jupiter. (A pause.) But now 
 
 The blackness of the troubled element liides him I 
 
 [fle sinks into profound melancholy, and looks Do- 
 eanily into the distance. 
 
 Coun. (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand.) 
 What art thou brooding on 1 
 
 Wal. 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. 
 
 Coun. Thou'lt see him again. 
 
 Wal. {remains for a while with absent mind, then assumes a 
 livelier mMuner, and turns suddenly to the Cotjntess.) 
 See him again? O never, never again. 
 
 Coun. How ? \ 
 
 Wal. He is gone — is dust. 
 
 Coun. Whom mean'st"thou then t 
 
 Wal. He, the more fortunate ! yea, he hath finished I 
 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 f 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 I 
 
 Covn. Thou speakest 
 
 Of Piccolomini. What was his death ? 
 The Courier bad just left thee, as I came. 
 
 [WALLENSTEIN lyy a motion of his luind nifikes signs 
 ' to her to le silmt. 
 Turn not thine oyes 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 fliend was "to thee dead; 
 To thee he died, when first he parted from thee. 
 
 quoted by Johnson, under the word "falcated." "The enlight.- 
 ened part of the moon appears lu the form of a sickle or reaping- 
 hook, which is while she is moving from the conjunction to the op- 
 position, or from the new moon to the full; out from full to a new 
 again, the enlightened part appears gibbous, and the darkfalcated." 
 The words "wanken" and^'schweben" are not easily translated. 
 The English words by which we attempt to render them, are either 
 vulgar or pedantic, or not of sufflciently gen<!ral application. So 
 "der Wolken Zug"— The Draft, the Procession of Clouds.— I^e 
 Masses of the Clouds sweep onward in swift stream. 
 
THE , DEATH OF WAI/LENSTEIN. 411 
 
 Wal. This anguish will be wearied down,* I knowj 
 What pang is permanent with man ? From the highest, 
 As from the vilest thing of every day 
 He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours 
 CSonquer him. Yet I feel what I harv* lost 
 Inhim. The bloom is vanished from my life. 
 For O I he stood beside mo,- like my youth, 
 Transformed for me the real to a dream, 
 Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
 With golden exhalations of the dawn. 
 Whatever fortunes wait my future toils. 
 The beautiful is vanished — and returns not. 
 
 Coun. O be not treacherous to thy own power. 
 Thy heart is rich enough to vivify 
 Itself. Thott lov'st and prizest virtues in him, 
 The which thyself did'st plant, thyself unfold, [late hour ? 
 
 Wal. {stepping to the door.) Who interrupts na now at this 
 It is the Govertior. He brings the keys 
 Of the Citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister ! 
 
 Coun. O 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee — 
 A boding fear possesses me 1 
 
 Wal. Fear ? Wherefore ? 
 
 Coun. Should'st thou depart this night, and we at waking 
 Never more find thee ! 
 
 Wal. Fancies! 
 
 Coun. 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. 
 . Wal, This was a dream of favourable omen. 
 That marriage being the founder of my fortunes. 
 
 Cotm. 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 
 Inteired. 
 
 Wal. Thy soul is busy with these thoughts. 
 
 Coan. What, dost thou not believe that oft in dreams 
 A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us ? 
 ( Wal. There is no doubt that there exist such voices. 
 Yet I would not call them 
 Voices of warning that announce to us 
 
 * A very inadequate translation of the original. 
 
 *' Vepschmerzon werd ich diesen Sch^ag. das weiss ich, 
 Dennwas verschjnertze nicht der Mensch !" 
 
 LITEKALLY. 
 
 I shall grieve down this blow, of that I'm Gonscioua: 
 ■ ' Whatdoes not man grieve down i 
 
412 THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Only tbe inevitable. As the sun, 
 
 Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image 
 
 In tlie atmosphere, so often do the spirits 
 
 Of great events stride on before the events. 
 
 And in to-day abready walks to-morrow. 
 
 That which we read of the fourth Henry's death 
 
 Did ever vex and haunt me lil^e a tale 
 
 Of my own future destiny. The King 
 
 Felt in hia breast the phantom of the knife. 
 
 Long ere Ravaillac arm'd himself therewitli. 
 
 His quiet mind forsoolt him : the pbantasma 
 
 Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth 
 
 Into the oueu air : like funeral knells 
 
 Sounded tliat coronation festival ; 
 
 And still with boding sense he heard the tread 
 
 Of those feet that ev"!! then were seeking him 
 
 Throughout the streets of Paris. 
 
 Court. And to ihee 
 
 The voice within thy soul bodes nothing ? 
 
 Wal. Nothing. 
 
 Be wholly tranquil. 
 
 Coun. 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 thco ; 
 When on a sudden did I feel myself 
 
 Grasped from behind — ^the hand was oold.that grasped me— 
 'Twas thou, and tbon did'st kiss me, and there seemed 
 A crimson covering to envelop us. 
 
 Wal. That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber. 
 
 Coun. (gazing on him.) If it should come to that — ^if T 
 should see thee. 
 Who standest now before me in the fulness 
 Of life — {_She f alia on his breast and weeps. 
 
 Wal. The Emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee — 
 Alphabets wound not — and he finds no hands. 
 
 Coun. If he should find them, my resolve is taken — 
 I boar about me my support and refuge. lExit Coustess. 
 
 Scene II.— 'Wali.enstein, Gordon. 
 
 WM. All quiet in the town 1 
 
 Got. The town is quiet. 
 
 Wal. I hear a boisterous musib ! and the Castle 
 la lighted up. Who are the revellers ? 
 
 Gor. There ia a banquet given at the Castle 
 To the Count Tertsky, and Field Marshal Hlo. 
 
 Wal. In honour of the victory. — This tribe 
 Can show their joy in nothing else but feastiBg, 
 
 iBinga. The Groom of the Chamber enter*. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 413 
 
 Unrobe me. I will iay me do-wn to sleep. ' 
 
 [WALLENSTEIN takes the keys from Gordon. 
 So y}ei are guarded from all enemies, 
 And shut ia witb sure friends. 
 For all must cheat me, or a face lilie this 
 
 \_l?iiAng Ms eye on GORDON. 
 Was ne'er an hypocrite's mask. 
 
 [ The Groom of the Chamber takes off his mantle, 
 collar, and scarf. - 
 
 Wal. Take care — ^what is that ? 
 
 Groom of the Chamber. The golden chain is snapped in 
 two. 
 
 Wal. 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 woie it on my neck in faith, 
 
 It was tochain to me all my life long. 
 
 The volatile fortune, whose first pledge it was. 
 
 AVell, 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 GOBDON in a posture of 
 meditation. 
 Hov 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 
 AVaa 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, 
 C iving my faith to bold unlawfiu dreams, 
 And still extol to me the golden mean. 
 — Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend 
 To thy own sel£ See, it has made thee early 
 A s'iperannnated man, and (but 
 That my munificent stars ■will intervene) 
 Would let thee in some miserable comer 
 Go out, like an unteuded lamp. 
 
 Gor. My Prince I 
 
 Wi .h light heart the poor fiisher moors his boat, 
 Ami watches from the shore the lofty ship 
 Stranded amid the storm. 
 
 J'i'al. ' ■ Art thou already 
 
 In harbour, then, old man f Well ! I am not. 
 '^ lie uncon^uered spirit driV^es me o'er life's biUows ; 
 
I 
 
 414 THE DEATH OP WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly. 
 Hope is my goddess still, and Youth my inmate; 
 And while we stand thus front to fro&t almost, 
 I might presume to say, that the swift years 
 Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair. 
 
 [flie moves with long strides across the saloon, and re- 
 mains on the opposite side over against Gokdon. 
 Who now persists in calling Fortune false i 
 To me she has proved faithful, with fond love 
 Took me from out the common ranlis of men, 
 And lilie 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 undistinguishahle many? 
 True in this present moment I appear 
 Fallen low indeed ; but I shall rise a^ain. 
 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. 
 
 Gor. And yet remember I the good old proverb, 
 " Let the night come betbre 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. 
 
 Wal. (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 nnpropitious gods demand their tribute. 
 This long ago the angent Pagans knew : 
 And therefore of theis own accord they offered 
 To themselves injuries, so to atone 
 The jealousy of their^divinities! 
 And human sacrifices bled to Typhon. 
 
 {^Jfter a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner, 
 I too have sacrific'd to him — For mo 
 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 this pure head the lightning 
 Was drawn off which would else have shattered me. 
 
 Scene III.— To these enter Seni. 
 Wal. Is not that Seni ? and beside himself. 
 If one may trust his looks 1 What brings thee hither 
 A.t this late hour, Baptistaf 
 
THE DJJATII OP WALLENSTEIN. 415 
 
 Seni. ' Terror, Duke I 
 
 On thy account. 
 
 JTal. What now? 
 
 Seni. Flee ere the day-hreakl 
 
 Trust not thy person to the Swedes ! 
 
 Wal. What now 
 
 Is in thy thoughts ? [Swedes! 
 
 Seni. {with louder voice.) Trust not thy person to these 
 
 tVal. What is it then ? 
 
 Seni. (,e&ll more urgently.) O wait not the arrival of these 
 Swedes. 
 An evil near at hand is threatening thee 
 From false friends. AU the signs stand full of horrorl 
 Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition — 
 Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee ! 
 
 Wal. Baptista„thoa art dreaming ! — Fear befools thee. 
 
 Seni. Believe not that an empty fear deludes me. 
 Come, read it in the planetary aspects ; 
 Ecad it thyself, that ruin threatens thee 
 From false friends ! 
 
 U'al. From the ifalseness of iny friends 
 
 Has risen the whole of my unprosperons 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. [yes! Now 
 
 Wal. (laughing gently.) The oracle rails that way I Yes, 
 I recollect. This j unction with the Swedes 
 Did never please thee — lay thyself to sleep, 
 Baptista ! Signs like these I do not fear. 
 
 Gor. (who during the whole of this dialogue has shown matka 
 of extreme agitation, and now turns to Walltsnstein;) 
 My Duke and General ! May I dare presume ? 
 
 Wal. Speak freely. 
 
 ^or. What ? if 'twere no merffljreatioa 
 
 Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafd 
 To interpose its aid for your deliverance. 
 And made that mouth its organ. 
 
 Wal. Ye're both feverish! 
 
 How can mishap come to me from the Swedes f 
 They sought this junction with me — 'tis their interest. 
 
 Gor. (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? 
 
 IFlingshimself at his feet. 
 There is yet time, my Prince. 
 
lid THE DEATH OF WALLEKSTEIN. 
 
 4 
 
 Sent. hear him ! hear him ! 
 
 Goi: {rises.) The Ehinegrave's still far off. Clivo butthe 
 This citadel shall close its gates upon him. [orders, 
 
 If then he will besiege us, let him try it. 
 ISiit this I say; he'll find his own destrnction 
 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 amend 
 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, 
 Then e'er he stood when he had never failed. 
 
 }Val. (ccmtemplates him with surprise, remains silent awhile, 
 betraying strong emotion.) Gordon — ^your zeal and fer- 
 vour lead you far. 
 Well, well-T-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. 
 Ha<l I foreknown what now has taken place, ' 
 That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me, 
 My first death'«<feiing: and had the heart 
 Spoken to me, atsinow it has done — Gordon, 
 It may be, I mi^ht-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 1 
 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 ! 
 
 [Tfte Groom of the Chamber, who Jiad entered during 
 the last dialogue, and had been standing at a diiitaiice 
 and listening to it with visible expressions of the deepest 
 interest, advances in extreme agitation, and throwi 
 himself at the Duke's feet. 
 And thou, too 1 But I kuow why thou dost wish 
 My reconcilement with the Eniperor. 
 Poor man t he hath a small estate in Camthen, 
 And fears it will be forfeited because '"'V 
 
 He's in my service. Am I then so poor, " ' 
 
 That I no longer can indemnify •.. ' 
 
 My servants t Weill To no one I employ 
 Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief ' 
 That fortune has fled from me, go I Forsake mei 
 This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe mej 
 And then go over to thy Emperor. 
 Gordon, good night I I think to make a long 
 
Tlli; ])EA3il OF WALLKNSTEIN. 417 
 
 Sleep of it : for tlie struggle and the turmoil 
 
 Of this last day or two was great. May't please you f 
 
 Vake care that they awake me not too early, 
 
 lExit Wajulenstein, the Groom of the Chamber light- 
 ing him. Sem follows, Gordon remaius on the dark- 
 ened stage, following the Duke with hit eye, till he 
 dieappecS-s at the farther end of the gallery : tAen iy 
 his gestures the old man expresses the depth of his 
 anguish, and stands leaning against a pillar. 
 
 Scene IV. — Gordon, Bctleb (at first behind the scenes). 
 
 But. {not yet Dome into view of the stage.) Here stand in 
 silence till I glyie the signal. [derers. 
 
 Gor. {starts up.) "Tishejhe has already brought the mur- 
 
 Bat. The lights are out. All lies in profound sleep. 
 
 Goj'. What shall I do, shall I attempt to save himf 
 Shall I call up- the house 1 Alarm the guards? 
 
 But. .{appears, but scarcely on the stage.) A light gleams 
 hither from the corridor. 
 It leads directly to the Duke's bed-chamber. 
 
 Gor. But then I break my oath to the Emperor 1 
 If he escape and strengthen the enemy. 
 Do I not hereby call down on my head 
 AU the dread consequences ? 
 
 But. {stepping forward.) Hark! Who speaks there f 
 
 Gor. 'Tis better, I resign it to the hands 
 Of providence. For vrhat am I, that / 
 ISliould take upon myself bo great a deed f 
 i have not murdered him, if he be murdered; 
 But all his rescue were my act and deed; 
 Mine — and whatfever be the consequences, 
 I must sustain them. 
 
 But. iadvanoes.) I should know that voice. 
 
 Gor. Butler! 
 
 But. 'Tis Gordon. What do you vrant here f 
 
 Was it so late then, -when the Duke dUmissed you t 
 
 Gor. Your hand bound up and in a scarf! 
 
 But. 'Tis -wounded. 
 
 That Illo fought as he was frantic, till 
 At last we threw him on the ground. 
 
 Gor. (shuddering.) Both dead f 
 
 But. Is he in bedf 
 
 Gor. Ah, Butler! 
 
 But. laheT speak. 
 
 Gor. He shall )to< perish I Not through you 1' The Heaven 
 Refuses your arm. See — 'tis wounded ! — 
 
 But. Inhere is no need of my arm. 
 
 Gor. The most guilty 
 
 Have perished, and enough is gives to justice. 
 
 [The Groom of the Chamber advances from the gallery 
 with his finger on his mouth, commanding silence. 
 
 Gor. He sleeps I O murder not th? holy eleep L 
 
 T* 
 
418 THE DilATH OF WALLENSTElN. 
 
 But. No I he ahall die awake. [Is going. 
 
 Gar. His heart still cleaves 
 
 To earthly things : he's not prepared to step 
 Into the presence of his God ! 
 
 Bui. {going.') God's merciful 
 
 Gor. (holds him.) Grant hini but this night's respite. 
 
 But. {hurryilig off.) The next moment 
 
 May ruin all. 
 
 Gor. (holdf h%m still.) One hour! 
 
 But. Unholdixiel "What 
 
 Can that short respite profit him !, 
 
 Gor. 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 1 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! 
 
 But. You hut remind me, 
 
 How precious every minute is ! [Se stamps ore thefiooh 
 
 Scene V. — To these enter Macdonald, and Devkreux, 
 with the Hailherdiers. 
 
 Gor. (throwing himself ietweenMm and them.) No, monster! 
 First over my dead body thou shalt tread. 
 I will not live to see the accursed deed ! 
 , But. (forcing him out of the way.) Weak-hearted dotard ! 
 [^Trumpets are heard in the distance. 
 Dev, and Mac'. Hark ! The Swedish trumpets ! 
 
 The Swedes before the ramparts ! Let us hasten ! 
 
 Gor, (rushes out.) O God of Mercy I 
 But, (calling after 'him. ) Governor, to your post ! 
 
 Grooniofthe Chamber (hurries in.) Who dares make larum 
 here? Hush! The Duke sleeps. [makelai-um. 
 
 Dev. (with loud harsh voice.) Friend, it is time now to 
 Groom of the Chqmiher, Help 
 
 Murder ! 
 But. Down with him ! 
 
 Groom of the Chamber (run through the body by DevE- 
 REUX, falls at the entrance of the gallery. ) Jesus Maria! 
 But. Burst the doors open ! ) 
 
 \.They rush over the body into the gallery — two doors a-c 
 heard to crash one after the other — Voices deadened 
 by the distance — dlash of arms — then, all at once a 
 jTofound silence. 
 
THK DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 419 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Cmmtma Tertshy {with a light. ) Her bed-chamber is empty; 
 she herself 
 Is nowhere to be found ! The Neubrunn too, 
 Who watched lay her, is missing. If she should 
 Be flown — But whither flown ? We must caU 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 I thought I heard 
 Voices and tread of feet here 1 I will go 
 And listen at the door. Hark ! What is tha,t? 
 'Tis hastening up the steps t 
 
 Scene VII. — CounteSs, Gordon. 
 
 Got. {rushes in out of Ireath.) 'Tis a mistake, 
 'Tis not the Swedes — ^Ye must proceed no further — 
 Butler I OGod! Where is he? 
 
 \^Then ohserving the Countess. 
 Countess ! Say — r- 
 Cown. You are come then from the castle ? Where's my 
 husband ? 
 Gor. (in an agony of affright.) Your husband! — ^Asknotl 
 
 To the Duke 
 
 Coun. Not till 
 
 You have discovered to me 
 
 I Gor. On this moment 
 
 Does the world hang. For God's sake ! to the Duke. 
 
 While we are speaking [ Calling loudly. 
 
 Butler! Butler! God! 
 Coun. Why, he is at the castle with my husband. 
 
 [BuTLKR comes from the gallery. 
 Gor. '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. 
 
 But. ' He comes 
 
 Too late. [Gordon dashes himself against the wall, 
 
 Gor. O God of mercy ! 
 Coun. What too late ? 
 
 Who will be here himself? Octavio 
 luEgraY Treaeou! Treason! Where's the Duke f 
 
 IShe rushes to the gallery. 
 
42() !f HE bfiAfH OF WALLENST^im'. 
 
 SCENB VIII. — (Servants run across the stage full of terror. 
 The whole Scene must be spoken entirely without pauses, j 
 
 Seni. (from the gallery.). O bloody frightful deed I 
 
 Coun. What is it, Seni f 
 
 Page, (fromthe gallery.) O piteous sight ! 
 
 f Other Servants hasten in with torches, 
 Coun. What is it ? For Clod's sake! 
 Seni. And do you ask 7 
 
 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 means these confused 
 Loud cries, that wake the sleepers of this house ? 
 
 Oor. Your house is cursed to all eternity. 
 In your house doth the Duke lie murdered ! 
 Sur. (rushing out.) Heaven forbid! 
 
 1st Ser. Fly I fly I they murder us all ! 
 2nd §er. (cairying silver plate.) That way! The lower 
 Passages are blocked up. [tenant General.' 
 
 Vdee. (from, behind the Soene.) Make room for the Lieu- 
 [_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 dooi ! 
 
 Scene IX. — Tq these eniei-s Octavio Piccolomini vnth all 
 his train. At the same time Deverbux and Mac- 
 DONAIJ) enter from out the Corridor with the Halber- 
 diers. Waixknstein's dead body is aanied over the 
 back part of the stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson 
 
 Oct. (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 t is carried over the back 
 
 of the stage. Octavio looks that way, and' stands 
 
 overpowered with horror. [sword — 
 
 Dev. (to Butler.) Here is the golden fleece— the Duke's 
 
 Mac. Is it your order — 
 
 But. (pointing to Octavio.) Here stands he who now 
 Hath the sole power to issue orders. 
 
 [Devereux and Macdonald retire with marks o) 
 obdsance. One drops away after the other, till only 
 Butler, Octavio and GoROOM remain on the 
 stage. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 421 
 
 Oct. {turning to Butler.) Was that my purpose, Butler, 
 ■when we parted ? 
 
 God of Justice! 
 
 To thee I lift my hand I I am not guilty 
 Of this foul deed. 
 
 But. Your hand is pure. You hare 
 
 Availed yourself of mine. 
 
 Oct, Merciless mam I 
 
 Thus to ahuse the orders of thy Lord — 
 And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder. 
 With hloody, most accursed assassination f [tence. 
 
 But. {calmly.) I've but fulfilled the Emperor's own sen- 
 
 Oot. O curse of Kings, 
 Infusing a dread life into their words, 
 And linking to the sudden transient thought 
 The unchangeable irtevocable deed. ^ 
 
 Was there necessity for such an eager 
 Despatch f Could'st thou not grant the merciful 
 A time for mercy? Time is man's good Angel. 
 To leave no interval between the sentBlK*, 
 And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem 
 God only, the immutable! 
 
 But. For what 
 
 Kail you against me f 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 ; 
 
 1 pulled the string. You sow'd 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 nndelaying _ 
 
 And punctual obedience may demand 
 
 From a j ust j udge. [ Exit Butler. 
 
 Scene X. — To these enter th^ Countess Tertsky, pale and^ 
 disordered. Mer utterance is slow and feeble, atid unim- 
 
 Oct. (meeting her.) O Countess Tertsky! These are the 
 - results 
 Of luckless nnblest deeds. 
 
 Coun. 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 servante 
 
422 THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 
 
 Bash forth through all its doors. I am the last 
 
 Therein ; I shut it up, and here deliver 
 
 The keys. [desolate. 
 
 Oct. (mtli a deep anguish.) O Countess! my house too is 
 
 Coun. Who next is to be murdered ? Who is next 
 To be maltreated ? Lo ! The Duke is dead. 
 The Eiiperor's vengeance may he 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. 
 
 Oct. 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 afmctions, opens to you 
 Her motherly arms ! Therefore no farther fears ! 
 yield yourself up in hope and confidence 
 To the Imperial Grace! 
 
 Coun. (with Iter eye raised to heaven.) 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 
 Kemains, 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 ! 
 
 Oct. Countess, you tremble, you turn pale ! 
 
 Couti." (reassembles all htr pmiiers, and speaks with energy 
 atid dignity.) 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 
 Thatto the crown belqng! A Ve deem a 
 Courageous death more worthy of our free station 
 Than a dishonoured life. — I have taken poison. 
 
 Oct. Help ! Help ! Support her ! 
 
 Coun. Nay, it is too late. [tess. 
 
 In a few moments is my fate accomplished. [Exit COUN- 
 
 Gov. O house of death and horrors ! 
 
 [ J»i Officer enters, and brings a letter with the great 
 scat. Gordon steps fonoard and meets him. 
 
THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. 423 
 
 What is this ? 
 It is the Imperial Seal.* 
 
 [.gie reads t^e Address,, and delivers the letter to Octa- 
 Vio, viith a look ofreproach^ and with an emphasis 
 on. the word. 
 To the FrtJicePicooloBnini. 
 
 [OcTAYio with his whole frame expressive of sudden 
 anguish, raises his eyes to hta/ven. 
 
 [iHi: CUBIAIN DBOFS.] 
 
 XHEESIX 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 4478.A1 1900 
 
 The poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 3 1924 012 535 229