Elmi. Is't thus in thine?
Away!--what time is given thee to resolve
On ?—what I cannot utter!-Speak! thou knowest Too well what I would say.
Gon. Until-ask not!
The time is brief.
Elmi. Thou saidst-I heard not right
Gon. The time is brief.
Elmi. What! must we burst all ties Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined; And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath dared To number and to mete us forth the sands
Of hours, nay, moments ?-Why the sentenced wretch, He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood Poured forth in slumber, is allowed more time To wean his turbulent passions from the world His presence doth pollute !-It is not thus! We must have time to school us.
To bow the head in silence, when heaven's voice
Calls back the things we love.
Elmi. Love! love!-there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces, skillful to put on
The look we trust in-and 'tis mockery all!
-A faithless mist, a desert-vapor wearing
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat
The thirst that semblance kindled !-There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart.—It is but pride, wherewith To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, The bright glad creature springing in his path But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long Shall bear his trophies well.-And this is love! This is man's love!-What marvel?—you ne'er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy,
While to the fullness of your heart's glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath!-You ne'er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set,
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke On your dim, weary eye; not yours the face Which, early faded through fond care for him, Hung o'er his sleep, and duly as heaven's light, Was there to greet his wakening! You ne'er smoothed His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours Had learned soft utterance; pressed your lip to his When fever parched it; hushed his wayward cries, With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are woman's tasks!—In these her youth, And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmarked!-My boys! my boys! Hath vain affection borne with all for this?
-Why were ye given me?
Gon. Is there strength in man
Thus to endure?—That thou couldst read through all Its depths of silent agony, the heart
Thy voice of wo doth rend!
Elmi. Thy heart!—thy heart!-Away! it feels not now! But an hour comes to tame the mighty man
Unto the infant's weakness; nor shall heaven
Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live To be alone, when loneliness doth seem Most heavy to sustain !-For me, my voice Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep, Though kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep, Wrapt in earth's covering mantle! you the while Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, And hear the wild and melancholy winds Moan through their drooping banners, never more To wave above your race. Ay, then call up Shadows-dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, But all-all glorious-conquerors, chieftains, kings, To people that cold void!—And when the strength From your right arm hath melted, when the blast Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more A fiery wakening; if at last you pine For the glad voices, and the bounding steps Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp Of twining arms, and all the joyous light
Of eyes that laughed with youth, and made your board A place of sunshine;-When those days are come, Then, in your utter desolation, turn
To the cold world, the smiling, faithless world, Which hath swept past you long, and bid it quench Your soul's deep thirst with fame! immortal fame ! Fame to the sick of heart!-a gorgeous robe,
A crown of victory unto him that dies
I' th' burning waste for water!
Gon. This from thee!
Now the last drop of bitterness is poured. Elmina-I forgive thee!
From whom alone is power!-Oh! thou hast set Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path, They almost, to my startled gaze, assume
The hue of things less hallowed! Men have sunk Unblamed beneath such trials!-Doth not he Who made us know the limits of our strength? My wife! my sons!-Away! I must not pause To give my heart one moment's mastery thus!
THE PICCOLOMINI.-SCHILLER.
[Present, Countess, Max. Piccolomini.]
Max. (Peeping in on the stage shyly.)
Aunt Tertsky! may I venture? (Advances to the middle of the stage, and looks around him with uneasiness.)
She's not here!
Where is she?
Countess. Look but somewhat narrowly In yonder corner, lest perhaps she lie
Concealed behind that screen.
Max. There lie her gloves! (Snatches at them, but the Countess takes them herself.)
You unkind lady! You refuse me this—
You make it an amusement to torment me.
Countess. And this the thank you give me for Max. O, if you felt the oppression at my heart! Since we've been here, so to constrain myself— With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances- These, these are not my habits!
Countess. You have still
Many new habits to acquire, young friend! But on this proof of your obedient temper I must continue to insist; and only On this condition, can I play the agent For your concerns.
Max. But wherefore comes she not? Where is she?
Countess. Into my hands you must place it Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed, More zealously affected to your interest? No soul on earth must know it—not your father. He must not, above all.
Max. Alas! what danger?
Here is no face on which I might concenter All the enraptured soul stirs up within me. O lady! fell me. Is all changed around me? Or is it only I?—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 such a world as this I was not discontented. Now, how flat! How stale! No life, no bloom, no flavor in it!
My comrades are intolerable to me.
My father-even to him I can say nothing. My arms, my military duties-0! They are such wearying toys!
Countess. But, gentle friend!
I must entreat it of your condescension,
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favor With one short glance or two this poor stale world, Where even now much, and of much moment, Is on the eve of its completion.
I can't but know, is going forward round me. I see it gathering, crowding, driving on, In wild, uncustomary movements. Well, In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me. Where think you I have been, dear lady? Nay, No raillery. The turmoil of the camp, The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in, The pointless jest, the empty conversation,
Oppressed and stiffened 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, Thither I went, there found myself alone. Over the altar hung a holy mother';
A wretched painting 't was, yet 't was the friend That I was seeking in this moment. Ah, How oft have I beheld that glorious form In splendor, 'mid ecstatic worshippers; Yet, still it moved me not! and now at once Was my devotion cloudless as my love.
Countess. Enjoy your fortune and felicity! Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active. Only be manageable when that friendship Points you the road to full accomplishment.
How long may it be since you declared your passion? Max. This morning did I hazard the first word. Countess. This morning the first time in twenty days! Max. 'Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here
And Nepomuck, where you had joined us, and- That was the last relay of the whole journey! In a balcony we were standing mute,
And gazing out upon the dreary field: Before us the dragoons were riding onward, The safeguard which the duke had sent us-heavy The inquietude of parting lay upon me,
And trembling ventured I at length these words: This all reminds me, noble maiden, that To-day I must take leave of my good fortune. A few hours more, and you will find a father, Will see yourself surrounded by new friends, And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger, Lost in the many-" Speak with my aunt Tertsky!" With hurrying voice she interrupted me. She faltered. I beheld a glowing red
Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground
Raised slowly up, her eye met mine-no longer
Did I control myself. (The Princess Thekla appears at the door, and remains standing, observed by the Countess, but not by Piccolomini.)
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