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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!

SERVANT (enters with a billet).
A stranger left it, and is gone.
The Prince-Duke's horses wait for
you below.

OCTAVIO (reads).

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[OCTAVIO drops his hand, and starts back.
O, hadst thou been but simple and sincere,
Ne'er had it come to this-all had stood otherwise.
He had not done that foul and horrible deed,
The virtuous had retain'd their influence o'er him:
He had not fallen into the snares of villains.
Wherefore so like a thief, and thief's accomplice
Didst creep behind him-lurking for thy prey?
O, unblest falsehood! Mother of all evil!
Thou misery-making dæmon, it is thou
That sink'st us in perdition. Simple truth,
Sustainer of the world, had saved us all!'
Father, I will not, I cannot excuse thee!
Wallenstein has deceived me-O, most foully!
But thou hast acted not much better.

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O, woe is me! sure I have changed my nature.
[Exit BUTLER. How comes suspicion here-in the free soul?
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone; for all
Lied to me, all that I e'er loved or honour'd.
No! no! not all! She-she yet lives for me,
And she is true, and open as the Heavens!
Deceit is every where, hypocrisy,
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury:
The single holy spot is our love,


« Be sure make haste! Your faithful Isolan.»
-O that I had but left this town behind me.
To split upon a rock so near the haven!-
Away! This is no longer a safe place for me!
Where can my son be tarrying?


The only unprofaned in human nature.


Max.!-we will go together. 'T will be better.


What? ere I've taken a last parting leave,
The very last-no never!


Spare thyself

The pang of necessary separation.
Come with me! Come, my son!

[Attempts to take him with him.

OCTAVIO and MAX. PICCOLOMINI. MAX. enters almost in a state of derangement from extreme agitation, his eyes roll wildly, his walk is unsteady, and he appears not to observe his father, who stands at a distance, and gazes at him with a countenance expressive of compassion. He paces with No! as sure as God lives, no! long strides through the chamber, then stands still again, and at last throws himself into a chair, star- Come with me, 1 command thee! I, thy father. ing vacantly at the object directly before him.

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OCTAVIO (more urgently).


Command me what is human. I stay here.


Max. in the Emperor's name I bid thee come.


No Emperor has 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 her? No!
She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish,
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul,
And weep tears o'er me. Oh! the human race
Have steely souls-but she is as an angel.
From the black deadly madness of despair
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death!


Thou wilt not tear thyself away; thou canst not. O, come, my son! 1 bid thee save thy virtue.


Squander not thou thy words in vain.

The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it.

OCTAVIO (trembling, and losing all self-command).
Max.! Max.! if that most damned thing could be,
If thou-my son-my own blood-(dare I think it?)
Do sell thyself to him, the infamous,

Do stamp this brand upon our noble house,
Then shall the world behold the horrible deed
And in unnatural combat shall the steel
Of the son trickle with the father's blood.


O hadst thou always better thought of men,
Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion!
Unholy miserable doubt! To him
Nothing on earth remains unwrench'd and firm,
Who has no faith.


And if I trust thy heart, Will it be always in thy power to follow it?

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The Death of Wallenstein; A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.


THE two Dramas, PICCOLOMINI, or the first part of WALLENSTEIN, and WALLENSTEIN, are introduced in the original manuscript by a Prelude in one Act, entitled WALLENSTEIN'S CAMP. This is written in rhyme, and in nine-syllable verse, in the same lilting metre (if that expression may be permitted) with the second Eclogue of Spencer's Shepherd's Calendar.

This Prelude possesses a sort of broad humour, and is not deficient in character; but to have translated it into prose, or into any other metre than that of the original, would have given a false 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, from the comparative poverty of our language in rhymes; and it would have been unadvisable, from the incongruity of those lax verses with the present taste of the English Public. Schiller's intention seems to have been merely to have prepared his reader for the Tragedies by a lively picture of the laxity of discipline, and the mutinous dispositions of Wallenstein's soldiery. It is not necessary as a prelimi

nary explanation. For these reasons it has been thought expedient not to translate it.

The admirers 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 disappointment the Dramas, which it has been my employment to translate. They should, however, reflect that these are Historical Dramas, taken from a popular German History; that we must therefore judge of them in some measure with the feelings of Germans; or by analogy, with the interest excited in us by similar Dramas in our own language. Few, I trust, would be rash or ignorant enough to compare Schiller with Shakspeare; yet, merely as illustration, I would say that we should proceed to the perusal of Wallenstein, not from Lear or Othello, but from Richard the Second, or the three parts of Henry the Sixth. We scarcely expect rapidity in an Historical Drama; and many prolix speeches are pardoned from characters, whose names and actions have formed the most amusing tales of our early life. On the other hand, there exist in these plays more individual beauties,

more passages whose excellence will bear reflection, than in the former productions of Schiller. The description of the Astrological Tower, and the reflections of the Young Lover, which follow it, form in the original a fine poem; and my translation must have been wretched indeed, if it can have wholly overclouded the beauties of the Scene in the first Act of the first Play between Questenberg, Max., and Octavio Piccolomini. If we except the Scene of the setting sun in the Robbers, I know of no part in Schiller's Plays which equals the whole of the first Scene of the fifth Act of the concluding Play. It would be unbecoming in me to be more diffuse on this subject. A Translator stands connected with the original Author by a certain law of subordination, which makes it more decorous to point out excellencies than defects: indeed he is not likely to be a fair judge of either. The pleasure or disgust from his own labour will mingle with the feelings that arise from an after-view of the original. Even in the first perusal of a work in any foreign language which we understand, we are apt to attribute to it more excellence than it really possesses from our own pleasureable sense of difficulty overcome 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 Author is encumbered with additional inconveniencies. If he render his original faithfully, as to the sense of each passage, he must, necessarily, destroy a considerable portion of the spirit; if he endeavour to give a work executed according to laws of compensation, he subjects himself to imputations of vanity, or misrepresentation. I have thought it my duty to remain bound by the sense of my original, with as few exceptions as the nature of the languages render ed possible.


WALLENSTEIN, Duke of Friedland, Generalissimo of the
Imperial Forces in the Thirty-years' War.
DUCHESS OF FRIEDLAND, Wife of Wallenstein.
THEKLA, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland.
The COUNTESS TERTSKY, Sister of the Duchess.

OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, Lieutenant General.



SCENE-A Chamber in the House of the Duchess of


latter sit at the same table at work).
COUNTESS (watching them from the opposite side).
So you have nothing to ask me-nothing?
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
advances to her.

Why, how comes this? Perhaps I am already grown superfluous, And other ways exist, besides through me? Confess it to me, Thekla: have you seen him?

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MAX. PICCOLOMINI, his Son, Colonel of a Regiment of T were now the moment to declare himself. Cuirassiers.


COUNT TERTSKY, the Commander of several Regiments, If I'm to understand you, speak less darkly. and Brother-in-law of Wallenstein.

ILLO, Field Marshal, Wallenstein's Confidant.


'T was for that purpose that I bade her leave us.

BUTLER, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of Thekla, you are no more a child. Your heart Dragoons.

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Is now no more in nonage: for you love,
And boldness dwells with love-that you
have proved.
Your nature moulds itself upon your father's
More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you
Hear, what were too much for her fortitude.

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your [THEKLA, in extreme agitation, throws herself upon

No! never! sister, as to that.

Aunt, you will excuse me? (Is going.)


But whither? See, your father comes.

her mother, and enfolds her in her arms, weeping. I cannot see him now.

Yes my poor child!




Nay, but bethink you.


Believe me, I cannot sustain his presence.

Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother In the Empress. O that stern unbending man!

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In this unhappy marriage what have I
Not suffer'd, not endured? For even as if

I had been link'd on to some wheel of fire

That restless, ceaseless, whirls impetuous onward,
I have pass'd 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.


O let us supplicate him, dearest mother!
Quick! quick! here's no abiding-place for us.
Here every coming hour broods into life!
Some new affrightful monster.


Thou wilt share

An easier, calmer lot, my child! We too,
I and thy father, witness'd happy days.
Still think I with delight of those first years,
When he was making progress with glad effort,
When his ambition was a genial fire,
Not that consuming flame which now it is.
The Emperor loved him, trusted him : and all
He undertook could not but be successful.
But since that ill-starr'd day at Regensburg,
Which plunged him headlong from his dignity,
A gloomy uncompanionable spirit,
Unsteady and suspicious, has possess'd him.
Bis quiet mind forsook him, and no longer
Did he yield up himself in joy and faith
To his old luck, and individual power;

But thenceforth turn'd his heart and best affections
All to those cloudy sciences, which never
Have yet made happy him who follow'd them.

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will ask after you.


What now? Why is she going?


She's not well.

DUCHESS (anxiously).

What ails then my beloved child?

[Both follow the PRINCESS, and endeavour to detain her. During this WALLENSTEIN appears, engaged in conversation with ILLO.




All quiet in the camp?


It is all quiet.


In a few hours may couriers come from Prague
With tidings, that this capital is ours.
Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops
Assembled in this town make known the measure
And its result together. In such cases
Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost
Still leads the herd. An imitative creature
Is man.

The troops at Prague conceive no other,
Than that the Pilsen army has gone through
The forms of homage to us; and in Pilsen
They shall swear fealty to us, because
The example has been given them by Prague.
Butler, you
tell me,
has declared himself?


At his own bidding, unsolicited,
He came to offer you himself and regiment.


I find we must not give implicit credence
To every warning voice that makes itself
Be listen'd to in the heart. To hold us back,
Oft does the lying Spirit counterfeit
The voice of Truth and inward Revelation,
Scattering false oracles. And thus have I
To intreat forgiveness, for that secretly
I've wrong'd this honourable gallant man,
This Butler for a feeling, of the which
I am not master (fear I would not call it),
Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering,
At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion.
And this same man, against whom I am warn'd,
This honest man is he, who reaches to me
The first pledge of my fortune.



And doubt not

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