Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard

The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,
And the year's harvest is gone utterly.

Max. O let the Emperor make peace, my father!
Most gladly would I give the blood-stain'd laurel
For the first violet* of the leafless spring,

Pluck'd in those quiet fields where I have journey'd!

Oct. What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once?
Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
From thence am I come hither: O! that sight,
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
Left in the distance,—some delicious landscape!
My road conducted me thro' countries where
The war has not yet reach'd. Life, life, my father-
My venerable father, life has charms

Which we have ne'er experienc'd. We have been
But voyaging along it's 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 th' 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 reveal'd this to you?
Max. 'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me,
What is the meed and purpose of the toil,

The painful toil, which robb'd me of my youth,

In the original:

Den blut'gen Lorbeer geb' ich hin mit Freuden,
Für's erste Veilchen, das der Merz uns bringt :
Das duftige Pfand der neuverjüngten Erde.

Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary,

A spirit uninform'd, unornamented.

For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum,
The neighing war-horse, the air-shatt'ring 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 Returns home into life; when he becomes

A fellow-man among his fellow-men.

The colours are unfurl'd, the cavalcade

Marshals, and now the buz is hush'd, and hark!

Now the soft peace-march beats, home brothers, home!

The caps and helmets are all garlanded

With green boughs, the last plund'ring of the fields.

The city gates fly open of themselves,

They need no longer the petard to tear them.

The ramparts are all fill'd with men and women,

With peaceful men and women, that send onwards
Kisses and welcomings upon the air,

Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.

O happy man, O fortunate! for whom

The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.

Ques. (apparently much affected) O! that you should

speak

Of such a distant, distant 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 ?
I will deal openly with you, Questenberg.
Just now, as first I saw you standing here,
(I'll own it to you freely) indignation
Crowded and press'd my inmost soul together.
"Tis ye that hinder peace, ye!—and the warrior,
It is the warrior that must force it from you.
Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him,
Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows

What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,
And tries to awaken confidence in th' enemy;

Which yet's the only way to peace: for if

War intermit not during war, how then

And whence can peace come?—Your own plagues fall on you!

Even as I love what's virtuous, hate I you.
And here make I this vow, here pledge myself;
My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein,
And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye
Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

Questenberg, Octavio Piccolomini.

Ques. Alas, alas! and stands it so?

(then in pressing and impatient tone)

What, friend! and do we let him go away
In this delusion-let him go away?

Not call him back immediately, not open

His eyes upon the spot ?

Oct. (recovering himself out of a deep study)
He has now open'd mine,

And I see more than pleases me.

Ques.

Oct. Curse on this journey!

Ques.

What is it?

But why so? What is it?

Oct. Come, come along, friend! I must follow up The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes

Are open'd now, and I must use them.

Come!

(draws Questenberg on with him) Ques. What now? Where go you then?

Oct. (interrupting him, and correcting himself) To the Duke. Come, let us go.-'Tis done, 'tis done!

I see the net that is thrown over him.

O! he returns not to me as he went.
Ques. Nay, but explain yourself.

Foresee it, not prevent this journey! Wherefore
Did I keep it from him ?-You were in the right.
I should have warn'd him! Now it is too late.

Ques. But what's 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 spacious chamber in the house of the Duke of Friedland.-Servants employed in putting the tables and chairs in order. During this enters Seni, like an old Italian doctor, in black, and clothed somewhat fantastically. He carries a white staff, with which he marks out the quarters of the heaven.

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 be 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 countermanded; 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 the place signify in the affair?

Seni (with gravity,) My son, there's nothing insignifi

cant,

Nothing! But yet in every earthly thing

First and most principal is place and time.

1st. Ser. (to the Second,) Say nothing to him, Nat. The

Duke himself must let him have his own will.

Seni (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low voice, till he comes to eleven, which he repeats.)

Eleven! an evil number! Set twelve chairs.