Oct.

Son!

My son, ah! I forgive thy agony !

Max. (rises, and contemplates his father with looks of suspicion.)
Was't possible? 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.

God in Heaven!

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

Oct.

Spare thyself

The pang of necessary separation.

Come with me! Come, my son !

[Attempts to take him with him.

Max. No! as sure as God lives, no!

Oct. (more urgently.) Come with me, I command thee! I, thy father.

Max. Command me what is human. I stay here.

Oct. Max! in the Emperor's name I bid thee come.
Max. No Emperor hath power to prescribe

Laws to the heart; and would'st 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!

Oct. Thou will not tear thyself away, thou canst not,

O, come, my son! I bid thee save thy virtue.

Max. Squander not thou thy words in vain.

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

Oct. (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.

Max. O hadst 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 in thy power to follow it?

Max. The heart's voice thou hast not o'erpower'd-as little
Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it.

Oct. O, Max! I see thee never more again!
Max. Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me.
Oct. I go to Frauenberg-the Pappenheimers
I leave thee here, the Lothrings too; Toskana
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.

Oct.

Farewell!

How? not one look

Of filial love? No grasp of the hand at parting?

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!

Is it then true? I have a son no longer?

[MAX. falls into his arms, they hold each for a long time in a speechless embrace, then go away at different sides.

THE CURTAIN DROPS.

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

A TRAGEDY. IN FIVE ACTS.

PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR.

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 ninesyllable 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 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 preliminary 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 overrlouded 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 afterview 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 pleasurable 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 rendered possible. S. T. COLERIDGE.

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

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.
LADY NEUBRUNN.

OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, Lieutenant General.

MAX. PICCOLOMINI, his Son, Colonel of a Regiment of Cuirassiers.

COUNT TERTSKY, the Commander of several Regiments, and Brother-in-law of WALLENSTEIN.

ILLO, Field Marshal, WALLENSTEIN'S Confidant.

BUTLER, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of Dragoons.

GORDON, Governor of Egra.

MAJOR GERALDIN.

CAPTAIN Devereux.

CAPTAIN MACDONALD.

NEUMANN, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to TERTSKY.
SWEDISH CAPTAIN.

SENI.

BURGOMASTER of Egra.

ANSPESSADE of the Cuirassiers.

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER,Belonging to the Duke.

A PAGE,

CUIRASSIERS, DRAGOONS, SERVANTS.

ACT I.

SCENE I-A Chamber in the house of the DUCHESS of FRIEDLAND. 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?

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?

Thek. To-day and yesterday I have not seen him.

Coun. And not heard from him either? Come, be open!
Thek. No syllable.

Coun.

Thek. I am.

Coun.

And still you are so calm?

May't please you, leave us, Lady Neubrunn !
[Exit LADY NEUBRUNN.

SCENE II.-The COUNTESS, 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-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.

Thek. Enough! no further preface, I entreat you.
At once, out with it! Be it what it may,

It is not possible 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.

Coun. It lies within your power to do your father A weighty service

Thek.

Lies within my power?

Coun. Max. Piccolomini loves you. You can link him Indissolubly to your father.

Not more than duty

We ask

Should he not be so now-not be so always?

Coun. He cleaves to the Emperor too.
Thek.

And honour may demand of him.

Coun.

Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honour.
Duty and honour!

Those are ambiguous words with many meanings.
You should interpret them for him his love
Should be the sole definer of his honour.

Thek. How?

Coun.

The Emperor or you must he renounce,
Thek. He will accompany my father gladly
In his retirement. From himself you heard,
How much he wished to lay aside the sword.

A A