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Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter pangs,

[Draws an arrow from his belt.
my chiefest treasure,

My precious jewel now,
A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of grief
Could never penetrate, but thou shalt pierce it ;
And thou, my trusty bow-string, that so oft
Has served me faithfully in sportive scenes,
Desert me not in this most serious hour!
Only be true this once, my own good cord,
That hast so often winged the biting shaft;
For shouldst thou fly successless from my hand,
I have no second to send after thee.

34. WILLIAM TELL DESCRIBES HIS ESCAPE.- Schiller.

-

I LAY on deck, fast bound with cords, disarmed,
In utter hopelessness. I did not think
Again to see the gladsome light of day,
Nor the dear faces of my wife and children,
And eyed disconsolate the waste of waters.
Then we put forth upon the lake, the Viceroy,
Rudolph der Harras, and their suite. My bow
And quiver lay astern beside the helm ;
And just as we had reached the corner, near
The Little Axen, Heaven ordained it so,
That from the Gotthardt's gorge a hurricane
Swept down upon us with such headlong force,
That every rower's heart within him sank,
And all on board looked for a watery grave.
Then heard I one of the attendant train,
Turning to Gessler, in this strain accost him :
"You see our danger, and your own, my lord,
And that we hover on the verge of death.
The boatmen there are powerless from fear,
Nor are they confident what course to take;
Now, here is William Tell, a fearless man,
And knows to steer with more than common skill.
How if we should avail ourselves of him,
In this emergency?" The Viceroy then
Addressed me thus: "If thou wilt undertake
To bring us through this tempest safely, Tell,
I might consent to free thee from thy bonds."
I answered, "Yes, my lord, with God's assistance
I'll see what can be done, and help us Heaven!"
On this they loosed me from my bonds, and I
Stood by the helm and fairly steered along;
Yet ever eyed my shooting gear askance,
And kept a watchful eye upon the shore,

To find some point where I might leap to land:
And when I had descried a shelving crag,
That jutted, smooth atop, into the lake,
I bade the men put forth their utmost might,
Until we came before the shelving crag.
For there, I said, the danger will be past!
Stoutly they pulled, and soon we neared the point;
One prayer to God for His assisting grace,
And, straining every muscle, I brought round
The vessel's stern close to the rocky wall;
Then, snatching up my weapons, with a bound
I swung myself upon the flattened shelf,
And with my feet thrust off, with all my might,
The puny bark into the hell of waters.
There let it drift about, as Heaven ordains!
Thus am I here, delivered from the might

Of the dread storm, and man, more dreadful still.

35. WALLENSTEIN'S SOLILOQUY.-Schiller. Coleridge's Translation.

Is it possible?

Is 't so? I can no longer what I would?
No longer draw back at my liking? I
Must do the deed because I thought of it,

And fed this heart here with a dream? Because
I did not scowl temptation from my presence,
Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment,
Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,
And only kept the road, the access, open?
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 make the fancy minister to hope,
To fill the air with pretty toys of air,

And clutch fantastic sceptres moving toward me!
Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not

The road of duty close beside me, — but

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,

Rises obedient to the spells I muttered

And meant not, my own doings tower behind me.
What is thy enterprise? 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 all 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.
That 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 being; 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 't was 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

From his forefathers! For time consecrates;
And what is gray with age becomes religion.
Be in possession, and thou hast the right,
And sacred will the many guard it for thee!

36. THE BELIEF IN ASTROLOGY.-Schiller. Coleridge's Translation.

O NEVER rudely will I blame his faith

In the might of stars and angels. "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

Than 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 forms of ancient poets,

The fair humanities of old religion,

The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,

That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain,

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,

Or chasms, and watery depths, all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason!

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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
"T is Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that 's fair!

37. THE GRIEF OF BEREAVEMENT. - Wallenstein's Reflections on hearing of the death of young Piccolomini. Translated from Schiller by Coleridge.

is dust!

He is gone,
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
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 of mishap.

Far off is he, above desire and fear;

No more submitted to the change and chance

Of the unsteady planets. O! 't is well

With him! but who knows what the coming hour,

Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us?

This anguish will be wearied down, I know;

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
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.
For O! he stood beside me, 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.

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Thomas Otway, from whose tragedy of "Venice Preserved" the following extract is taken, was born in Sussex, England, in 1651, and died, in a state of almost incredible destitution and wretchedness, in 1685. He was the author of several plays, of which his "Venice Preserved" is the most deservedly celebrated.

Priuli. No more! I'll hear no more! Begone, and leave me!
Jaffier. Not hear me! By my sufferings, but you shall!

My Lord, my Lord! I'm not that abject wretch

You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak

In right, though proud oppression will not hear me?

Pri. Have you not wronged me?
Jaf. Could my nature e'er

Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs,
I need not now thus low have bent myself
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.

Wronged you?

Pri. Yes, wronged me! In the nicest point,
The honor of my house, you 've done me wrong.
You may remember (for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness), when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on,
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation,
Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your

My house, my table, nay, my fortune, too,

merits:

My very self, was yours; you might have used me
Το your best service. Like an open friend,
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine,
When, in requital of my best endeavors,
You treacherously practised to undo me:
Seduced the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole her from my bosom.
O, Belvidera!

Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her:

'Childless you had been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct, no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since, in your brigantine, you sailed to see
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke;
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot
Dashed us upon a rock, when to your boat
You made for safety: entered first yourself;
The affrighted Belvidera following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was, by a wave, washed off into the deep;
When instantly I plunged into the sea,
And, buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize.
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms:
Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul; for from that hour she loved me,
Till for her life she paid me with herself.

Pri. You stole her from me! - like a thief At dead of night! that curséd hour you chose To rifle me of all my heart held dear.

you

stole her,

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