Ord. Thou mountebank!

Alv.

Mountebank and villain!

What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm?

I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!

I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage,
And turn it to a motionless distraction!

Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
Thy faith in universal villany,

Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn

For all thy human brethren-out upon them!

What have they done for thee? have they given thee peace?

Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made

The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight?
Art happy when alone? Can'st walk by thyself
With even step and quiet cheerfulness?

Yet, yet thou mayst be saved

Ord. [vacantly repeating the words.] Saved? saved?
Alv.

Could I call up one pang of true remorse!

One pang!

Ord. He told me of the babes that prattled to him, His fatherless little ones! remorse! remorse!

Where gott'st thou that fool's word? Curse on remorse! Can it give up the dead, or recompact

A mangled body? mangled-dashed to atoms!

Not all the blessings of a host of angels

Can blow away a desolate widow's curse!

And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,

It will not weigh against an orphan's tear !

Alv. [almost overcome by his feelings.] But AlvarOrd. Ha! it chokes thee in the throat, Even thee; and yet I pray thee speak it out. Still Alvar!-Alvar--howl it in mine ear! IIeap it like coals of fire upon my heart, And shoot it hissing through my brain! Alv. That day when thou didst leap from off the rock Into the waves, and grasped thy sinking brother, And bore him to the strand; then, son of Valdez, How sweet and musical the name of Alvar!

Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee,

Alas!

And thou wert dear to him: Heaven only knows
How very dear thou wert! Why didst thou hate him!
O heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck,

And weep forgiveness !

Ord.

Spirit of the dead!

Methinks I know thee! ha! my brain turns wild
At its own dreams !-off-off, fantastic shadow!

Alv. I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare not!
Ord. Cheat! villain! traitor! whatsoever thou be-
I fear thee, man!

Ter. [rushing out, and falling on ALVAR's neck.] Ordonio ! 'tis thy brother.

[ORDONIO, with frantic wildness, runs upon ALVAR with his sword. TERESA flings herself on OR

DONIO and arrests his arm.

Stop, madman, stop!

Alv. Does then this thin disguise impenetrably
Hide Alvar from thee? Toil and painful wounds
And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons,
Have marred perhaps all trait and lineament
Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother,
My anguish for thy guilt!

Ordonio-brother!

Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me.

Ord. [drawing back, and gazing at ALVAR with a countenance of at once awe and terror.]

Touch me not!

Touch not pollution, Alvar! I will die.

[He attempts to fall on his sword; ALVAR and TERESA prevent him.

Alv. We will find means to save your honour. Live, Oh live, Ordonio! for our father's sake!

Spare his gray hairs!

Ter.

And you may yet be happy.

Ord. O horror! not a thousand years in heaven

Could recompose this miserable heart,

Or make it capable of one brief joy!

Live! live! Why yes! 'Twere well to live with you:

For is it fit a villain should be proud?

My brother! I will kneel to you, my brother!

[Kneeling.

Forgive me, Alvar !— -Curse me with forgiveness!
Alv. Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee !
Now is the time for greatness! Think that heaven—
Ter. O mark his eye! he hears not what you say.
Ord. [pointing at the vacancy.] Yes, mark his eye! there's
fascination in it!

Thou saidst thou didst not know him-That is he !
He comes upon me!

Alv.

Heal, O heal him, Heaven!

Ord. Nearer and nearer! and I can not stir!

Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?
He would have died to save me, and I killed him—
A husband and a father!-

Ter.

Drinks up his spirits!

Some secret poison

Ord. [fiercely recollecting himself.] Let the eternal justice Prepare my punishment in the obscure world—

I will not bear to live-to live-O agony!

And be myself alone my own sore torment!

[The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in rush ALHADRA, and the band of Morescoes.

Alh. Seize first that man!

[ALVAR presses onward to defend ORDONIO. Ord. Off, ruffians! I have flung away my sword. Woman, my life is thine! to thee I give it! Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh, I'll rend his Fimbs asunder! I have strength With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes. Alh. My husband

Ord.

Yes, I murdered him most foully.

Alv. and Ter. O horrible!

Alh.

Why didst thou leave his children?

Demon, thou shouldst have sent thy dogs of hell

To lap their blood. Then, then I might have hardened
My soul in misery, and have had comfort.

I would have stood far off, quiet though dark,
And bade the race of men raise up a mourning
For a deep horror of desolation,

Too great to be one soul's particular lot!
Brother of Zagri! let me lean upon thee.

[Struggling to suppress her feelings.

The time is not yet come for woman's anguish,

I have not seen his blood-Within an hour

Those little ones will crowd around and ask me,
Where is our father? I shall curse thee then!

Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence !
Ter. He doth repent! See, see, I kneel to thee!

O let him live! That aged man, his father

Alh. [sternly.] Why had he such a son?

[Shouts from the distance of" Rescue! Rescue! ALVAR! ALVAR!"and the voice of VALDEZ heard.

Rescue?—and Isidore's spirit unavenged?—

The deed be mine!

Now take my life!

[Suddenly stabs ORDONIO.

Arm of avenging Heaven,

Ord. [staggering from the wound.] Atonement!

Alv. [while with TERESA supporting ORDONIO.]

Thou hast snatched from me my most cherished hope-
But go! my word was pledged to thee.

Away!

Brave not my father's rage! I thank thee! Thou

[Then turning his eyes languidly to ALVAR.

She hath avenged the blood of Isidore!

I stood in silence like a slave before her

That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,

And satiate this self-accusing heart

With bitterer agonies than death can give.

Forgive me, Alvar !

Oh!-couldst thou forget me!

[Dies.

[ALVAR and TERESA bend over the body of ORDONIO. Alh. [to the Moors.] I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordained it wisely,

That still extremes bring their own cure.

That point

In misery, which makes the oppressed man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the oppressor's Knew I a hundred men
Despairing, but not palsied by despair,

This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world;
The deep foundations of iniquity

Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them;
The strongholds of the cruel men should fall,

Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall
Till desolation seemed a beautiful thing,

And all that were and had the spirit of life,
Sang a new song to her who had gone forth,
Conquering and still to conquer !

[ALHADRA hurries off with the Moors; the stage
fills with armed Peasants and Servants, ZULI-
MEZ and VALDEZ at their head.
rushes into ALVAR'S arms.

VALDEZ

Alv. Turn not thy face that way, my father! hide, Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy

Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing.

[Both kneel to VALDEZ.

Val. My son! My Alvar! bless, oh bless him, Heaven!
Ter. Me too, my Father?
Val.

Bless, oh, bless my children!

Alv. Delights so full, if unalloyed with grief,
Were ominous. In these strange dread events
Just heaven instructs us with an awful voice,
That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice.
Our inward monitress to guide or warn,
If listened to; but if repelled with scorn,
At length as dire Remorse, she reappears,
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears!
Still bids Remember! and still cries, Too late!
And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.

[Both rise.

A DRAMA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR TO THE FIRST EDITION. 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 WALI ENSTEIN'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 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 notion 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 conception 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, the excellence of which 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