Oct. O curse of kings,
Infusing a dread life into their words,
And linking to the sudden transient thought
The unchangeable irrevocable deed.
Was there necessity for such an eager
Despatch? Couldst thou not grant the merciful A time for mercy? Time is man's good angel. To leave no interval between the sentence,
And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem
God only, the immutable !
Rail you against me? What is my offence?
The Empire from a fearful enemy
Have I delivered, and expect reward.
The single difference 'twixt you and me
Is this you placed the arrow in the bow,
I pulled the string. You sow'd blood, and yet
Astonished that blood is come up. I always
Knew what I did, and therefore no result
Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit.
Have you aught else to order?---for this instant
I make my best speed to Vienna; place
My bleeding sword before my Emperor's throne,
And hope to gain the applause which undelaying
And punctual obedience may demand
To these enter the Countess Tertsky, pale and disordered. Her utterance is slow and feeble, and unimpassioned.
Oct. (meeting her.) O Countess Tertsky! These are the results
Of luckless unblest deeds.
They are the fruits Of your contrivances. The Duke is dead,
My husband too is dead, the Duchess struggles
In the pangs of death, my niece has disappeared.
This house of splendour and of princely glory,
Doth now stand desolated: the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein; I shut it up, and here deliver
O Countess! my house too is desolate. Coun. Who next is to be murdered? Who is
To be maltreated? Lo! The Duke is dead.
The Emperor's vengeance may be pacified!
Spare the old servants; let not their fidelity
Be imputed to the faithful as a crime---
The evil destiny surprised my brother
Too suddenly he could not think on them.
Oct. Speak not of vengeance! Speak not of
maltreatment!
The Emperor is appeased; the heavy fault
Hath heavily been expiated---nothing
Descended from the father to the daughter,
Except his glory and his services.
The Empress honours your adversity,
Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you
Her motherly arms! Therefore no farther fears!
Yield yourself up in hope and confidence
To the Imperial Grace!
Coun. To the grace and mercy of a greater
Master
Do I yield up myself. Where shall the body
Of the Duke have its place of final rest?
In the Chartreuse, which he himself did found
At Gitschin, rests the Countess Wallenstein;
And by her side, to whom he was indebted
For his first fortunes, gratefully he wished
He might sometime repose in death! O let him
Be buried there. And likewise, for my husband's
Remains, I ask the like grace. The Emperor
Is now proprietor of all our castles.
This sure may well be granted us---one sepulchre
Beside the sepulchres of our forefathers!
Oct. Countess, you tremble, you turn pale!
Coun.
More worthily of me, than to believe
I would survive the downfall of my
We did not hold ourselves too mean to grasp
After a monarch's crown---the crown did fate
Deny, but not the feeling and the spirit
That to the crown belong! We deem a Courageous death more worthy of our free station Than a dishonoured life.---I have taken poison. Oct. Help! Help! Support her!
In a few moments is my fate accomplished.
Gor. O house of death and horrors!
[An officer enters, and brings a letter with the great seal.
Gor. (steps forward and meets him.) What is this?
[He reads the address, and delivers the letter to Octavio with a look of reproach, and with an emphasis on the word.
To the Prince Piccolomini.
[Octavio with his whole frame expressive of sudden anguish, raises his eyes to heaven.
LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION.
O'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm
And sun thee in the light of happy faces; [rule,
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it ;-80
Do these upbear the little world below
Of education, Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show,
The straiten'd arms uprais'd, the palms aslope,
And robes that touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies;-
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to
Yet haply there will come a weary day,
When overtask'd at length
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both.
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