Thou Holy One, call thy child away!
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day---
Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.1

SCENE VII.

Countess (returns), Thekla.

Coun. Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him,

Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,
And so must be flung after him! For you,

I found it not in my power to translate this song with literal fidelity, preserving at the same time the Alcaic movement; and have therefore added the original with a prose translation. Some of my readers may be more fortunate.

Thekla (spielt und singt).

Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn,

Das Mägdlein wandelt an Ufers Grün,

Es bricht sich die Welle mit Macht, mit Macht,
Und sie singt hinaus in die finstre Nacht,

Das Auge von Weinen getrübet:

Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer,

Und weiter giebt sie dem Wunsche nichts mehr.

Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,

Ich habe genossen bas irdische Glück,

Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

Thekla (plays and sings).

The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks to and fro on the green of the shore; the wave breaks

Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought, It had been more beseeming to have shown yourself More chary of your person.

Thek.

And what mean you?

Coun. I mean, niece, that you should not have

forgotten

Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
That never once occurred to you.

with might, with might, and she sings out into the dark night, her eye discoloured with weeping: the heart is dead, the world is empty, and further gives it nothing more to the wish. Thou Holy One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the happiness of this world, I have lived and have loved.

I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which the author of "The Tale of Rosamond Gray and Blind Margaret" has favoured me, and which appears to me to have caught the happiest manner of our old ballads. The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,

The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan;
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone,
Her eye upward roving :

The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss;

To thy heaven, Holy One, take home thy little one,
I have partaken of all earth's bliss,

Both living and loving.

Thek. He was born that which we have but

become.

He's of an ancient Lombard family,

Son of a reigning princess.

Coun.

Are you dreaming?

Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth! We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him To honour with his hand the richest heiress

In Europe.
Thek.

That will not be necessary.

Coun. Methinks 'twere well though not to run

the hazard.

Thek. His father loves him, Count Octavio Will interpose no difficulty

Coun.

His!

His father! his! But yours, niece, what of

yours?

Thek. Why I begin to think you fear his

father.

So anxiously you hide it from the man!

His father, his, I mean.

Coun. (looks at her.) Niece, you are false.
Thek. Are you then wounded? O, be friends

with me!

Coun. You hold your game for won already.

Coun. Did you suppose your father had laid

out

His most important life in toils of war,
Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,
Had banished slumber from his tent, devoted
His noble head to care, and for this only,
To make a happy pair of you? At length
To draw you from your convent, and conduct
In easy triumph to your arms the man

That chanc'd to please your eyes! All this, methinks,

He might have purchased at a cheaper rate.

Thek. That which he did not plant for me

might yet

Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
And if my friendly and affectionate fate,
Out of his fearful and enormous being,

Will but prepare the joys of life for me--

Coun. Thou seest it with a lovelorn maiden's

eyes.

Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art. Into no house of joyance hast thou stepped,

For no espousals dost thou find the walls

Deck'd out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing. Here is no splendour but of arms.

thou

Or think'st

That all these thousands are here congregated To lead up the long dances at thy wedding? Thou seest thy father's forehead full of thought, Thy mother's eye in tears: upon the balance

Lies the great destiny of all our house.
Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling,
O thrust it far behind thee! Give thou proof,
Thou'rt the daughter of the Mighty---his
Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
Not to herself the woman must belong,
Annexed and bound to alien destinies.

But she performs the best part, she the wisest,
Who can transmute the alien into self;
Meet and disarm necessity by choice,

And what must be, take freely to her heart,
And bear and foster it with mother's love.

Thek. Such ever was my lesson in the con

vent.

I had no loves, no wishes, knew myself
Only as his---his daughter---his, the Mighty!
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me
From the far distance, wakened in my soul
No other thought than this---I am appointed
To offer up myself in passiveness to him.
Coun. That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes

to it.

I and thy mother gave thee the example.

Thek. My fate hath shown me him, to whom

behoves it

That I should offer up myself. In gladness

Him will I follow.

Coun.

Not thy fate hath shown him!

Thy heart, say rather---'twas thy heart, my child!