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Paid ere 'tis due, which fills the owner's heart
With gratitude, and yet 'tis but his own!

And are you well? and has the chase proved good?
How has it fared with you? Come in; I'm sure
You want refreshment, William.

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A herdsman's meal, upon whose lonely chalet

I chanced to light. I've had bad sport! My track
Lay with the wind, which to the startlish game

Betray'd me still. One only prize; and that

I

gave mine humble host. You raise the bow

Too fast. [To Albert, who has returned to his practice.]

Bring't slowly to the eye

You've miss'd.

[ALBERT shoots.

How often have you hit the mark to-day?

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Tell. You're not steady. I perceived

You waver'd now. Stand firm!-Let every limb
Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
'Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. [ALBERT shoots.] That's better!
Emma. William! William !-O!

To be the parents of a boy like that !—

Why speak you not—and wherefore do you sigh?
What's in your heart to keep the transport out
That fills up mine, when looking on our child,
Till it o'erflows mine eye?
[ALBERT shoots.

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Dost see the mark? Rivet your eye to it!

There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there!

Emma. Why, William, don't

You answer me?

[ALBERT shoots.

Tell. Again! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do
To miss the wolf! You said, the other day,
Were you a man, you'd not let Gesler live-
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,
Your life or his depended on that shot!-

Take care!

That's Gesler!

Right to the tyrant's heart!

done, my boy!

Now for liberty ;

[ALBERT shoots.] Well

Come here!-Now, Emma, I will answer you!
Do I not love you? Do I not love our child?
Is not that cottage dear to me, where I

Was born? How many acres would I give
That little vineyard for, which I have watch'd
And tended since I was a child? Those crags
And peaks-what spiréd city would I take
To live in, in exchange for them ?--Yet what
Are these to me? What is this boy to me?
What art thou Emma, to me-when a breath
Of Gesler's can take all !

Emma. O William, think

How little is that all to him-too little

For Gesler, sure, to take.

We have no treasure.

Bethink, thee, William,

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Have we not liberty?-That precious ore,
That pearl, that gem, the tyrant covets most;
Yet can't enjoy himself-for which he drains
His coffers of their coin-his land of blood;
Goes without sleep-pines himself sallow-pale-
Yea, makes a pawn of his own soul-lacks ease-
Frets, till the bile gnaws appetite away—
Forgets both heaven and hell, only to strip
The wearer of it! Emma, we have that,
And that's enough for Gesler!

Emma. Then, indeed,

My William, we have much to fear!

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And best it is to know how much. Then, Emma, Make up thy mind, wife! Make it up!

Remember

What wives and mothers on these very hills
Once breathed the air you breathe. Helvetia
>Hath chronicles, the masters of the world,
As they were call'd-the Romans-kept for her!
And in those chronicles I've heard 'tis writ-
And praise set down by foes must needs be true-
'Tis writ, I say, that when the Rhetians-
They were the early tenants of those hills-
Withstood the lust of Roman tyranny,
With Claudius Drusus, and a certain Nero,
Sons-in-law of Octavius Cæsar, at

Its head-the Rhetian women--when the men
By numbers overmatch'd at last gave way—

Seeing that liberty was gone, threw life
And nature, too, as worthless, after it;
Rush'd through the gaping ranks of them that fled,
And on the dripping weapons of the red

Resistless van impaled themselves and children!
Emma. O William !

Tell.

Emma, let the boy alone!

Don't clasp him so-Twill soften him! Go, sir !
See if the valley sends us visitors

To-day. Some friend, perchance, may need thy guid

ance.

Away! [ALBERT goes out.] He's better from thee,

Emma!

The time

Is come, a mother on her breast should fold

Her arms, as they had done with such endearments,
And bid her children go from her to hunt

For danger-which will presently hunt them--
The less to heed it!

Emma. William, you are right.

The task you set me I will try to do.
I would not live myself to be a slave—
I would not live to be the dam of one!

No! woman as I am, I would not, William !
Then choose my course for me. Whate'er it is,
I will say, ay, and do it, too-Suppose
To dress my little stripling for the war,
And take him by the hand, and lead him to't!
Yes, I would do it at thy bidding, William,
Without a tear-I say that I would do it-

Though now I only talk of doing it,

I can't help shedding one!

Tell. Did I not choose thee

[Weeps.

From out the fairest of the maids of Uri,
Less that in beauty thou didst them surpass,
Than that thy soul that beauty overmatch'd?
Why rises on thy matron cheek that blush,
Mantling it fresh as in thy virgin morn,
But that I did so? Do I wonder, then,
To find thee equal to the task of virtue,
Although a hard one? No, I wonder not!
Why should I, Emma, make thy heart acquainted
With ills I could shut out from it-rude guests
For such a home! Here, only, we have had
Two hearts; in all things else-in love, in faith,
In hope, and joy, that never had but one!

But henceforth we must have but one, here, also. Emma. O, William, you have wrong'd me-kindly wrong'd me!

When ever yet was happiness the test

Of love in man or woman? Who'd not hold

To that which must advantage him? Who'd not
Keep promise to a feast, or mind his pledge

To share a rich man's purse? There's not a churl,
However base, but might be thus approved
Of most unswerving constancy. But that
Which loosens churls, ties friends! or changes them,
Only to stick the faster. William ! William !
That man knew never yet the love of woman,
Who never had an ill to share with her!

L

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