He can no longer trust me Then no longer
Can I retreat - so come that which must come.
Still Destiny preserves its due relations,
The heart within us is its absolute

Vicegerent.

Go, conduct your Gustave Wrangel

To my state cabinet. - Myself will speak
The couriers. And dispatch immediately

A servant for Octavio Piccolomini.

[TO TERTSKY.

[To the COUNTESS, who cannot conceal her triumph.

No exultation-woman, triumph not!

For jealous are the Powers of Destiny.

Joy premature, and Shouts ere victory,

Incroach upon their rights and privileges.

We sow the seed and they the growth determine.

[Exit

FRIDOLIN.

BY SCHILLER.

(Bulwer's Translation.)

A HARMLESS lad was Fridolin,

A pious youth was he;

He served, and sought her grace to win.
Count Savern's fair ladye;

And gentle was the dame as fair,
And light the toils of service there;
And yet the woman's wildest whim
In her had been but joy to him.

Soon as the early morning shone,
Until the vesper bell,

For her sweet hest he lived alone,
Nor e'er could serve too well.
She bade him oft not labor so:

But then his eyes would overflow. . .

It seemed a sin if strength could swerve
From that one thought her will to serve!

And so of all her house, the dame

Most favored him always;

And from her lips forever came

His unexhausted praise.

On him, more like some gentle child,
Than serving-youth the lady smiled,
And took a harmless pleasure in
The comely looks of Fridolin.

For this, the Huntsman Robert's heart
The favored henchman cursed;

And long, till ripened into art,

The hateful envy nursed.

His lord was rash of thought and deed:
And thus the knave the deadly seed
(As from the chase they homeward rode)
That poisons thought to fury, sowed:-

"Your lot, great Count, in truth is fair,
(Thus spoke the craft suppressed ;)
The gnawing tooth of doubt can ne'er
Consume your golden rest.

He who a noble spouse can claim,
Sees love begirt with holy shame;

Her truth no villain arts ensnare

The smooth seducer comes not there."

"How now! - bold man, what sayest thou?" The frowning Count replied

"Think'st thou I build on woman's vow,

Unstable as the tide ?

"Right!" quoth the other, " and your scorn
The fool enow chastises,

Who though a simple vassal born,
Himself so highly prizes;

Who buoys his heart with rash desires,
And to the dame he serves aspires."
"How!" cried the Count, and trembled
Of one who lives, then, speakest thou?"

"Surely; ean that to all revealed

Be all unknown to you?
Yet, from your ear if thus concealed
Let me be silent too."

"How!

Out burst the Count, with gasping breath,
"Fool-fool! - thou speak'st the words of death!
What brain has dared so bold a sin?"

"My lord, I speak of Fridolin!

"His face is comely to behold—”

He adds - then paused with art.

The Count grew hot- the Count grew cold

The words had pierced his heart.

"My gracious master sure must see

That only in her eyes lives he;

Behind your board he stands unheeding,
Close by her chair- his passion feeding.

Confessed the frantic thought."
"Confessed! "Aye, and a mutual flame
The foolish boy besought!

No doubt the Countess, soft and tender,
Forbore the lines to you to render,

And I repent the babbling word

That 'scaped my lips - What ails my lord?"

Straight to a wood, in scorn and shame,

Away Count Savern rode,

Where, in the soaring furnace-flame,
The molten iron glowed.

Here, late and early, still the brand
Kindled the smiths, with crafty hand;
The bellows heave and the sparkles fly,
As if they would melt the mountains high.

Their strength the Fire, the Water gave,

In interleagued endeavor;

The mill wheel, whirled amidst the wave,
Rolls on for aye and ever

Here, day and night, resounds the clamor,
While measured beats the heaving hammer;

And, suppled in that ceaseless storm,

Iron to iron stamps a form.

And hied they, with the bellows' breath,
To strengthen still the furnace-death;
The murder-priests nor flag nor falter-
Wait the victim - trim the altar!

The huntsman seeks the page-God wot,
How smooth a face hath he!
"Off, comrade, off! and tarry not;

Thy lord hath need of thee!"
Thus spoke his lord to Fridolin,
"Haste to the forge the wood within,
And ask the serfs who ply the trade
'Have you my lord's command obeyed?'

"It shall be done "—and to the task He hies without delay.

Had she no hest? - 'twere well to ask,
To make less long the way.

So, wending backward at the thought,
The youth the gracious lady sought.

"Ere I go to the forge, I have come to thee:

Hast thou any commands by the road for me?"

"I fain," thus spake that lady fair,

In winsome tone and low,
"But for mine infant ailing there,
To hear the mass would go.
Go thou, my child—and on the way,
For me and mine thy heart shall pray;
Repent each sinful thought of thine-
So shall thy soul find grace for mine!"

Forth on the welcome task he wends,
Her wish the task endears,
Till, where the quiet hamlet ends
A sudden sound he hears.

To and fro the church bell, swinging,
Cheerily, clearly forth is ringing;
Knolling souls that would repent
To the Holy Sacrament.

He thought, "Seek God upon thy way,
And he will come to thee!"

He gains the House of Prayer to pray,
But all stood silently.

It was the Harvest's merry reign,
The scythe was busy in the grain,
One clerkly hand the rites require
To serve the mass and aid the choir.

At once the good resolve he takes,
As sacristan to serve:

"No halt," quoth he, "the footstep makes, That doth but heavenward swerve!"

So, on the priest, with humble soul,
He hung the cingulum and stole,
And eke prepares each holy thing
To the high mass administ'ring.

Now, as the ministrant, before

The priest he took his stand;
Now towards the altar moved, and bore
The mass-book in his hand.
Rightward, leftward kneeleth he,
Watchful every sign to see;

Tinkling, as the sanctus fell,

Thrice at each holy name, the bell.

Now the meek priest, bending lowly,
Turns unto the solemn shrine,
And with lifted hand and holy,

Rears the cross divine.

While the clear bell, lightly swinging,

That boy-sacristan is ringing;

Strike their breasts, and down inclining,

Kneel the crowd, the symbol signing.

Still in every point excelling,

With a quick and nimble art

Every custom in that dwelling

Knew the boy by heart!