The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 461

The whole Chorus repeats.

On the mountains is freedom, etc., etc.

DON CAESAR, the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (more collected).

I use the princely rights--'tis the last time-- To give this body to the ground, and pay Fit honors to the dead. So mark, my friends, My bosom's firm resolve, and quick fulfil Your lord's behest. Fresh in your memory lives The mournful pomp, when to the tomb ye bore So late my royal sire; scarce in these halls Are stilled the echoes of the funeral wail; Another corpse succeeds, and in the grave Weighs down its fellow-dust--almost our torch With borrowed l.u.s.tre from the last, may pierce The monumental gloom; and on the stair, Blends in one throng confused two mourning trains.

Then in the sacred royal dome that guards The ashes of my sire, prepare with speed The funeral rites; unseen of mortal eye, And noiseless be your task--let all be graced, As then, with circ.u.mstances of kingly state.

BOHEMUND.

My prince, it shall be quickly done; for still Upreared, the gorgeous catafalque recalls The dread solemnity; no hand disturbed The edifice of death.

DON CAESAR.

The yawning grave Amid the haunts of life? No goodly sign Was this: the rites fulfilled, why lingered yet The trappings of the funeral show?

BOHEMUND.

Your strife With fresh embittered hate o'er all Messina Woke discord's maddening flames, and from the deed Our cares withdrew--so resolute remained, And closed the sanctuary.

DON CAESAR.

Make no delay; This very night fulfil your task, for well Beseems the midnight gloom! To-morrow's sun Shall find this palace cleansed of every stain, And light a happier race.

[Exit the Second Chorus, with the body of DON MANUEL.

CAJETAN.

Shall I invite The brotherhood of monks, with rights ordained By holy church of old, to celebrate The office of departed souls, and hymn The buried one to everlasting rest?

DON CAESAR.

Their strains above my tomb shall sound for ever Amid the torches' blaze--no solemn rites Beseem the day when gory murder scares Heaven's pardoning grace.

CAJETAN.

Oh, let not wild despair Tempt thee to impious, rash resolve. My prince No mortal arm shall e'er avenge this deed; And penance calms, with soft, atoning power, The wrath on high.

DON CAESAR.

If for eternal justice Earth has no minister, myself shall wield The avenging sword; though heaven, with gracious ear, Inclines to sinners' prayers, with blood alone Atoned is murder's guilt.

CAJETAN.

To stem the tide Of dire misfortune, that with maddening rage Bursts o'er your house, were n.o.bler than to pile Acc.u.mulated woe.

DON CAESAR.

The curse of old Shall die with me! Death self-imposed alone Can break the chain of fate.

CAJETAN.

Thou owest thyself A sovereign to this orphaned land, by thee Robbed of its other lord!

DON CAESAR.

The avenging G.o.ds Demand their prey--some other deity May guard the living!

CAJETAN.

Wide as e'er the sun In glory beams, the realm of hope extends; But--oh remember! nothing may we gain From Death!

DON CAESAR.

Remember thou thy va.s.sal's duty; Remember and be silent! Leave to me To follow, as I list, the spirit of power That leads me to the goal. No happy one May look into my breast: but if thy prince Owns not a subject's homage, dread at least The murderer!--the accursed!--and to the head Of the unhappy--sacred to the G.o.ds-- Give honors due. The pangs that rend my soul-- What I have suffered--what I feel--have left No place for earthly thoughts!

DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, The Chorus.

ISABELLA (enters with hesitating steps, and looks irresolutely towards DON CAESAR; at last she approaches, and addresses him with collected tones).

I thought mine eyes should ne'er behold thee more; Thus I had vowed despairing! Oh, my son!

How quickly all a mother's strong resolves Melt into air! 'Twas but the cry of rage That stifled nature's pleading voice; but now What tidings of mysterious import call me From the desolate chambers of my sorrow?

Shall I believe it? Is it true? one day Robs me of both my sons?

Chorus.

Behold! with willing steps and free, Thy son prepares to tread The paths of dark eternity The silent mansions of the dead.

My prayers are vain; but thou, with power confessed, Of nature's holiest pa.s.sion, storm his breast!

ISABELLA.

I call the curses back--that in the frenzy Of blind despair on thy beloved head I poured. A mother may not curse the child That from her nouris.h.i.+ng breast drew life, and gave Sweet recompense for all her travail past; Heaven would not hear the impious vows; they fell With quick rebound, and heavy with my tears Down from the flaming vault!

Live! live! my son!

For I may rather bear to look on thee-- The murderer of one child--than weep for both!

DON CAESAR.

Heedless and vain, my mother, are thy prayers For me and for thyself; I have no place Among the living: if thine eyes may brook The murderer's sight abhorred--I could not bear The mute reproach of thy eternal sorrow.

ISABELLA.

Silent or loud, my son, reproach shall never Disturb thy breast--ne'er in these halls shall sound The voice of wailing, gently on my tears My griefs shall flow away: the sport alike Of pitiless fate together we will mourn, And veil the deed of blood.

DON CAESAR (with a faltering voice, and taking her hand).

Thus it shall be, My mother--thus with silent, gentle woe Thy grief shall fade: but when one common tomb The murderer and his victim closes round-- When o'er our dust one monumental stone Is rolled--the curse shall cease--thy love no more Unequal bless thy sons: the precious tears Thine eyes of beauty weep shall sanctify Alike our memories. Yes! In death are quenched The fires of rage; and hatred owns subdued, The mighty reconciler. Pity bends An angel form above the funeral urn, With weeping, dear embrace. Then to the tomb Stay not my pa.s.sage:--Oh, forbid me not, Thus with atoning sacrifice to quell The curse of heaven.

ISABELLA.

All Christendom is rich In shrines of mercy, where the troubled heart May find repose. Oh! many a heavy burden Have sinners in Loretto's mansion laid; And Heaven's peculiar blessing breathes around The grave that has redeemed the world! The prayers Of the devout are precious--fraught with store Of grace, they win forgiveness from the skies;-- And on the soil by gory murder stained Shall rise the purifying fane.

DON CAESAR.

We pluck The arrow from the wound--but the torn heart Shall ne'er be healed. Let him who can, drag on A weary life of penance and of pain, To cleanse the spot of everlasting guilt;-- I would not live the victim of despair; No! I must meet with beaming eye the smile Of happy ones, and breathe erect the air Of liberty and joy. While yet alike We shared thy love, then o'er my days of youth Pale envy cast his withering shade; and now, Think'st thou my heart could brook the dearer ties That bind thee in thy sorrow to the dead?

Death, in his undecaying palace throned, To the pure diamond of perfect virtue Sublimes the mortal, and with chastening fire Each gathered stain of frail humanity Purges and burns away: high as the stars Tower o'er this earthly sphere, he soars above me; And as by ancient hate dissevered long, Brethren and equal denizens we lived, So now my restless soul with envy pines, That he has won from me the glorious prize Of immortality, and like a G.o.d In memory marches on to times unborn!

ISABELLA.

My Sons! Why have I called you to Messina To find for each a grave? I brought ye hither To calm your strife to peace. Lo! Fate has turned My hopes to blank despair.

DON CAESAR.

Whate'er was spoke, My mother, is fulfilled! Blame not the end By Heaven ordained. We trode our father's halls With hopes of peace; and reconciled forever, Together we shall sleep in death.

ISABELLA.

My son, Live for thy mother! In the stranger's land, Say, wouldst thou leave me friendless and alone, To cruel scorn a prey--no filial arm To s.h.i.+eld my helpless age?

DON CAESAR.

When all the world With heartless taunts pursues thee, to our grave For refuge fly, my mother, and invoke Thy sons' divinity--we shall be G.o.ds!

And we will hear thy prayers:--and as the twins Of heaven, a beaming star of comfort s.h.i.+ne To the tossed s.h.i.+pman--we will hover near thee With present help, and soothe thy troubled soul!