The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 447

Hark! the sweet voice! No! 'twas the echoing surge That beats upon the sh.o.r.e; alas! he comes not.

More faintly, o'er the distant waves, the sun Gleams with expiring ray; a deathlike shudder Creeps to my heart, and sadder, drearier grows E'en desolation's self.

[She walks to and fro, and then listens again.

Yes! from the thicket shade A voice resounds! 'tis he! the loved one!

No fond illusion mocks my listening ear.

'Tis louder--nearer: to his arms I fly-- To his breast!

[She rushes with outstretched arms to the extremity of the garden. DON CAESAR meets her.

DON CASAR. BEATRICE.

BEATRICE (starting back in horror) What do I see?

[At the same moment the Chorus comes forward.

DON CAESAR.

Angelic sweetness! fear not.

[To the Chorus.

Retire! your gleaming arms and rude array Affright the timorous maid.

[To BEATRICE.

Fear nothing! beauty And virgin shame are sacred in my eyes.

[The Chorus steps aside. He approaches and takes her hand.

Where hast thou been? for sure some envious power Has hid thee from my gaze: long have I sought thee: E'en from the hour when 'mid the funeral rites Of the dead prince, like some angelic vision, Lit with celestial brightness, on my sight Thou shonest, no other image in my breast Waking or dreaming, lives; nor to thyself Unknown thy potent spells; my glance of fire, My faltering accents, and my hand that lay Trembling in thine, bespoke my ecstasy!

Aught else with solemn majesty the rite And holy place forbade: The bell proclaimed The awful sacrifice! With downcast eyes, And kneeling I adored: soon as I rose, And caught with eager gaze thy form again, Sudden it vanished; yet, with mighty magic Of love enchained, my spirit tracked thy presence; Nor ever, with unwearied quest, I cease At palace gates, amid the temple's throng, In secret paths retired, or public scenes, Where beauteous innocence perchance might rove, To mark each pa.s.sing form--in vain; but, guided By some propitious deity this day One of my train, with happy vigilance, Espied thee in the neighboring church.

[BEATRICE, who had stood trembling with averted eyes, here makes a gesture of terror.

I see thee Once more; and may the spirit from this frame Be severed ere we part! Now let me s.n.a.t.c.h This glad, auspicious moment, and defy Or chance, or envious demon's power, to shake Henceforth my solid bliss; here I proclaim thee, Before this listening warlike train my bride, With pledge of knightly honors!

[He shows her to the Chorus.

Who thou art, I ask not: thou art mine! But that thy soul And birth are pure alike one glance informed My inmost heart; and though thy lot were mean, And poor thy lowly state, yet would I strain thee With rapture to my arms: no choice remains, Thou art my love--my wife! Know too, that lifted On fortune's height, I spurn control; my will Can raise thee to the pinnacle of greatness-- Enough my name--I am Don Caesar! None Is n.o.bler in Messina!

[BEATRICE starts back in amazement. He remarks her agitation, and after a pause continues.

What a grace Lives in thy soft surprise and modest silence!

Yes! gentle humbleness is beauty's crown-- The beautiful forever hid, and shrinking From its own l.u.s.tre: but thy spirit needs Repose, for aught of strange--e'en sudden joy-- Is terror-fraught. I leave thee.

[Turning to the Chorus.

From this hour She is your mistress, and my bride; so teach her With honors due to entertain the pomp Of queenly state. I will return with speed, And lead her home as fits Messina's princess.

[He goes away.

BEATRICE and the Chorus.

Chorus (BOHEMUND).

Fair maiden--hail to thee Thou lovely queen!

Thine is the crown, and thine the victory!

Of heroes to a distant age, The blooming mother thou shalt s.h.i.+ne, Preserver of this kingly line.

(ROGER).

And thrice I bid thee hail, Thou happy fair!

Sent in auspicious hour to bless This favored race--the G.o.d's peculiar care.

Here twine the immortal wreaths of fame And evermore, from sire to son, Rolls on the sceptered sway, To heirs of old renown, a race of deathless name!

(BOHEMUND).

The household G.o.ds exultingly Thy coming wait; The ancient, honored sires, That on the portals frown sedate, Shall smile for thee!

There blooming Hebe shall thy steps attend; And golden victory, that sits By Jove's eternal throne, with waving plumes For conquest ever spread, To welcome thee from heaven descend.

(ROGER.)

Ne'er from this queenly, bright array The crown of beauty fades, Departing to the realms of day, Each to the next, as good and fair, Extends the zone of feminine grace, And veil of purity:-- Oh, happy race!

What vision glads my raptured eye!

Equal in nature's blooming pride, I see the mother and the virgin bride.

BEATRICE (awaking from her reverie).

Oh, luckless hour!

Alas! ill-fated maid!

Where shall I fly From these rude warlike men?

Lost and betrayed!

A shudder o'er me came, When of this race accursed--the brothers twain-- Their hands embrued with kindred gore, I heard the dreaded name; Oft told, their strife and serpent hate With terror thrilled lay bosom's core:-- And now--oh, hapless fate!

I tremble, 'mid the rage of discord thrown, Deserted and alone!

[She runs into the alcove.

Chorus (BOHEMUND).

Son of the immortal deities, And blest is he, the lord of power; His every joy the world can give; Of all that mortals prize He culls the flower.

(ROGER).

For him from ocean's azure caves The diver bears each pearl of purest ray; Whate'er from nature's boundless field Or toil or art has won, Obsequious at his feet we lay; His choice is ever free; We bow to chance, and fortune's blind decree.

(BOHEMUND.)

But this of princes' lot I deem The crowning treasure, joy supreme-- Of love the triumph and the prize, The beauty, star of neighboring eyes!

She blooms for him alone, He calls the fairest maid his own.

(ROGER).

Armed for the deadly fray, The corsair bounds upon the strand, And drags, amid the gloom of night, away, The shrieking captive train, Of wild desires the hapless prey; But ne'er his lawless hands profane The gem--the peerless flower-- Whose charms shall deck the Sultan's bower.

(BOHEMUND.)