Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
From thence am I come hither: O! that sight,
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape,
Left in the distance,-some delicious landscape!
My road conducted me through countries where
The war has not yet reach'd. Life, life, my father-
My venerable father, Life has charms

Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been
But voyaging along its barren coasts,
Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,
That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
House on the wild sea with wild usages,
Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays
Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.

Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals
Of fair and exquisite, O! nothing, nothing,
Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.
OCTAVIO, (attentive, with an appearance of
uneasiness).

And so your journey has reveal'd this to you?

MAX.

"Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me,
What is the meed and purpose of the toil,
The painful toil, which robb'd me of my youth,
Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary,
A spirit uninform'd, unornamented!

For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum,
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,
The unvaried, still returning hour of duty,
Word of command, and exercise of arms-
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this,
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not-
This cannot be the sole felicity,

These cannot be man's best and only pleasures!

OCTAVIO.

Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.

MAX.

O! day thrice lovely! when at length the soldier
Returns home into life; when he becomes
A fellow-man among his fellow-men.

In the original,

Den blut'gen Lorbeer geb'ich hin mit Freuden Fürs erste Veilchen, das der März uns bringt, Das dürftige Pfand der neuverjüngten Erde.

The colours are unfurl'd, the cavalcade
Marshals, and now the buzz is hush'd, and hark!
| Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers,
The caps and helmets are all garlanded [home!
With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields.
The city gates fly open of themselves,

They need no longer the petard to tear them.
The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
With peaceful men and women, that send onwards
Kisses and welcomings upon the air,

Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.

O happy man, O fortunate! for whom
The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.
QUESTENBERG (apparently much affected).
O that you should speak

Of such a distant, distant time, and not
Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day.
MAX. (turning round to him, quick and vehement).
Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna !
I will deal openly with you, Questenberg.
Just now, as first I saw you standing here,
(I'll own it to you freely) indignation
Crowded and press'd my inmost soul together.
'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye!-and the warrior,
It is the warrior that must force it from you.
Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him,
Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows
What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,
And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy;
Which yet's the only way to peace: for if
War intermit not during war, how then

And whence can peace come ?-Your own plagues fall on you!

Even as I love what's virtuous, hate I you.
And here make I this vow, here pledge myself;
My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein,
And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye
Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin. [Exit.

SENI (with gravity).

My son, there's nothing insignificant,
Nothing! But yet in every earthly thing
First and most principal is place and time.
FIRST SERVANT (to the second).

Say nothing to him, Nat. The Duke himself must let him have his own will.

SENI (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low voice, till he comes to eleven, which he repeats). Eleven! an evil number! Set twelve chairs. Twelve! twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven, The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve.

SECOND SERVANT.

And what may you have to object against eleven? I should like to know that now.

You went then through Vienna, were presented To the Queen of Hungary?

DUCHESS.

Yes; and to the Empress too, And by both Majesties were we admitted To kiss the hand.

That I had sent for wife and daughter hither To the camp, in winter-time?

DUCHESS.

I did even that Which you commission'd me to do. I told them, You had determined on our daughter's marriage, And wish'd, ere yet you went into the field, To show the elected husband his betrothed.

WALLENSTEIN.

And did they guess the choice which I had made?

DUCHESS.

They only hoped and wish'd it may have fallen Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble.

WALLENSTEIN.

And you-what do you wish, Elizabeth?

DUCHESS.

Your will, you know, was always mine.
WALLENSTEIN (after a pause).

Well then?
And in all else, of what kind and complexion
Was your reception at the court?

[The DUCHESS casts her eyes on the ground, and remains silent.

Hide nothing from me. How were you received?

DUCHESS.

O my dear lord, all is not what it was.

I have been long accustomed to defend you,
To heal and pacify distemper'd spirits.
No; no one rail'd at you. They wrapp'd them up,
O Heaven! in such oppressive, solemn silence !—
Here is no every-day misunderstanding,

No transient pique, no cloud that passes over;
Something most luckless, most unhealable,
Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary
Used formerly to call me her dear aunt,
And ever at departure to embrace me-
WALLENSTEIN.

Now she omitted it?
DUCHESS (wiping away her tears after a pause).
She did embrace me,

But then first when I had already taken
My formal leave, and when the door already
Had closed upon me, then did she come out
In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself,
And press'd me to her bosom, more with anguish
Than tenderness.

WALLENSTEIN (seizes her hand soothingly).
Nay, now collect yourself.
And what of Eggenberg and Lichtenstein,
And of our other friends there?

DUCHESS (shaking her head).

WALLENSTEIN.

I saw none.

[Strides across the Chamber in vehement agitation. O! they force, they thrust me With violence, against my own will, onward!

DUCHESS (presses near to him, in entreaty.) O! if there yet be time, my husband! if By giving way and by submission, this Can be averted-my dear lord, give way! Win down your proud heart to it! Tell that heart, It is your sovereign lord, your Emperor Before whom you retreat. O let no longer Low tricking malice blacken your good meaning With abhorr'd venomous glosses. Stand you up Shielded and helm'd and weapon'd with the truth, And drive before you into uttermost shame [we— These slanderous liars! Few firm friends have You know it!-The swift growth of our good forIt hath but set us up a mark for hatred. [tune, What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favour Stand not before us!

SCENE VIII.

Enter the Countess TERTSKY, leading in her hand the Princess THEKLA, richly adorned with Brilliants. COUNTESS, THEKLA, WALLENSTEIN, DUCHESS,

COUNTESS.

How, sister! What, already upon business;

[Observing the countenance of the DUCHESS. And business of no pleasing kind I see, Ere he has gladden'd at his child. The first Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland! father! This is thy daughter.

[THEKLA approaches with a shy and timid air, and
bends herself as about to kiss his hand. He receives
her in his arms, and remains standing for some
time lost in the feeling of her presence.
WALLENSTEIN.

Yes! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me :
I take her as the pledge of greater fortune.

DUCHESS.

'T was but a little child when you departed
To raise up that great army for the Emperor:
And after, at the close of the campaign,
When you return'd home out of Pomerania,
Your daughter was already in the convent,
Wherein she has remain'd till now.

WALLENSTEIN.

The while

We in the field here gave our cares and toils
To make her great, and fight her a free way
To the loftiest earthly good; lo! mother Nature
Within the peaceful silent convent walls
Has done her part, and out of her free grace
Hath she bestow'd on the beloved child
The godlike; and now leads her thus adorn'd
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.
DUCHESS (to THEKLA).

Thou wouldst not have recognised thy father,
Wouldst thou, my child? She counted scarce eight
When last she saw your face.
[years,
O yes, yes, mother!

THEKLA.

At the first glance !-My father is not alter'd.

The form that stands before me falsifies
No feature of the image that hath lived
So long within me!

WALLENSTEIN.

The voice of my child!

[Then after a pause.

I was indignant at my destiny,
That it denied me a man-child to be
Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune,
And re-illume my soon extinguish'd being
In a proud line of princes.

I wrong'd my destiny. Here upon this head,
So lovely in its maiden bloom, will I
Let fall the garland of a life of war,

Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it,
Transmitted to a regal ornament,
Around these beauteous brows,

[He clasps her in his arms as PICCOLOMINI enters.

Yes; 't is his nature ever to be giving
And making happy.

[He grasps the hand of the DUCHESS with still in-
creasing warmth.

How my heart pours out

Its all of thanks to him! O! how I seem
To utter all things in the dear name Friedland.
While I shall live, so long will I remain
The captive of this name: in it shall bloom
My every fortune, every lovely hope.
Inextricably as in some magic ring

In this name hath my destiny charm-bound me! COUNTESS (who during this time has been anxiously watching the DUKE, and remarks that he is lost in thought over the letters.)

My brother wishes us to leave him. Come.
WALLENSTEIN (turns himself round quick, collects
himself, and speaks with cheerfulness to the
DUCHESS).

Once more I bid thee welcome to the camp,
Thou art the hostess of this court. You, Max.,
Will now again administer your old office,
While we perform the sovereign's business here.
[MAX. PICCOLOMINI offers the DUCHESS his arm; the
COUNTESS accompanies the Princess.
TERTSKY (calling after him).
Max., we depend on seeing you at the meeting.

SCENE X.

WALLENSTEIN, COUNT TERTSKY.
WALLENSTEIN (in deep thought, to himself).
She hath seen all things as they are-It is so,
And squares completely with my other notices.
They have determined finally in Vienna,
Have given me my successor already;
It is the king of Hungary, Ferdinand,

The Emperor's delicate son! he's now their saviour,
He's the new star that 's rising now! Of us
They think themselves already fairly rid,
And as we were deceased, the heir already
Is entering on possession-Therefore-despatch!
[As he turns round he observes TERTSKY, and gives
him a letter.

Off with them, off! Thou understand'st not this.
Never shall it be said of me, I parcell'd
My native land away, dismember'd Germany,
Betray'd it to a foreigner, in order

To come with stealthy tread, and filch away
My own share of the plunder-Never! never!
No foreign power thall strike root in the empire,
And least of all, these Goths! these hunger-wolves!
Who send such envious, hot and greedy glances
Toward the rich blessings of our German lands!
I'll have their aid to cast and draw my nets,
But not a single fish of all the draught
Shall they come in for.

TERTSKY.

You will deal, however, More fairly with the Saxons? they lose patience While you shift ground and make so many curves. Say, to what purpose all these masks? Your friends Are plunged in doubts, baffled, and led astray in you. There's Oxenstein, there's Arnheim-neither knows What he should think of your procrastinations. And in the end I prove the liar; all

Passes through me. I have not even your handwriting.

WALLENSTEIN.

I never give my hand-writing; thou knowest it.

TERTSKY.

But how can it be known that you're in earnest,
If the act follows not upon the word?

You must yourself acknowledge, that in all
Your intercourses hitherto with the enemy,
You might have done with safety all you have done,
Had you meant nothing further than to gull him
For the Emperor's service.

WALLENSTEIN (after a pause, during which he looks narrowly on TERTSKY).

And from whence dost thou know That I'm not gulling him for the Emperor's service? Whence knowest thou that I'm not gulling all of you? Dost thou know me so well? When made 1 thee The intendant of my secret purposes?

I am not conscious that I ever open'd
My inmost thoughts to thee. The Emperor, it is
Hath dealt with me amiss; and if I would, [true,
I could repay him with usurious interest
For the evil he hath done me. It delights me
To know my power; but whether I shall use it,
Of that, I should have thought that thou couldst
No wiselier than thy fellows.
[speak