A monarch's taste,
Who unobserved would hold his meditations!
Raym. Old man, a mighty sorrow weighs my soul:
Thou hast not passed thy three-score years and ten,
Without experience of some human pangs-
Respect my sorrow then, and give me peace!

Old Man. Sorrow, the wise have said, is born of sin;
lies nowhere but within the grave.

And peace

Raym. Alas! thy words are true.
Old Man.

The furrows of old age are on his cheeks,
And yet his years are few-oh, sin and sorrow,
What foes are ye to manly strength and beauty!—
See, his clenched hands-his rigid, stone-like brow-
His grinding jaws, and those thick-starting dews,
Like water-drops; these are the outward signs

Can'st not repent? Of the great mortal struggle!

This is another way of getting peace,
And he who asketh shall receive, 't is said.
Raym. Some sins there are, repentance cannot cure!
Old Man. Yet they are few-'t is a long catalogue
Of pardonable sins. The dire offences
Scarce number seven-1 thus the sin 'gainst know- Oh, was a human soul of so great worth

Raym. [Opening his eyes, which have a glazed, wild
look, and speaking like one in a dream.]
I hear their mournful voices! my heart faints
Alas, alas, I am undone undone !
Darkness is with me, but mine ears are open!

ledge;

'Gainst parents disobedience, which shall bring
Their grey hairs to the grave with bitter sorrow; —
Luring the innocent to black perdition; —
Denying God, whether by word or deed; —
And lastly, doing murder-these are deadly.
But who of them is guiltless, need not fear --
And these, my son, thou can'st not have committed-
Thou art too young for such black sins as these!
Raym. God knows my sin- I do confess to none.
Old Man. Thou dost belie thy habit-for ye teach
That a great virtue lieth in confession.

Raym. Cease, cease to trouble me—leave me alone!
Old Man. From me far be it to disturb thy soul,
I will withdraw.

Raym.

[He goes into an inner room.
My sins are those he named
Mine are those deadly sins- there is no pardon-
With God there is no pardon-nor with man.
And she dead! - then what boots it to live on!

I am an outcast from the face of man

Caves are my hiding-places, and my food
The miserable product of a soil

Cursed for some ancient sin! Why should I live?
None love me on the earth-my crimes have made
My being desolation, and brought ruin
Upon the faithfulest spirit! Let me die!

[He takes a small phial from his bosom.
Misery did arm me thus against myself-
I drink to death. Death, be a gracious friend
Unto a wretched soul that flies to thee!

[He drinks.
Soul, gird thyself, a journey lies before thee,
From which no human voice can call thee back!

[He lies down, closes his eyes, and remains
for some minutes motionless. Meantime
the Old Man comes forth as Bartolin,
and stands beside him.

Raym. Oh, hast thou found me here, mine enemy!

That angels mourn for it? My God, my God!
Hark once again - there is a wail in heaven!
[The tempest without gains strength, and
low wailing sounds are heard, as of
spiritual voices.

Mourn, mourn celestial spirits,
Angels of God who have your thrones on high!
O cease your triumph, bright-eyed cherubim ;
Sons of the morning, let your light be dim;
And let there go through heaven a wailing cry!

One that was meant of your bright host to be,
Hath fallen, fallen!

A human soul hath lost its heavenward way,
The cruel tempter hath received his prey!
O wretched soul, new-born to misery,
How art thou fallen!

Alas, how art thou fallen!
[The countenance of Raymond becomes more
ghastly, the convulsions of death succeed,
and he expires with a deep groan. Bar-
tolin walks out in silence; and, after a
pause, the hut is filled with a strain of sad
and low music, as if accompanied by the
following words:

A song of mourning let each one take up!
Take up a song of woe-

The spirit is gone forth to the unknown,
Yet mightier pangs to know!
Oh thou, that wast so beautiful in youth,
How is thy beauty dimmed!
We that in gladness hymned
The kindness of thy early love and truth,
Shall we not mourn for thee,

Lost from our company,

Oh erring human soul!

Take up a song of woe,

A song of mourning let each one begin'
The spirit is gone forth,

Stained with mortal sin!
Oh star, shorn of thy beams,
How is thy glory gone,
Since from the living streams
Thou burst, a shining one!
Oh star, shorn of thy beams

In blackness of thick darkness wandering now,
Through night that has no day,
Through pain that has no stay;
O'er seas that have no shore,
Wandering for evermore.

Lost, lost, art thou!

Oh spirit, vext with fears, by tempests tost,
Oh new-born heir of unthought misery!
Long shall we mourn for thee,
From our bright company,
For ever, ever lost!

THE cruel nature of Achzib was unmoved by the moral ruin before him; in him was neither pity nor

remorse.

"As the tree falleth," said he, "so it lieth; and there is no repentance in the grave!" While he thus spoke, the Pastor entered. "Grant me the shelter of thy roof," said he, "for one hour; and when the storm hath abated, I will pursue my journey."

"Whither dost thou journey?" inquired Achzib. "I seek a lost sheep of my Father's fold," replied the old man sorrowfully.

"Behold!" said Achzib, lifting the cloak from the face of the dead, "him whom thou seekest- Raymond-who hath even now committed self-murder." "My son! my son!" exclaimed the pastor falling upon his knees beside the body. "Alas, my son, hast thou gone forth to the eternal judgment with this mortal sin upon thy soul!" and he buried his face in his hands, and wept like a woman.

yet have found pardon with heaven."-And again the aged man covered his face and wept.

"I will leave thee to thy meditations," said Ach. zib, and went out. The Pastor combated his emotion, and approached the dead; he lifted the already whitened locks from the young man's forehead. "Oh my son, my son!" exclaimed he, in the words of the royal mourner, "would God, I had died for thee! Father, which art in heaven," said the old man, falling on his knees, "prayer availeth not for the dead; thy justice hath determined what is meet: but oh, by the tears our Lord shed for Lazarus; by the bloody sweat, the trembling spirit, and the mortal agony, I pray thee, if it be possible, pity and forgive! Oh, let the blood shed on Mount Calvary avail somewhat-let the prayer for the murderers avail-Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!

"If there was good in him, though less than an atom, remember it-I know thou wilt, for thou art merciful; and even in the midst of despair, I bless thee. I bless thee, for the remorse which lived in the heart of this sinner-I bless thee, for the suffering he endured-the poverty, the shame, the hunger, the nakedness, which would not let him forget thee!I bless thee, that thou didst not leave his sin unpunished in this world! These grey hairs, this defaced youth; pain of body and anguish of mind, — these, oh Father! I will accept as tokens of mercy. Thou knowest the strength of temptation, thou knowest the weakness of human nature. Oh, pity and forgive!"

The Pastor rose from his knees; the cold grey light of the morning struggled faintly through the small window; but Achzib had not yet returned. Without waiting for his coming, the Pastor composed as well as he might, the rigidly convulsed limbs, and prepared the body for interment. Near the hut he found a hollow in the bosom of the mountain, scoped by nature as if for a grave; and made strong by "This man must have been dear unto thee!" said Christian love, thither he bore the dead. No man Achzib, interrupting the Pastor's sorrow.

Alas, he was a sinner, but I had hoped the day of grace was not over;" replied the Pastor," he was a great sinner, yet was not his nature evil; remorse followed crime, and heart-stinging repentance. God had not wholly abandoned him, and he who knows how we are tempted, knows also how to forgive!"

"Methinks," said Achzib, "thou would'st excuse the sinner; thou would'st destroy the distinction between virtue and vice."

"Nay, nay," replied the Pastor, "I know we are all sinners, and this young man the chiefest of them; but I dare not limit the mercy of God. I remember the thief on the cross; the publicans and sinners of the Gospel; and I hoped, that though he should not have found pardon from the justice of man, he might

witnessed the deed: and the departing Pastor exclaimed, "I leave thee to man's oblivion, and God's mercy."

Achzib was once more among men, looking for a victim. He heard of wars, and rumours of wars. He heard of a tyrannous ruler, and an oppressed people, and he said, "I will go there."

PHILIP OF MAINE.

PERSONS.

PHILIP OF MAINE.

THE LORD OF MAINE, HIS FATHER.
ACHZIE, A STRANGER; AFTERWARDS GASTON,

THE PATRIOT.

THE LORD OF KRONBERG.
IDA KRONBERG, HIS DAUGHTER.

BERTHA, HER COUSIN.

ARNOLD, HENRY, CONRAD, AND ROLAND, LEAD

ERS OF THE PEOPLE.

MOTHER SCHWARTZ, THE FORGE-WOMAN; JAN,
HER SON, AND HANS CLEF, LEADERS OF THE
RABBLE.

Lord of K. What! dost thou ask my daughter as
the payment

Of such poor service, as a peasant lad
Had done for half a guilder!

Phil. of M.
Good, my lord,
If you forget the service, so do I
COUNTS NICHOLAS, SEGBERT, AND FABIAN, AD- But not that we are foes!
HERENTS OF LORD KRONBERG.

TERS.

Lord of K.

Audacious rebel, SOLDIERS, AND OTHER SUBORDINATE CHARAC Wouldst beard me to my face! I tell thee, traitor, I have mine eyes upon thee, and thy fatherI know wherefore ye harbour in your walls The disaffected rabble-why thou comest To ask alliance with me, then to beard me! Phil. of M. My lord, this quarrel was not of my seeking.

ACT L-SCENE I.

A magnificent room in the Castle of Kronberg. Enter the LORD OF KRONBERG, and PHILIP OF MAINE. Lord of Kronberg. Good, good! you seek alliance with my house!

Philip of Maine. I do, my lord.

Lord of K.

Phil. of M.

Lord of K. Too long I have forborne! I know
your views-

I know what your ambition lusteth after:
Words you can give, where words weigh more than
gold;

What next, fair sir! Can stir up the fierce spirit of the people;
The honour
Call them oppressed, poor, wronged, and injured peo-

Of your fair daughter's hand I ask, nought more. Lord of K. Nought to maintain her on! no marriage dower

No broad lands, as a daughter's appanage?

ple!

Phil. of M. I came not now as pleader of their

cause,

Or, to your face, I'd tell you, you're a tyrant!

Phil. of M. I asked her, for herself! Broad lands Think but of those poor workers in the loom,

and dower

Came not within my count.

Lord of K.
True, true, most true!
The heir of Maine doth count so little gold,
He wots not of its worth! A wife, young man,
Would add some items to your yearly charges!
Phu. of M. Too well I know the fortunes of our
house

Are not, what once they were-scoff not, my lord,
An emperor's daughter has allied with us;
And 't is an ancient, honourable house:
I will retrieve its fortunes! good my lord,
My youth is in its prime-the wars are open —
"T was by the strong right hand, we won our honours!
Lord of K. Wouldst be a wooer, ay? wouldst
woo my daughter?

All dying in your streets, who might have earned
A decent maintenance, save for your edict—
Listen to their demands, they are but just!
Lord of K. Wouldst thou dictate this, that, and
the other to me?-

Demand my daughter first, then rule the state?
Phil. of M. Who 're they that cry for bread morn-
ing and night,

Whom you refuse a morsel? Your poor burghers,
Whose fathers fought for you! They are not stones,
That they should not complain!

Lord of K.
"Tis such as you,
With busy meddling, that disturb their souls!
But get thee hence! and let me counsel thee -
Go marry thee, to some poor plodder's daughter
Will keep your house in order, mend thy hose,

Art worth a sword? canst draw one? canst thou And patch the old man's doublet!
ride?

Canst hunt? canst hold a hawk? canst read? canst That noble, good old lord, or by the gods,
write?
I shall forget myself!
Lord of K.

Hence with thee, prating fool! wouldst take a wife, for- Hence with thee, ere I summon one, whose trade Is to chastise young insolence like thine!

Phil. of M. A day may come, when we will count
for this!
[He goes out.

Lord of K. And this is he, to whom the people look
As to a new Messiah! Heaven and earth!
Am I to stand girt round with armed men,
And thus be threatened? What are dungeons for,
But to confine such rebels! Out upon me,
To let such meddlers loose! Marry my daughter!
Nor have I asked By Jove, I'll marry him to the strongest chains
Within my deepest dungeon!

Upstart fool! Wouldst match thyself with me!

Phil. of M.

This honour uninvited! Your own mouth
Swore to vouchsafe whate'er my tongue should crave,
For certain trivial service, at my rating;
At yours,- for loyalty beyond all price!

Those old dues, Which as my vassals they have long withstood, I will demand, and lay strong hold on them

As forfeit of the soil! Go to, I'll do it;
And come what will, I'll crush this house of Maine!
[He goes out.

SCENE II.

Ida's apartment - Ida and Bertha together - Bertha has a bunch of lilies of the valley in her hand.

And each decaying vestige of his greatness,
Provoked a curse upon us. Strange it was,
Our fathers hating thus, our mothers loved,
And were each other's dear, though secret friend.
And yet they were so different!

My sweet mother
Was a mild, delicate lady, meek and timid
She had hard measure dealt her by her husband;
Alas, that I should say 't, and yet 't was so!
She had no friend to counsel or console her,

Ida. Nay, blame him not! Why need he shun to ask Save Philip's mother; and to her she opened

My hand in marriage openly? He's brave,

My father knows he is; and his descent
Is noble as mine own; and this adventure
Hath given such fair advantage to his suit
That he may freely, fearlessly avow it!

Berth. He has avowed, and is a fool for's pains!
For what must he come here to make a quarrel –
To spoil the daintiest romance that e'er
Gladdened the dull life of a castled lady!

I told thee how 't would be- I knew my uncle
Better than thou or he did!

But he swore

Ida.
That he should have his asking, be 't what 't would;
And that their ancient hate should be forgotten:-
I know he 'll not gainsay 't!
Berth.

He will! he has!
And even now has sworn his utter ruin-
It is one thing to promise while in danger,
But a far different to fulfil in safety.
There is a gulph of hate, wider than ever,
That sunders you, which love can ne'er o'erpass!
Ida. Nay, Bertha, nay, Philip will ne'er desert
me!

Her inmost bleeding heart. Oh, how I loved
The Lady of Maine for weeping with my mother!-
She was a Lutheran; a grave, stern woman,
Of a majestic presence; such a one

-

As would have kept a fortress through a siege,
And died ere she had yielded!- I can see her,
In her black velvet robe, and hooded coif,
Sitting beside my mother, and out-pouring
Her eloquent consolations. I then wondered
What they could mean I understood them after!
And I remember, from my earliest childhood,
Whene'er my father went unto the chase,
We paid our secret visits; - he ne'er knew
What a great love there was between our mothers.
And what a gloomy place was that of Maine!
Silent, and full of old, decaying things;
Old pictures, and old tarnished furniture.
And I remember roaming up and down
Its gloomy halls with Philip, then a boy;
And all the legends old, he used to tell me,
Of dames, and warrior-lords, and armed ghosts,
Live in my memory yet. Ah, 't was unkind
To fling these flowers away!-But I've not told thee

Berth. Philip hath gone from hence as black as Wherefore I love those flowers.

night;

I never saw rage look more terrible

I met him on the stair.

What said he to thee?

Ida.
Berth. He saw me not, nor spoke, but stalked on,
muttering;

Berth.

Ida.

Well, tell me now.
My gentle mother died,
And I was a bereaved child indeed!
The Lady of Maine came never to our house,
E'en in my mother's life, and now but seldom
It was my chance to meet her; yet she loved me;

And while his eyes flashed fire, he flung these flowers And when we met, from her maternal heart
Under his very feet, as if they were

The reason of his anger.

Poured counsel out, and blessing, which sustained
My orphaned spirit till we met again.
She was my second mother, well beloved!
Philip and I ne'er met for several years;
Until one eve as I was wandering out,
He stood before me, not the merry boy,

Those flowers were mine, and he knew how I loved But the tall, earnest man -so like his mother!

Ah, gentle cousin, a little moment's space;
The glancing of an eye; one spoken word,
Decides our destiny! We had been friends,
Long-parted friends, and with warm hearts we met!-
He brought me flowers - flowers of that very kind,
A token from his mother, who e'en then
Lay at the point of death! Sweet flowers are they,
Which my poor mother loved, and used to gather
From out their garden, for they grew not here.
He knew wherefore I loved them; and since then
They have been flowers that symbolled love between

us.

Ah, was it not unkind to fling them hence?
His mother died - and we two wept together;