The Maid of Orleans. Friedrich von Schiller

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         Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme;

         And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour,

         Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed —

         The foe at each assault advantage gains;

         Bare of defenders are the city walls,

         For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush,

         While few, alas! return to view their homes,

         And famine's scourge impendeth o'er the town.

         In this extremity the noble Count

         Of Rochepierre, commander of the town,

         Hath made a compact with the enemy,

         According to old custom, to yield up,

         On the twelfth day, the city to the foe,

         Unless, meanwhile, before the town appear

         A host of magnitude to raise the siege.

         The interval is brief.

                     We hither come,

         Attended by a hostile retinue,

         To implore thee, sire, to pity thy poor town,

         And to send succor ere the appointed day,

         When, if still unrelieved, she must surrender.

         And could Saintrailles consent to give his voice

         To such a shameful compact?

                        Never, sir!

         Long as the hero lived, none dared to breathe

         A single word of treaty or surrender.

         He then is dead?

                  The noble hero fell,

         His monarch's cause defending on our walls.

         What! Saintrailles dead! Oh, in that single man

         A host is foundered!

                    That too!

                          Well? What is it?

         Count Douglass sendeth here. The Scottish troops

         Revolt, and threaten to retire at once.

         Unless their full arrears are paid to-day.

         Duchatel!

              Sire! I know not what to counsel.

         Pledge, promise all, even unto half my realm.

         'Tis vain! They have been fed with hope too often.

         They are the finest troops of all my hosts!

         They must not now, not now abandon me!

         Oh, king, assist us! Think of our distress!

         How! Can I summon armies from the earth?

         Or grow a cornfield on my open palm?

         Rend me in pieces! Pluck my bleeding heart

         Forth from my breast, and coin it 'stead of gold!

         I've blood for you, but neither gold nor troops.

         My Agnes! Oh, my love! My dearest life!

         Thou comest here to snatch me from despair!

         Refuge I take within thy loving arms!

         Possessing thee I feel that nothing is lost.

         My king, beloved!

      Dunois! Say, is it true,

         Duchatel?

               'Tis, alas!

                     So great the need?

         No treasure left? The soldiers will disband?

         Alas! It is too true!

                     Here-here is gold,

         Here too are jewels! Melt my silver down!

         Sell, pledge my castles – on my fair domains

         In Provence – treasure raise, turn all to gold,

         Appease the troops! No time to be lost!

         Well now, Dunois! Duchatel! Do ye still

         Account me poor, when I possess the crown

         Of womankind? She's nobly born as I;

         The royal blood of Valois not more pure;

         The most exalted throne she would adorn —

         Yet she rejects it with disdain, and claims

         No other title than to be my love.

         No gift more costly will she e'er receive

         Than early flower in winter, or rare fruit!

         No sacrifice on my part she permits,

         Yet sacrificeth all she had to me!

         With generous spirit she doth venture all

         Her wealth and fortune in my sinking bark.

         Ay, she is mad indeed, my king, as thou;

         She throws her all into a burning house,

         And draweth water in the leaky vessel

         Of the Danaides. Thee she will not save,

         And in thy ruin but involve herself.

         Believe him not! Full many a time he hath

         Perilled his life for thee, and now, СКАЧАТЬ