The Death of Wallenstein. Friedrich von Schiller

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        Must it be he – he only? Send another.

        It must be he, whom I myself have chosen;

        He is well fitted for the business.

        Therefore I gave it him.

                     Because he's an Italian —

        Therefore is he well fitted for the business!

        I know you love them not, nor sire nor son,

        Because that I esteem them, love them, visibly

        Esteem them, love them more than you and others,

        E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights,

        Thorns in your footpath. But your jealousies,

        In what affect they me or my concerns?

        Are they the worse to me because you hate them?

        Love or hate one another as you will,

        I leave to each man his own moods and likings;

        Yet know the worth of each of you to me.

        Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always

        Lurking about with this Octavio.

        It happened with my knowledge and permission.

        I know that secret messengers came to him

        From Gallas —

                That's not true.

                         O thou art blind,

        With thy deep-seeing eyes!

                      Thou wilt not shake

        My faith for me; my faith, which founds itself

        On the profoundest science. If 'tis false,

        Then the whole science of the stars is false;

        For know, I have a pledge from Fate itself,

        That he is the most faithful of my friends.

        Hast thou a pledge that this pledge is not false?

        There exist moments in the life of man,

        When he is nearer the great Soul of the world

        Than is man's custom, and possesses freely

        The power of questioning his destiny:

        And such a moment 'twas, when in the night

        Before the action in the plains of Luetzen,

        Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts,

        I looked out far upon the ominous plain.

        My whole life, past and future, in this moment

        Before my mind's eye glided in procession,

        And to the destiny of the next morning

        The spirit, filled with anxious presentiment,

        Did knit the most removed futurity.

        Then said I also to myself, "So many

        Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars,

        And as on some great number set their all

        Upon thy single head, and only man

        The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day

        Will come, when destiny shall once more scatter

        All these in many a several direction:

        Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee."

        I yearned to know which one was faithfulest

        Of all, my camp included. Great destiny,

        Give me a sign! And he shall be the man,

        Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first

        To meet me with a token of his love:

        And thinking this, I fell into a slumber,

        Then midmost in the battle was I led

        In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult!

        Then was my horse killed under me: I sank;

        And over me away, all unconcernedly,

        Drove horse and rider – and thus trod to pieces

        I lay, and panted like a dying man;

        Then seized me suddenly a savior arm;

        It was Octavio's – I woke at once,

        'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me.

        "My brother," said he, "do not ride to-day

        The dapple, as you're wont; but mount the horse

        Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother!

        In love to me. A strong dream warned me so."

        It was the swiftness of this horse that snatched me

        From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons.

        My cousin rode the dapple on that day,

        And never more saw I or horse or rider.

        That was a chance.

                  There's no such thing as chance

        And what to us seems merest accident

        Springs from the deepest source of destiny.

        In brief, 'tis signed and sealed that this Octavio

        Is my good angel – and now no word more.

        This is my comfort – Max. remains our hostage.

        And he shall never stir from here alive.

        Are ye not like the women, who forever

        Only recur to their first word, although

        One had been talking reason by the hour!

        Know, that the human being's thoughts and deeds

        Are not like ocean billows, blindly moved.

        The inner world, his microcosmus, is

        The deep shaft, out of which they spring eternally.

        They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit —

        No juggling chance can metamorphose them.

        Have I the human kernel first examined?

        Then I know, too, the future will and action.