The Death of Wallenstein. Friedrich von Schiller

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        Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy

        To lead them over to the enemy

        Than to the Spaniard.

                    I will hear, however,

        What the Swede has to say to me.

                         Go, call him,

        He stands without the door in waiting.

                            Stay!

        Stay but a little. It hath taken me

        All by surprise; it came too quick upon me;

        'Tis wholly novel that an accident,

        With its dark lordship, and blind agency,

        Should force me on with it.

                       First hear him only,

        And then weigh it.

                    Is it possible?

        Is't so? I can no longer what I would?

        No longer draw back at my liking? I

        Must do the deed, because I thought of it?

        And fed this heart here with a dream?

        Because I did not scowl temptation from my presence,

        Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment,

        Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,

        And only kept the road, the access open?

        By the great God of Heaven! it was not

        My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolved.

        I but amused myself with thinking of it.

        The free-will tempted me, the power to do

        Or not to do it. Was it criminal

        To make the fancy minister to hope,

        To fill the air with pretty toys of air,

        And clutch fantastic sceptres moving toward me?

        Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not

        The road of duty close beside me – but

        One little step, and once more I was in it!

        Where am I? Whither have I been transported?

        No road, no track behind me, but a wall,

        Impenetrable, insurmountable,

        Rises obedient to the spells I muttered

        And meant not – my own doings tower behind me.

        A punishable man I seem, the guilt,

        Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me;

        The equivocal demeanor of my life

        Bears witness on my prosecutor's party.

        And even my purest acts from purest motives

        Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss.

        Were I that thing for which I pass, that traitor,

        A goodly outside I had sure reserved,

        Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me,

        Been calm and chary of my utterance;

        But being conscious of the innocence

        Of my intent, my uncorrupted will,

        I gave way to my humors, to my passion:

        Bold were my words, because my deeds were not.

        Now every planless measure, chance event,

        The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph,

        And all the May-games of a heart overflowing,

        Will they connect, and weave them all together

        Into one web of treason; all will be plan,

        My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark,

        Step tracing step, each step a politic progress;

        And out of all they'll fabricate a charge

        So specious, that I must myself stand dumb.

        I am caught in my own net, and only force,

        Naught but a sudden rent can liberate me.

        How else! since that the heart's unbiased instinct

        Impelled me to the daring deed, which now

        Necessity, self-preservation, orders.

        Stern is the on-look of necessity,

        Not without shudder may a human hand

        Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny.

        My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom;

        Once suffered to escape from its safe corner

        Within the heart, its nursery and birthplace,

        Sent forth into the foreign, it belongs

        Forever to those sly malicious powers

        Whom never art of man conciliated.

        What is thy enterprise? thy aim? thy object?

        Hast honestly confessed it to thyself?

        Power seated on a quiet throne thou'dst shake,

        Power on an ancient, consecrated throne,

        Strong in possession, founded in all custom;

        Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots

        Fixed to the people's pious nursery faith.

        This, this will be no strife of strength with strength.

        That feared I not. I brave each combatant,

        Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye,

        Who, full himself of courage, kindles courage

        In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible

        The which I fear – a fearful enemy,

        Which in the human heart opposes me,

        By its coward fear alone made fearful to me.

        Not that, which full of life, instinct with power,

        Makes known its present being; that is not

        The true, the perilously formidable.

        O no! it is the common, the quite common,

        The thing of an eternal yesterday.

        Whatever was, and evermore returns,

        Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 'twas sterling!

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