Two of the outward bound I knew,One beautiful, the other brave—The master worthy, and the crewBorn to contend with wind and wave:For travel some, and some for gain,And some for health had gone abroad;Our prayers were with them on the main,God-speed the ship and all on board!
That vessel never reached the land!No tidings of her ever came!Those who beheld her leave the strand,For years in anguish heard her name!And even now in vain they tryTo breathe it with a tranquil lip,Or hide the moisture of the eyeWhile speaking of that missing ship.
Jeannie Marsh.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,At whose call the muses rally;Of all the nine none so divineAs Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.She minds me of her native scenes,Where she was born among the cherries;Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,In whose name the muses rally;Of all the nine none so divineAs Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,A goddess she in form and feature;The sweet expression of the place,A dimple in the smile of nature.
Lucy.
Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy,My sister dear in song!How many pleasant fanciesWith these sweet numbers throng,Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets,Trip merrily along.
Sometimes, my sportive Lucy,Your words will whirl around,Like foam-beads on the water,Or rose-leaves on the ground,Or waltzers in the ball-room,To music's airy sound.
There is, my gentle Lucy,In all you say or do,A bright poetic impulse,Original and true,Which Art can not acquire,And Nature gave to you.
The olden fable, Lucy,My muse to you would bring:The bird that can but will not,Should be compelled to sing!The story and its moralTo modern memories cling.
Awake the harp, dear Lucy!Like the electric wireIt will convey to millionsThe heart-absorbing fire!And those who lean to listenWill linger to admire.
Epitaph.
All that's beautiful in woman,All we in her nature love,All that's good in all that's human,Passed this gate to courts above.
In Memory of John W. Francis, Jr.
He was the pulse-beat of true hearts,The love-light of fond eyes:When such a man from earth departs,'Tis the survivor dies.
Nature's Nobleman
A Fragment.
When winter's cold and summer's heatShall come and go again,A hundred years will be completeSince Marion crossed the main,And brought unto this wild retreatHis dark-eyed wife of Spain.
He was the founder of a freeAnd independent band,Who lit the fires of libertyThe revolution fanned:—His patent of nobilityRead in the ransomed land!
Around his deeds a lustre throngs,A heritage designedTo teach the world to spurn the wrongsOnce threatened all mankind:—To his posterity belongsThe peerage of the mind.
A Wall-Street Lyric.
John was thought both rich and great—Dick so-so, but comfortable:John lived at a splendid rate—Coach and horses in his stable.John could ride when Dick should walk—(This excited people's talk!)—For John's wealth, Dick's rugged healthFew would exchange if they were able!
Dick was friendly years ago—With ingratitude John paid him:Dick found this was always soWhen John had a chance to aid him.John still cut a brilliant dash,While he could command the cash,But for Dick, whom John would kick,At last a change of luck has made him!
John, 'tis said, is "bound" to loseLots by rail, and 'bus, and cable!And the banks his notes refuse,Now they think his state unstable.This may be a story strangeOf the bulls and bears on 'change,Where the truth, in age and youth,Is often a poetic fable!
King Cotton.
Old Cotton is king, boys—aha!With his locks so fleecy and white!He shines among kings like a star!And his is the sceptre of right,Boys, of right,And his is the sceptre of right!
Old Cotton, the king, has no care,No queen, and no heir to his throne,No courtiers, his triumphs to share,He rules his dominions alone,Boys, alone!He rules his dominions alone!
Old Cotton, the merry old boy!—Like smoke from the pipe in his mouthHis years glide away in their joy,At home, in the warm sunny south,Boys, the south,At home, in the warm sunny south!
Old Cotton will pleasantly reignWhen other kings painfully fall,And ever and ever remainThe mightiest monarch of all,Boys, of all,The mightiest monarch of all!
Then here's to old Cotton, the king!His true loyal subjects are we:We'll laugh and we'll quaff and we'll sing,A jolly old fellow is he,Boys, is he,A jolly old fellow is he!
Words
Adapted to a Spanish Melody.
My lady hath as soft a handAs any queen in fairy-land;And, hidden in her tiny boot,As dainty and as light a foot.Her foot!Her little hand and foot!
No star that kindles in the skyBurns brighter than my lady's eye;And ne'er before did beauty graceSo fair a form, so sweet a face!Her face!Her gentle form and face!
My lady hath a golden heart,Free from the dross of worldly art;Which, in the sight of heaven above,Is mine with all its hoarded love!Her love!Her boundless wealth of love!
Love in Exile.
Adapted to a Hungarian melody.
My heart I gave you with my hand,In brighter days than these,In that down-trodden father-landBeyond the distant seas,Where you were all the world to me,Devoted, fond, and true,And I, in our prosperity,Was all the world to you!Robbed by a tyrant's iron sway,We're banished from that land away!
Sad wanderers from our native home!A ruler in a foe!An exiled caravan we roam;But hand in hand WE go!And thus whatever fate betideWe bless our lot in life,Since no misfortunes may divideThe husband and the wife!Here we defy the tyrant's will,We're happy in each other still!
To The Evening Star.
The woods waved welcome in the breeze,When, many years ago,Lured by the songs of birds and bees,I sought the dell below;And there, in that secluded spot,Where silver streamlets roved,Twined the green ivy round the cotOf her I fondly loved.
In dreams still near that porch I standTo listen to her vow!Still feel the pressure of her handUpon my burning brow!And here, as in the days gone by,With joy I meet her yet,And mark the love-light of her eyes,Fringed with its lash of jet.
O fleeting vision of the past!From memory glide away!Ye were too beautiful to last,Too good to longer stay!But why, attesting evening star,This sermon sad recall:"THAN LOVE AND LOSE 'TIS BETTER FARTO NEVER LOVE AT ALL!"
Welcome Home.
My Mary's voice!—It is the hourShe promised to be here:Taught by love's mysterious power,I know that she is near.I hear the melody she singsBeneath our happy dome,And now the woodland cheerly ringsWith Mary's welcome home.
My Mary's voice!—I hear it thrillIn rapture on the gale,As she comes gliding down the hillTo meet me in the vale.In all the world, on land or sea,Where'er I chance to roam,No music is so sweet to meAs Mary's welcome home.
The Sycamore Shade.
I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye,Who was born in the shadeThe wild sycamore made,Where the brook sang its songAll the summer-day long,And the moments went merrily by,Like the birdlings the moments flew by.
I knew a fair maid, soul-enchanting in grace,Who replied to my vow,'Neath the sycamore bough,"Like the brook to the sea,Oh, I yearn, love, for thee!"And she hid in my bosom her face—In my bosom, her beautiful face.
I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide!Wooed and won in the shadeThe wild sycamore made,Where the brook sings it songAll the summer-day long,And the moments in harmony glide,Like our lives they in harmony glide.
Up the Hudson.
Song and Chorus.
Up the Hudson!—Fleetly glidingTo our haunts among the trees!Joy the gallant vessel guidingWith a fresh and cheerful breeze!Wives and dear ones yearn to meet us—(Hearts that love us to the core!)And with fond expressions greet usAs we near the welcome shore!
Chorus.
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!—(Echo follows where we go!)Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands!Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
Up the Hudson!—Rock and river,Grove and glen pronounce His praise,Who, of every "Good the Giver,"Leads us through these pleasant ways!—Care recedes like water-tracesOf our bark, as on we glide,Where the hand of nature gracesHomesteads on the Hudson side!
Chorus.
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!—(Echo follows where we go!)Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands!Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
Only Thine.
I know that thou art mine, my love,I know that thou art fair;And lovelier than the orange-flowersThat bind thy glossy hair:That thou hast every gentle graceWhich nature can design—I know that thou art mine, my love,I know that I am thine:Yes, thine, my love,I'm thine, my love,Thine, thine, and only thine.
I know that thou art true, my love,And welcome as the breezeWhich comes, with healing on its wings,Across the summer seas:That thou hast every winning charmWhich culture may refine—I know that thou art mine, my love,I know that I am thine.Yes, thine, my love,I'm thine, my love,Thine, thine, and only thine.
Epigrams.
On Reading Grim's Attack Upon Clinton.
'Tis the opinion of the townThat Grim's a silly elf:In trying to write Clinton down,He went RIGHT DOWN HIMSELF.
On Hearing that Morse Did Not "Invent" the Telegraph
First they said it would not do;But, when he got through it,Then they vowed they always knewThat he didn't do it!Lies are rolling stones, of course,But they can't adhere to MORSE.
Address
For the benefit of William Dunlap.
(Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe)
What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight!What scene of splendor—conjured here to-night!What voices murmur, and what glances gleam!Sure 'tis some flattering unsubstantial dream.The house is crowded—everybody's hereFor beauty famous, or to science dear;Doctors and lawyers, judges, belles, and beaux,Poets and painters—and Heaven only knowsWhom else beside!—And see, gay ladies sitLighting with smiles that fearful place, the pit—(A fairy change—ah, pray continue it.)Gray heads are here too, listening to my rhymes,Full of the spirit of departed times;Grave men and studious, strangers to my sight,All gather round me on this brilliant night.And welcome are ye all. Not now ye comeTo speak some trembling poet's awful doom;With frowning eyes a "want of mind" to traceIn some new actor's inexperienced face,Or e'en us old ones (oh, for shame!) to rate"With study good—in time—but—never great:"Not like you travelled native, just to say"Folks in this country can act a play—The can't 'pon honor!" How the creature starts!His wit and whiskers came from foreign parts!Nay, madam, spare your blushes—you I mean—There—close beside him—oh, you're full nineteen—You need not shake your flowing locks at me—The man, your sweetheart—then I'm dumb you see;I'll let him off—you'll punish him in time,Or I've no skill in prophecy or rhyme!A nobler motive fills your bosoms now,To wreathe the laurel round the silvered browOf one who merits it—if any can—The artist, author, and the honest man.With equal charms his pen and pencil drewBright scenes, to nature and to virtue true.Full oft upon these boards hath youth appeared,And oft your smiles his faltering footsteps cheered;But not alone on budding genius smile,Leaving the ripened sheaf unowned the while;To boyish hope not every bounty giveAnd only youth and beauty bid to live.Will you forget the services long past—Turn the old war-horse out to die at last?—When, his proud strength and noble fleetness o'er,His faithful bosom dares the charge no more!Ah, no!—The sun that loves his beams to shedRound every opening floweret's tender head,With smiles as kind his genial radiance throwsTo cheer the sadness of the fading rose:Thus he, whose merit claims this dazzling crowd,Points to the past, and has his claims allowed;Looks brightly forth, his faithful journey done,And rests in triumph—like the setting sun.
Address.
For the benefit of James Sheridan Knowles.
(Spoken by Mrs. Chapman.)
Nay, Mr. Simpson!—'Tis not kind—polite—To shut me out, sir?—I'm in such a fright!—I can not speak the lines, I'm sure!—Oh, fie!To say I must!—but if I must—I'll try!
From him I turn to these more generous soulsThe drama's patrons and the friends of KNOWLES.Why, what a brilliant galaxy is here!What stars adorn this mimic hemisphere!Names that shine brightest on our country's page!The props of science—literature—the stage!Above—below—around me—woman smiles,The fairest floweret of these western wilds—All come to pay the tribute of their praiseTo the first dramatist of modern days:And welcome, to the green home of the free,With heart and hand, the bard of liberty!
His is a wizard-wand. Its potent spellBroke the deep slumber of the patriot Tell,And placed him on his native hills again,The pride and glory of his fellow-men!The poet speaks—for Rome Virginia bleeds!Bold Caius Gracclius in the forum pleads!Alfred—the Great, because the good and wise,Bids prostrate England burst her bonds and rise!Sweet Bess, the Beggar's Daughter, beauty's queen,Walks forth the joy and wonder of the scene!The Hunchback enters—kindly—fond—severe—And last, behold the glorious Wife appear!
These are the bright creations of a mindGlowing with genius, chastened and refined.In all he's written, be this praise his lot:"Not one word, dying, would he wish to blot!"
Upon my life 'tis no such easy thingTo land the bard, unless an eagle's wingMy muse would take; and, fixing on the sunHer burning eye, soar as his own has done!
Did you speak, sir?—What, madam, did he say?Wrangling!—for shame!—before your wedding-day!Nay, gentle lady, by thine eyes of blue,And vermeil blushes, I did not mean you!Bless me, what friends at every glance I see!Artists and authors—men of high degree;Grave politicians, who have weighed each chance,The next election, and the war with France;Doctors, just come from curing half a score—And belles, from killing twice as many more;Judges, recorders, aldermen, and mayors,Seated, like true republicans, down stairs!All wear a glow of sunshine in their facesMight well become Apollo and the graces,Except one yonder, with a look infernal,Like a blurred page from Fanny Kemble's Journal!
But to my task. The muse, when I began,Spoke of the writer—welcome ye the man.Genius, at best, acts but an humble part,Unless obedient to an honest heart.And such a one is his, for whom, to-night,These walls are crowded with this cheering sightYe love the poet—oft have conned him o'er,Knew ye the man, ye'd love him ten times more.Ye critics, spare him from your tongue and quill,Ye gods, applaud him; and ye fops—be still!
Address
For the Benefit of Henry Placide.
(Spoken by Mrs. Hilson.)
The music's done. Be quiet, Mr. Durie!Your bell and whistle put me in a fury!Don't ring up yet, sir—I've a word to sayBefore the curtain rises for the play!
Your pardon, gentlefolks, nor think me bold,Because I thus our worthy promoter scold:'Twas all feigned anger. This enlightened ageRequires a RUSE to bring one on the stage!
Well, here I am, quite dazzled with the sightPresented on this brilliant festal night!Where'er I turn, whole rows of patrons sit—The house is full—box, gallery, and pit!Who says the New-York public are unkind?I know them well, and plainly speak my mind—"It is our right," the ancient poet sung—He knew the value of a woman's tongue!With this I will defend ye—and rehearseFIVE glorious ACTS of yours—in modern verse;Each one concluding with a generous deedFor Dunlap, Cooper, Woodworth, Knowles, Placide!'Twas nobly done, ye patriots and scholars!Besides—they netted twenty thousand dollars!"A good round sum," in these degenerate times—"This bank-note world," so called in Halleck's rhymes;And proof conclusive, you will frankly own,In liberal actions New-York stands alone.
Though roams he oft 'mong green poetic bowers,The actor's path is seldom strewn with flowers.His is a silent, secret, patient toil—While others sleep, he burns the midnight oil—Pores o'er his books—thence inspiration draws,And waste's his life to merit your applause!O ye, who come the laggard hours to while,And with the laugh-provoking muse to smile,Remember this: the mirth that cheers you so,Shows but the surface—not the depths below!Then judge not lightly of the actor's art,Who smiles to please you, with a breaking heart!Neglect him not in his hill-climbing course,Nor treat him with less kindness than your horse:Up hill, indulge him—down the steep descent,Spare—and don't urge him when his strength is spent;Impel him briskly o'er the level earth,But in the stable don't forget his worth!So with the actor—while you work him hard,Be mindful of his claims to your regard.
But hold!—methinks some carping cynic hereWill greet my homely image with a sneer.Well—let us see—I would the monster view:Man with umbrageous whiskers, is it you?Ah, no—I was mistaken: every browBeams with benevolence and kindness now;Beauty and fashion all the circles grace—And scowling Envy here were out of place!On every side the wise and good appear—The very pillars of the State are here!There sit the doctors of the legal clan;There all the city's rulers, to a man;Critics and editors, and learned M.D.'s,Buzzing and busy, like a hive of bees;And there, as if to keep us all in order,Our worthy friends the Mayor and the Recorder!
Well, peace be with you! Friends of native worth,Yours is the power to call it into birth;Yours is the genial influence that smiles uponThe budding flowerets opening to the sun.they all around us court your fostering hand—Rear them with care, in beauty they'll expand—With grateful odors well repay your toil,Equal to those sprung from a foreign soil;and more Placides bask in your sunshine then,The first of actors and the best of men.
The Maid of Saxony; or, Who's the Traitor?An Opera in Three Acts.
Founded upon historical events in the life of Frederick the Second of Prussia, related by Miss Edgeworth, Zimmermann, Latrobe, and other writers.
The MusicWith the exception of three German Melodies, and the characteristic IntroductionComposed byCharles E. Horn.
The Libretto by George P. Morris.
The Scenery by……….Messrs. Hillyard, Wheatley, and Assistants.The Costumes by…………………………………….M. Louis.The Properties and Decorations by…………………..M. Dejonge.The Machinery by………………………………….M. Speyers.The Orchestra increased, and the Choruses full and effective.Leader of the Orchestra and Chorus-Master……………..M. Chubb.The Music produced under the direction of………..Mr. C. E. Horn.Stage Manager……………………………………..Mr. Barry.
Dramatis Personae.
Frederick II. (King of Prussia)………………..Mr. Chippendale.Count Laniska (his Aid-de-Camp, a Pole)…………….Mr. Manvers.Albert ( a young Saxon student-at-law)…………..Mr. Fredericks.Karl (a Hungarian, Packer to the Royal Factory)…..Mr. C. E. Horn.Wedgewood (an English Merchant)……………………Mr. Placide.Baron Altenburg (Attorney-General)…………………..Mr. Barry.Judge of the Court…………………………………Mr. Clark.Hans (an Innkeeper)………………………………Mr. Andrews.Harold (an old Sergeant of Grenadiers)………………Mr. Seguin.Corporal of Grenadiers (old man)……………………Mr. Fisher.Burgomaster……………………………………….Mr. Povey.Jailor of the Castle Spandau………………………Mr. Bellamy.Herald…………………………………………..Mr. Nelson.First General………………………………………Mr. King.Second General……………………………………Mr. Gallot.
Staff-Officers, Officers of State, Workmen of the Factory, Citizens,Advocates, Jurymen, Grenadiers, Peasants, Travellers, Servants,etc.
Countess Laniska…………………………………Mrs. Barry.Frederica (her daughter)…………………………Mrs. Knight.Sophia Mansfield (the Saxon Maid)……………..Mrs. C. E. Horn.Gertrude…………………………………..Miss Mary Taylor.
Ladies of the Court, Factory Gils, Peasants, etc.
The Maid of Saxony. [See Notes]
Inside of a German Inn, on the road to Berlin. Fire and candles nearly extinguished.Clock in the corner, marking the hour of ten. HANS seated in an arm-chair, asleep.Music. The curtain rises to the opening symphony. HANS yawns in his sleep.
(Enter GERTRUDE.)
GERTRUDE.Ho! Hans!—Why, Hans!—You Hans, I say!Awake!—here'll be the deuce to pay!For coming guests get fire and lights,And help me put the room to rights!
(HANS stretches and yawns)
Hans!—I've no patience with the lout!What, Hans, on earth are you about?
(Shakes HANS, who yawns again)
Did ever room look so forlorn?Hans!—Hark! I hear the postman's horn!
(Sounds of a horn in the distance. HANS stretches, yawns, and rises.)
HANS.What der tuyvel is der matter,Dus you chitter-chatter-clatter?
GERTRUDE (aside).His impudence can not be borne!
HANS.What's dat I hear?
GERTRUDE.The postman's horn!
(Sounds of horn again.)
Whose notes o'er moor and mountain flung—
HANS.Are not so noisy as your tongue!
(Horn sounds as though approaching; whips are heard, and the post-coach is supposed to arrive outside with PASSENGERS. Enter the ATTENDANTS, with portmanteaus, carpet-bags, etc., and PASSENGERS.)
CHORUS.Rejoice! rejoice! we're safe and sound,And shelter for the night have found,Within this snug abode!The dust may rise, the rain may fall—Beneath this roof we'll smile at allThe dangers of the road!
SOLO.Then let the cheerful board be spread;To supper first, and then to bed,Till birds their songs begin:Thus, whether sleeping or awake,The weary traveller will takeHis comfort at his inn.
CHORUS.Rejoice! rejoice! we're safe, etc.
[Exit PASSENGERS and ATTENDANTS
GERTRUDE.Where in the world are all these people going to, Hans?
HANS. To Berlin, to shee der troops. Frederick musters dem to-morrow at der capital. But why don't you attend to der guest?
GERTRUDE.Why don't YOU? You are not fit to keep an inn, Hans.
HANS. I was not prought up to it; mine pishiness was to keep a paint-shop, and shell der colors to der artists.
GERTRUDE.Don't stand here chatting about your fine colors—but look to the guests—
HANS.Yaw, yaw, mein fraulein.
ALBERT (without)Ho! landlord!—Waiters, look to our luggage!
WEDGEWOOD (speaking as he enters.)If it is convenient.
(Enter ALB'T and WEDGEWOOD in cloaks, briskly.)
GERTRUDE.This way, gentlemen, this way.
ALBERT.Two bed-chambers, landlord, as soon as possible.
HANS.Yaw, mynheer.
(Gives directions to ATTENDANT, who exits)
WEDGEWOOD.Landlady, take care of my coat and stick, and here's something for your pains.
GERTRUDE.Yes, sir.
WEDGEWOOD (looking at her.)What a pretty girl.
GERTRUDE.Is that ALL, sir?
WEDGEWOOD (aside to GERTRUDE.)No, that's not all. (Kisses her.) Take this into the bargain, you jade!
GERTRUDE (courtesies.)Thank you, sir. (Aside.) What a nice, queer old gentleman!
HANS (taking her away passionately.) What's dat to you? Give me der tings (takes them.) You do noding but ogle mit der young folks, and flirt mit der old ones!
GERTRUDE.Oh, you jealous brute! [Exit in a huff.
WEDGEWOOD (noticing her.) Nice girl that—ODD, too, that she should have married a man old enough to be her grandfather!
HANS (aside.) Dat queer chap in der brown vig I'm sure is a gay deceiver, or he would not admire mine vife so much. I must have mine eyes about me. [Exit.
WEDGEWOOD (noticing HANS and GERTRUDE.) Odd, very odd, VERY ODD indeed! But, now that we are alone, pray continue the narrative you commenced in the coach—if it is convenient.
ALBERT. Right willingly. Frederick, after his conquest of Saxony, transported by force several manufacturers from Dresden to Berlin, where he established a Porcelain Factory—
WEDGEWOOD. Separated from their friends, home, and country, these unfortunate people are compelled to continue their labors for the profit and glory of their conqueror—I know it—go on—
ALBERT.Among those in bondage is Sophia Mansfield—
WEDGEWOOD.I have heard of her:—a young, beautiful, and singularly-gifted girl—
ALBERT.Several pieces of her design and modelling were shown to the king, when he was atMeissen, in Saxony; and he was so struck with their beauty, that he determined toconvey the artist with other prisoners, to his capital—
WEDGEWOOD. Where he issued his royal edict, compelling the girls of the factory to marry Prussian soldiers. Unfeelingly odd!
ALBERT. Sophia has yet escaped this tyranny. The OVERSEER, however, has demanded her hand; but I shall be in time to thwart his purposes.
WEDGEWOOD. But, to effect that, you must also thwart the purposes of Frederick himself, who, I understand, is as stubborn as he is bold.
ALBERT. Count Laniska has won Sophia's affections, and love is a power that can not be controlled.
WEDGEWOOD.Veritably odd!
ALBERT.You are on your way to the factory—have you free admission for yourself and friends?
WEDGEWOOD.Indubitably.
ALBERT. Then we will, with your permission, visit it together. (Aside.) In this disguise, and under the name of Worrendorf, I may pass unnoticed.
(Re-enter HANS, with trunks, etc, and GERTRUDE.)
WEDGEWOOD.It is growing late. After the fatigues of the journey, I need repose.
ALBERT.And so do I. Good-night!
WEDGEWOOD. Good-night! [Exit ALBERT; GERTRUDE takes a lighted candle from the table and shows the way; WEDGEWOOD takes a light.] Do you rise early, friend?
HANS.No, mynheer; but mine vife does—
WEDGEWOOD.Then tell your wife to knock at my door early in the morning.
HANS (eyeing him and looking suspiciously.)So ho! I SMOKE you!
WEDGEWOOD.Then keep farther off with your confounded pipe, you Dutch abomination.
HANS (lays his finger on his nose.)And I schmells a rat!
WEDGEWOOD (looking around.)The devil you do! Where?—
HANS.Se I vill knock at yourn door myself—
WEDGEWOOD. If it is convenient. (Exit Hans.) A pretty house I have got into!—Smokes me!—smells a rat!—The FILTHY Dutchman! [Exit.
An open cut wood near Berlin. Tents in the distance. A military outpost. EnterHAROLD, CORPORAL, and a party of SOLDIERS, in military undress.
SONG.The life for me is a soldier's life!With that what glories come!The notes of the spirit-stirring fife,The roll of the battle-drum;The brilliant array, the bearing high,The plumed warriors' tramp;The streaming banners that flout the sky,The gleaming pomp of the camp.
CHORUS.A soldier's life is the life for me!With that what glories come!The notes of the spirit-stirring fife,The roll of the battle-drum!
HAROLD.So, corporal, at last we are to have a muster of the combined forces of the kingdom.
CORPORAL. Yes, the king is never so happy as when he has all his children, as he calls US, about him.
HAROLD. And plaguy good he takes of his CHILDREN! He looks after our domestic as well as our public interests! It was a strange whim in old Fritz to offer each of his soldiers one of the factory girls for a wife!
CORPORAL.I wonder the old hero does not marry some of them himself.
HAROLD. He would rather look after his soldiers than meddle with the fancies of the women—and at his age too!
CORPORAL. Nonsense! The king is a boy—a mere boy—of seventy! But he does meddle with the women sometimes.
HAROLD.Say you so?
CORPORAL. Ay, and old ones too. It was but the other day that he pensioned a poor widow, whose only son fell in a skirmish at his side. Heaven bless his old cocked hat!
HAROLD. Yes is it not singular that one so mindful of the rights of old women should compel the young ones to toil as they do in the factory?
CORPORAL. Tush, tush, man!—that's none of your concern, nor mine. What have we to do with state affairs?
HAROLD. Right, corporal; and it's not worth while for us to trouble our heads about other people's business.
CORPORAL.You're a sensible fellow—
HAROLD. Right again; and I would return the compliment if you did not wear such a flashy watch-riband (looks at it.)
CORPORAL.That's personal!
HAROLD.I mean it to be so. What the devil do you wear it for?
CORPORAL. To gratify a whim. I like this riband. It was a present from an old sweetheart of mine. Look what a jaunty air it gives one!—and where's the harm of keeping up appearances?—
HAROLD. What silly vanity! But let me give you a piece of advice: beware of the scrutiny of the king—he has an eye like a hawk, old as he is; and if he should happen to spy your watch-riband—
CORPORAL.Pooh, pooh!—he would not notice such a trifle.—But who comes yonder? That HungarianKarl. Let's make way for him.—He's a fellow I don't fancy. What a man to woo andwin Sophia Mansfield!
HAROLD.He'll never win her, woo her as he may. Count Laniska will look to that.
[HAROLD, CORPORAL and party retire into tents.
(Enter KARL, in great agitation.)
SONG—KARL.Confusion!—Again rejectedBy the maid I fondly love!Illusion!—In soul dejected!Jealous fears my bosom move.Dear Sophia!—Hope's deceiver!Whom I love; but love in vain!Can I to my rival leave her?No—the thought distracts my brain!
Love—revenge!—Oh, how I falter!Passion's throes unman me quite:Now he leads her to he alter—How I tremble at the sight!Hold, tormentors! cease to tear me!All in vain I gasp for breath!Hated rival—scorn I bear theeWhich can only end in death!
(HAROLD advances.)
HAROLD.Karl, what ails you?
KARL (aside.) Observed! (To HAROLD.) An infirmity I've had from my youth upward. I shall be better presently.
HAROLD.You tremble like one with the ague.
KARL. We Hungarians have not your tough constitution, comrade: besides, the weather is chilly—it freezes me to the bone.
HAROLD. It's the weather within, Karl. Repair to the factory, and sun yourself in the bright eyes of Sophia Mansfield! That will warm you, especially if Count Laniska happens to be by to stir up the fire of your jealousy—eh?
KARL.You have a sharp wit, which I lack, comrade.
HAROLD (sarcastically.)And I've another thing which you lack—COMRADE.
KARL.What may that be?
HAROLD.A clear conscience, my old boy!
[Exit HAROLD into tent
KARL. Does he suspect? No—sleeping and waking I have concealed this (his arm) damning evidence of my guilt. The mark of Cain I bear about me is known to none, and the secret dies with me.—For that young Pole, Sophia scorns me; but let him beware!—My revenge, though slow, is sure!
(KARL turns to go; but perceiving Count Laniska advancing, he retires to a tent.Enter LANISKA, who notices KARL in the distance.)
SONG—LANISKA.When I behold that lowering brow,Which indicates the mind within,I marvel much that woman's vowA man like that could ever win!Yet it is said, in rustic bower,(The fable I have often heard)A serpent has mysterious powerTo captivate a timid bird.
This precept then I sadly trace—That love's a fluttering thing of air;And yonder lurks the viper base,Who would my gentle bird ensnare!'Twas in the shades of Eden's bowerThis fascination had its birth,And even there possessed the powerTo lure the paragon of earth!
(At the conclusion of the song, KARL, is about to retire. LANISKA addresses him.)
COUNT.Come hither, Karl.
KARL.I await upon your leisure, count.
COUNT.I would have some words with you.
KARL.You may not relish the frankness of my manner.
COUNT.Indeed!
KARL. Look you, Count Laniska; I am a plain, blunt, straight-forward, rough-spoken fellow, and a soldier like yourself. I know my rights; and, knowing, will maintain them. It was by the king's permission and authority that I chose Sophia Mansfield for my bride—
COUNT.She has rejected you.
KARL. What has that to do with the matter? Women are often perverse, and not always the best judges of their own welfare; and you know she MUST be mine—
COUNT.Must?—
KARL.Yes, MUST. I have the king's promise, and Frederick was never known to break his word.
COUNT.You surely will not marry her against her will?
KARL. Why not? Sophia is the only woman I ever loved: and now that I have her sure, think you I will resign her?
COUNT. And think you the king will force an angel into the arms of a monster? He can not be so great a tyrant—
KARL.Tyrant!
COUNT. Yes. Man was created to cherish woman, not to oppress her; and he is the worst of tyrants who would injure that sex whom heave ordains it his duty to protect.
KARL.Apply you this to the king?
COUNT. To the king, or to any HE in Christendom, who would use his power to oppress the unfortunate! But come, sir, we will not dispute about a hasty word—we have higher duties to perform.
KARL. True, count; we oppose our weapons to the enemies of our country, not the bosoms of our friends. I say OUR country; for, although you were born in Poland, and I in Hungary, Frederick has made Prussia almost as dear to us as our native land, TYRANT though he may be.—But we will not quarrel about a single captive, when the king has placed so many at the disposal of those who fight his battles. [Trumpet sounds without.
(Enter HAROLD with dispatches.)
HAROLD (to COUNT.)Dispatches from the king. (Aside.) And a letter from Sophia Mansfield. [Exit.
(The COUNT receives and examines the dispatches; kisses SOPHIA's letter, and puts it into his bosom. KARL does not notice it.)
DUET—COUNT AND KARL.'Tis a soldier's rigid dutyOrders strictly to obey;Let not, then the smile of beautyLure us from the camp away.In our country's cause united,Gallantly we'll take the field;But, the victory won, delightedSingly to the fair we yield!
Soldiers who have ne'er retreated,Beauty's tear will sure beguile;Hearts that armies ne'er defeated,Love can conquer with a smile.Who would strive to live in story,Did not woman's hand prepareAmaranthine wreaths of gloryWhich the valiant proudly wear?
[Exit the COUNT. KARL follows, menacing him.