The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 354

There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem; The genuine Czar--the rightful heir draws nigh, He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.

ARCHBISHOP.

Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!

MARFA.

At length--at length has dawned the day of vengeance, Of restoration. Innocence is dragged To light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom.

The haughty G.o.dunow, my deadly foe, Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet; Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!

ARCHBISHOP.

Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?

MARFA.

Can terror blind your monarch so, that he Should hope deliverance from me--from me-- Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong?

I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heaven Restores me by a miracle from the grave, And to please him, the butcher of my house, Who piled upon me woes unspeakable?

Yes, thrust from me the succor G.o.d has sent In the sad evening of my heavy anguish?

No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me, I have thee fast, I will not let thee free.

Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last!

At last launch forth against mine enemy The long-pent anger of my inmost soul!

Who was it, who, That shut me up within this living tomb, In all the strength and freshness of my youth, With all its feelings glowing in my breast?

Who from my bosom rent my darling son, And chartered ruffian hands to take his life?

Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered, When, with a yearning that would not be still, I watched throughout the long, long starry nights, And noted with my tears the hours elapse!

The day of succor comes, and of revenge; I see the mighty glorying in his might.

ARCHBISHOP.

You think the Czar will dread you--you mistake.

MARFA.

He's in my power--one little word from me, One only, sets the seal upon his fate!

It was for this thy master sent thee here!

The eyes of Russia and of Poland now Are closely bent upon me. If I own The Czarowitsch as Ivan's son and mine, Then all will do him homage; his the throne.

If I disown him, then he is undone; For who will credit that his rightful mother, A mother wronged, so foully wronged as I, Could from her heart repulse its darling child, To league with the despoilers of her house?

I need but speak one word and all the world Deserts him as a traitor. Is't not so?

This word you wish from me. That mighty service, Confess, I can perform for G.o.dunow!

ARCHBISHOP.

Thou wouldst perform it for thy country, and Avert the dread calamities of war, Shouldst thou do homage to the truth. Thyself, Ay, thou hast ne'er a doubt thy son is dead; And couldst thou testify against thy conscience?

MARFA.

These sixteen years I've mourned his death; but yet I ne'er have seen his ashes. I believed His death, there trusting to the general voice And my sad heart--I now believe he lives, Trusting the general voice and my strong hope.

'Twere impious, with audacious doubts, to seek To set a bound to the Almighty's will; And even were he not my heart's dear son, Yet should he be the son of my revenge.

In my child's room I take him to my breast, Whom heaven has sent me to avenge my wrongs.

ARCHBISHOP.

Unhappy one, dost thou defy the strong?

From his far-reaching arm thou art not safe Even in the convent's distant solitude.

MARFA.

Kill me he may, and stifle in the grave, Or dungeon's gloom, my woman's voice, that it Shall not reverberate throughout the world.

This he may do; but force me to speak aught Against my will, that can he not; though backed By all thy craft--no, he has missed his aim!

ARCHBISHOP.

Is this thy final purpose. Ponder well!

Hast thou no gentler message for the Czar?

MARFA.

Tell him to hope for heaven, if so he dare, And for his people's love, if so he can.

ARCHBISHOP.

Enough! thou art bent on thy destruction.

Thou lean'st upon a reed, will break beneath thee; One common ruin will o'erwhelm ye both.

[Exit.

MARFA.

It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he.

Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastes Take arms upon his side; the haughty Pole, The palatine, doth stake his n.o.ble daughter On the pure gold of his most righteous cause, And I alone reject him--I, his mother?

I, only I, shook not beneath the storm Of joy that lifts all hearts with dizzying whirl, And scatters turmoil widely o'er the earth.

He is my son--I must, will trust in him, And grasp with living confidence the hand Which heaven hath sent for my deliverance.

'Tis he, he comes with his embattled hosts, To set me free, and to avenge my shame!

Hark to his drums, his martial trumpets' clang!

Ye nations come--come from the east and south.

Forth from your steppes, your immemorial woods Of every tongue, of every raiment come!

Bridle the steed, the reindeer, and the camel!

Sweep hither, countless as the ocean waves, And throng around the banners of your king!

Oh, wherefore am I mewed and fettered here, A prisoned soul with longings infinite!

Thou deathless sun, that circlest earth's huge ball, Be thou the messenger of my desires!

Thou all-pervading, chainless breeze that sweep'st With lightning speed to earth's remotest bound, Oh, bear to him the yearnings of my heart.

My prayers are all I have to give; but these I pour all glowing from my inmost soul, And send them up to heaven on wings of flame, Like armed hosts, I send them forth to hail him.

SCENE II.

A height crowned with trees. A wide and smiling landscape occupies the background, which is traversed by a beautiful river, and enlivened by the budding green of spring. At various points the towers of several towns are visible.

Drums and martial music without. Enter ODOWALSKY, and other officers, and immediately afterwards DEMETRIUS.

ODOWALSKY.

Go, lead the army downward by the wood, Whilst we look round us here upon the height.

[Exeunt some of the officers.

Enter DEMETRIUS.

DEMETRIUS (starting back).

Ha! what a prospect!

ODOWALSKY.

Sire, thou see'st thy kingdom Spread out before thee. That is Russian land.