The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 423

What tidings? Speak!

KNIGHT.

The foe has crossed the Marne, And marshalleth his army for the fight.

JOHANNA (inspired).

Battle and tumult! Now my soul is free.

Arm, warriors, arm! while I prepare the troops.

[She goes out.

CHARLES.

Follow, La Hire! E'en at the gates of Rheims They will compel us to dispute the crown!

DUNOIS.

No genuine courage prompts them. This essay Is the last effort of enraged despair.

CHARLES.

I do not urge you, duke. To-day's the time To compensate the errors of the past.

BURGUNDY.

You shall be satisfied with me.

CHARLES.

Myself Will march before you on the path of fame; Here, with my royal town of Rheims in view, I'll fight, and gallantry achieve the crown.

Thy knight, my Agnes, bids thee now farewell!

AGNES (embracing him).

I do not weep, I do not tremble for thee; My faith, unshaken, cleaveth unto G.o.d!

Heaven, were we doomed to failure, had not given So many gracious pledges of success!

My heart doth whisper me that, victory-crowned, In conquered Rheims, I shall embrace my king.

[Trumpets sound with a spirited tone, and while the scene is changing pa.s.s into a wild martial strain. When the scene opens, the orchestra joins in, accompanied by warlike instruments behind the scene.

SCENE VI.

The scene changes to an open country skirted with trees. During the music soldiers are seen retreating hastily across the background.

TALBOT, leaning on FASTOLFE, and accompanied by soldiers. Soon after, LIONEL.

TALBOT.

Here lay me down beneath the trees, and then Betake you back, with speed, unto the fight; I need no aid to die.

FASTOLFE.

Oh, woful day!

[LIONEL enters.

Behold what sign awaits you, Lionel!

Here lies our general wounded unto death.

LIONEL.

Now, G.o.d forbid! My n.o.ble lord, arise!

No moment this to falter and to sink.

Yield not to death. By your all-powerful will Command your ebbing spirit still to live.

TALBOT.

In vain! The day of destiny is come, Which will o'erthrow the English power in France.

In desperate combat I have vainly risked The remnant of our force to ward it off.

Struck by the thunderbolt I prostrate lie, Never to rise again. Rheims now is lost, Hasten to succor Paris!

LIONEL.

Paris is with the Dauphin reconciled; A courier even now has brought the news.

TALBOT (tearing off his bandages).

Then freely flow, ye currents of my blood, For Talbot now is weary of the sun!

LIONEL.

I may no longer tarry: Fastolfe, haste!

Convey our leader to a place of safety.

No longer now can we maintain this post; Our flying troops disperse on every side, On, with resistless might, the maiden comes.

TALBOT.

Folly, thou conquerest, and I must yield!

Against stupidity the very G.o.ds.

Themselves contend in vain. Exalted reason, Resplendent daughter of the head divine, Wise foundress of the system of the world, Guide of the stars, who art thou then if thou, Bound to the tail of folly's uncurbed steed, Must, vainly shrieking with the drunken crowd, Eyes open, plunge down headlong in the abyss.

Accursed, who striveth after n.o.ble ends, And with deliberate wisdom forms his plans!

To the fool-king belongs the world.

LIONEL.

My lord, But for a few brief moments can you live-- Think of your Maker!

TALBOT.

Had we, like brave men, Been vanquished by the brave, we might, indeed, Console ourselves that 'twas the common lot; For fickle fortune aye revolves her wheel.

But to be baffled by such juggling arts!

Deserved our earnest and laborious life Not a more earnest issue?

LIONEL (extends his hand to him).

Fare you well!

The debt of honest tears I will discharge After the battle--if I then survive.

Now Fate doth call me hence, where on the field Her web she waveth, and dispenseth doom.

We in another world shall meet again; For our long friendship, this a brief farewell.

[Exit.

TALBOT.

Soon is the struggle past, and to the earth, To the eternal sun, I render back These atoms, joined in me for pain and pleasure.

And of the mighty Talbot, who the world Filled with his martial glory, there remains Naught save a modic.u.m of senseless dust.

Such is the end of man--the only spoil We carry with us from life's battle-field, Is but an insight into nothingness, And utter scorn of all which once appeared To us exalted and desirable.