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Ver. Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird Will own no cowering wing.

(Re-enter Albert.)

Alb. Now, Verner, look! (Shoots.) There's within An inch!

Ver. Oh fy! it wants a hand.

Alb. A hand's

(Exit Verner.)

An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it! (While Albert continues to shoot, Tell enters and watches him some time, in silence.)

Tell. That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark! Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends The bow! To see those sinews, who'd believe

Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm,

His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,

And from their chains a prostrate people lift
To liberty. I'd be content to die,

Living to see that day! What, Albert!

Alb. Ah!

My father!

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Too fast. (Albert continues shooting.)
Bring it slowly to the eye.-You've missed.
How often have you hit the mark to-day?
Alb. Not once, yet.

Tell. You're not steady. I perceived
You wavered now.

Stand firm. Let every limb

Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
Stand like the sculptor's statue, on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. (Albert shoots.) That's better!
See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it!
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there. (Albert shoots.)
You've missed again! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? "Twould not do
To miss the wolf! You said, the other day,
Were you a man, you'd not let Gesler live-

'Twas easy to say that.

Suppose you, now,

Your life or his depended on that shot!

Take care! That's Gesler!-Now for liberty!

Right to the tyrant's heart! (Hits the mark.) Well done my boy! Come here. How early were you up?

Alb. Before the sun.

Tell. Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.

Alb. What you would have me like, I'll be like, As far as will to labor joined can make me.

Tell. Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?

Alb. I did; and do so every day.

Tell. I know you do! And think To whom you kneel?

you, when you kneel,

Alb. To Him who made me, father.
And in whose name?


The name of Him who died For me and all men, that all men and I Should live.

Tell. That's right. Remember that, my son: Forget all things but that-remember that!

"Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;
All things on earth; yea, life itself!—It is

To live, when these are gone, where they are nought-
With God! My son, remember that!

Alb. I will.

Tell. I'm glad you value what you're taught.
That is the lesson of content, my son;

He who finds which, has all-who misses, nothing.
Alb. Content is a good thing.

Tell. A thing, the good

But go, Albert,

Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.

Alone can profit by.

Don't keep me waiting.

(Tell paces the stage in thought.

Alb. I am ready, father.

Tell. (Taking Albert by the hand.)

Dost thou fear the snow,

(Exit Albert.)

Re-enter Albert.)

Now mark me, Albert!

The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for
The mountain-mist that settles on the peak,
When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine,
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?
Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,

And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel
All night.

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Tell. The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach Mount Faigel by the dawn.

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Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night.

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That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.

You know the point where you must round the cliff?

I do.

Tell. Thy belt is slack-draw it tight.
Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger
And give it him; you know its caverns well.
In one of them you will find him. Farewell.
(They embrace.
When thou wast born,
Heavens! with what pride I used
up to my God,

Eaglet of my heart!

The land was free!
To walk these hills,

and look

And bless him that it was so.

It was free

From end to end, from cliff to lake-'twas free!
Free as the torrents are that leap our rocks.
How happy was it then! I loved

Its very storms. I have sat at midnight
In my boat, when midway o'er the lake,

The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And cried in thralldom to the furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

Exit Albert.)



Hubert. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand

Within the arras; when I strike my foot,

Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,

And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

First Attendant. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it.— (Exeunt Attendants.)

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

(Enter Arthur.)

Arthur. Good-morrow, Hubert.

Hub. Good-morrow, little prince.

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince) as may be ;-You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth. Mercy on me!

Methinks nobody should be sad but I:
Yet I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practices more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:

Is it my fault that I were Geoffrey's son?
No indeed, is't not; and I would to heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. (Aside.)
Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day.
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;

That I might sit all night, and watch with you.

I warrant I love you more than you do me.

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.— Read here, young Arthur. (Showing a paper.) How now foolish rheum! (Aside.)

Turning dispiteous torture out the door!

I must be brief; lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.

Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect: Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? Hub. Young boy, I must.

Arth. And will you?


And I will.

Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)

And I did never ask it you again:

And with my hand at midnight held your head,
And like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
-And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning: do, an if you will:

If heaven be pleased that you should use me ill,
Why, then you must.-Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?

Hub. I have sworn to do it;

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

my tears,

Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it:
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink
And quench its fiery indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believed no tongue but Hubert's.
Hub. Come forth. (Stamps.)

(Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c.)

Do as I bid you.

Arth. Oh, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out, Even with the fierce looks of the bloody men.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous-rough:

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the irons angrily;

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