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S. T. Coleridge - The d**h of Wallenstein (Act 3 Scene 7) lyrics


(stepping to the window).
What now, then?

There are strange movements among all the troops,
And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,
With gloomy silentness, the several corps
Marshal themselves, each under its own banners;
Tiefenbach's corps make threatening movements; only
The Pappenheimers still remain aloof
In their own quarters and let no one enter.

Does Piccolomini appear among them?

We are seeking him: he is nowhere to be met with.

What did the aide-de-camp deliver to you?

My regiments had despatched him; yet once more
They swear fidelity to thee, and wait
The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager.

But whence arose this larum in the camp?
It should have been kept secret from the army
Till fortune had decided for us at Prague.

Oh, that thou hadst believed me! Yester-evening
Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker,
That fox, Octavio, pa** the gates of Pilsen.
[Lyrics from: https:/**h-of-wallenstein-act-3-scene-7.html]
Thou gavest him thy own horses to flee from thee.

The old tune still! Now, once for all, no more
Of this suspicion—it is doting folly.

Thou didst confide in Isolani too;
And lo! he was the first that did desert thee.

It was but yesterday I rescued him
From abject wretchedness. Let that go by;
I never reckoned yet on gratitude.
And wherein doth he wrong in going from me?
He follows still the god whom all his life
He has worshipped at the gaming-table. With
My fortune and my seeming destiny
He made the bond and broke it, not with me.
I am but the ship in which his hopes were stowed,
And with the which, well-pleased and confident,
He traversed the open sea; now he beholds it
In eminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks,
And hurries to preserve his wares. As light
As the free bird from the hospitable twig
Where it had nested he flies off from me:
No human tie is snapped betwixt us two.
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead,
Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth:
Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
Warmeth the inner frame.

Yet, would I rather
Trust the smooth brow than that deep furrowed one.

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