Friedrich Schiller - The Maid of Orleans

How, sire! Is this fit language for a king?
Is a crown thus renounced? Thy meanest subject,
For his opinion's sake, his hate and love,
Sets property and life upon a cast;
When civil war hangs out her bloody flag,
Each private end is drowned in party zeal.
The husbandman forsakes his plough, the wife
Neglects her distaff; children, and old men,
Don the rude garb of war; the citizen
Consigns his town to the devouring flames,
The peasant burns the produce of his fields;
And all to injure or advantage thee,
And to achieve the purpose of his heart.
Men show no mercy, and they wish for none,
When they at honor's call maintain the fight,
Or for their idols or their gods contend.
A truce to such effeminate pity, then,
Which is not suited to a monarch's breast.
Thou didst not heedlessly provoke the war;
As it commenced, so let it spend its fury.
It is the law of destiny that nations
Should for their monarchs immolate themselves.
We Frenchmen recognize this sacred law,
Nor would annul it. Base, indeed, the nation
That for its honor ventures not its all.

You've heard my last resolve; expect no other.
May God protect you! I can do no more.

As thou dost turn thy back upon thy realm,
So may the God of battle aye avert
His visage from thee. Thou forsak'st thyself,
So I forsake thee. Not the power combined
Of England and rebellious Burgundy,
Thy own mean spirit hurls thee from the throne.
Born heroes ever were the kings of France;
Thou wert a craven, even from thy birth.

The king abandons you. But I will throw
Myself into your town – my father's town —
And 'neath its ruins find a soldier's grave.

Oh, let him not depart in anger from thee!
Harsh words his lips have uttered, but his heart
Is true as gold. 'Tis he, himself, my king,
Who loves thee, and hath often bled for thee.
Dunois, confess, the heat of noble wrath
Made thee forget thyself; and oh, do thou
Forgive a faithful friend's o'erhasty speech!
Come, let me quickly reconcile your hearts,
Ere anger bursteth forth in quenchless flame.

Our way lies over the Loire. Duchatel,
See all our equipage embarked.

Farewell.

Oh, if he goes, we are forsaken quite!
Follow, La Hire! Oh, seek to soften him!

Is, then, the sceptre such a peerless treasure?
Is it so hard to loose it from our grasp?
Believe me, 'tis more galling to endure
The domineering rule of these proud vassals.
To be dependent on their will and pleasure
Is, to a noble heart, more bitter far
Than to submit to fate.

Duchatel, go,
And do what I commanded.

Oh, my king!

No more! Thou'st heard my absolute resolve!

Sire, with the Duke of Burgundy make peace!
'Tis the sole outlet from destruction left!

Thou giv'st this counsel, and thy blood alone
Can ratify this peace.

Here is my head.
I oft have risked it for thee in the fight,
And with a joyful spirit I, for thee,
Would lay it down upon the block of death.
Conciliate the duke! Deliver me
To the full measure of his wrath, and let
My flowing blood appease the ancient hate.

Can it be true? Am I, then, sunk so low,
That even friends, who read my inmost heart,
Point out for my escape the path of shame?
Yes, now I recognize my abject fall.
My honor is no more confided in.

Reflect —

Be silent, and incense me not!
Had I ten realms, on which to turn my back,
With my friend's life I would not purchase them.
Do what I have commanded. Hence, and see
My equipage embarked.

'Twill speedily
Be done.

My Agnes, be not sorrowful!
Beyond the Loire we still shall find a France;
We are departing to a happier land,
Where laughs a milder, an unclouded sky,
And gales more genial blow; we there shall meet
More gentle manners; song abideth there,
And love and life in richer beauty bloom.

Oh, must I contemplate this day of woe!
The king must roam in banishment! the son
Depart, an exile from his father's house,
And turn his back upon his childhood's home!
Oh, pleasant, happy land that we forsake,
Ne'er shall we tread thee joyously again.

You come alone? You do not bring him back?

La Hire! What news? What does that look announce?
Some new calamity?

Calamity
Hath spent itself; sunshine is now returned.

What is it? I implore you.

Summon back
The delegates from Orleans.

Why? What is it?

Summon them back! Thy fortune is reversed.
A battle has been fought, and thou hast conquered.

Conquered! Oh, heavenly music of that word!

La Hire! A fabulous report deceives thee;
Conquered! In conquest I believe no more.

Still greater wonders thou wilt soon believe.
Here cometh the archbishop. To thine arms
He leadeth back Dunois.

O beauteous flower
Of victory, which doth the heavenly fruits
Of peace and reconcilement bear at once!