in the Prince's
Absence, I am sovereign; and the Baron is
My intimate connection;--"Cousin Idenstein!
Absence, I am sovereign; and the Baron is
My intimate connection;--"Cousin Idenstein!
Byron
No more!
_Iden. _ Out upon your avarice!
Can that low vice alloy so much ambition?
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in
Small change will subdivide into a treasure.
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 680
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler?
When had you half the sum?
_Third Peasant_. Never--but ne'er
The less I must have three.
_Iden. _ Have you forgot
Whose vassal you were born, knave?
_Third Peasant_. No--the Prince's,
And not the stranger's.
_Iden. _ Sirrah!
in the Prince's
Absence, I am sovereign; and the Baron is
My intimate connection;--"Cousin Idenstein!
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains. "
And so, you villains! troop--march--march, I say;
And if a single dog's ear of this packet 690
Be sprinkled by the Oder--look to it!
For every page of paper, shall a hide
Of yours be stretched as parchment on a drum,
Like Ziska's skin,[169] to beat alarm to all
Refractory vassals, who can not effect
Impossibilities. --Away, ye earth-worms!
[_Exit, driving them out_.
_Jos. _ (_coming forward_).
I fain would shun these scenes, too oft repeated,
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims;
I cannot aid, and will not witness such.
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 700
The dimmest in the district's map, exist
The insolence of wealth in poverty
O'er something poorer still--the pride of rank
In servitude, o'er something still more servile;
And vice in misery affecting still
A tattered splendour. What a state of being!
In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land,
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants,[170]
Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such
As these; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 710
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb
Was in itself a meal, and every vine
Rained, as it were, the beverage which makes glad
The heart of man; and the ne'er unfelt sun
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving
His warmth behind in memory of his beams)
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less
Oppressive than an emperor's jewelled purple.
But, here! the despots of the north appear
To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 720
Searching the shivering vassal through his rags,
To wring his soul--as the bleak elements
His form.
_Iden. _ Out upon your avarice!
Can that low vice alloy so much ambition?
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in
Small change will subdivide into a treasure.
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 680
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler?
When had you half the sum?
_Third Peasant_. Never--but ne'er
The less I must have three.
_Iden. _ Have you forgot
Whose vassal you were born, knave?
_Third Peasant_. No--the Prince's,
And not the stranger's.
_Iden. _ Sirrah!
in the Prince's
Absence, I am sovereign; and the Baron is
My intimate connection;--"Cousin Idenstein!
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains. "
And so, you villains! troop--march--march, I say;
And if a single dog's ear of this packet 690
Be sprinkled by the Oder--look to it!
For every page of paper, shall a hide
Of yours be stretched as parchment on a drum,
Like Ziska's skin,[169] to beat alarm to all
Refractory vassals, who can not effect
Impossibilities. --Away, ye earth-worms!
[_Exit, driving them out_.
_Jos. _ (_coming forward_).
I fain would shun these scenes, too oft repeated,
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims;
I cannot aid, and will not witness such.
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 700
The dimmest in the district's map, exist
The insolence of wealth in poverty
O'er something poorer still--the pride of rank
In servitude, o'er something still more servile;
And vice in misery affecting still
A tattered splendour. What a state of being!
In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land,
Our nobles were but citizens and merchants,[170]
Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such
As these; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 710
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb
Was in itself a meal, and every vine
Rained, as it were, the beverage which makes glad
The heart of man; and the ne'er unfelt sun
(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving
His warmth behind in memory of his beams)
Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less
Oppressive than an emperor's jewelled purple.
But, here! the despots of the north appear
To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 720
Searching the shivering vassal through his rags,
To wring his soul--as the bleak elements
His form.
