changed, my heart is turned aside, It shuns the splendor of this festival;    'Tis in the British camp it seeks to hide,—     'Tis on the foe my yearning glances fall; And from the joyous circle I must steal, My bosom's crime o'erpowering to conceal. Who? I? What! in my bosom chaste Can mortal's image have a seat? This heart, by heavenly glory graced,—     Dares it with earthly love to beat? The saviour of my country, I,—    The champion of the Lord Most High, Own for my country's foe a flame—    To the chaste sun my guilt proclaim, And not be crushed beneath my shame?     (The music behind the scene changes into a soft, melting melody.)     Woe! oh woe! what strains enthralling! How bewildering to mine ear Each his voice beloved recalling, Charming up his image dear! Would that battle-tempests bound me! Would that spears were whizzing round me In the hotly-raging strife! Could my courage find fresh life! How those tones, those voices blest Coil around my bosom burning All the strength within my breast Melting into tender yearning, Into tears of sadness turning!     (The flutes are again heard—she falls into a silent melancholy.)     Gentle crook! oh that I never For the sword had bartered thee! Sacred oak! why didst thou ever From thy branches speak to me? Would that thou to me in splendor, Queen of heaven, hadst ne'er come down! Take—all claim I must surrender,—     Take, oh take away thy crown! Ah, I open saw yon heaven, Saw the features of the blest! Yet to earth my hopes are riven, In the skies they ne'er can rest! Wherefore make me ply with ardor This vocation, terror-fraught? Would this heart were rendered harder. That by heaven to feel was taught! To proclaim Thy might sublime Those select, who, free from crime, In Thy lasting mansions stand; Send Thou forth Thy spirit-band, The immortal, and the pure, Feelingless, from tears secure Never choose a maiden fair, Shepherdess' weak spirit ne'er! Kings' dissensions wherefore dread I, Why the fortune of the fight? Guilelessly my lambs once fed I On the silent mountain-height. Yet Thou into life didst bear me, To the halls where monarchs throne. In the toils of guilt to snare me—    Ah, the choice was not mine own!    

  

       FOOTNOTES.     

    62 A pointless satire upon Klopstock and his Messias. 63 Schiller, who is not very particular about the quantities of classical names, gives this word with the o long—which is, of course, the correct quantity—in The Gods of 

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