Poems

by George Pope Morris

Scene II.

An open cut wood near Berlin. Tents in the distance. A military outpost. Enter
HAROLD, CORPORAL, and a party of SOLDIERS, in military undress.

SONG.
The life for me is a soldier's life!
With that what glories come!
The notes of the spirit-stirring fife,
The roll of the battle-drum;
The brilliant array, the bearing high,
The plumed warriors' tramp;
The streaming banners that flout the sky,
The gleaming pomp of the camp.

CHORUS.
A soldier's life is the life for me!
With that what glories come!
The notes of the spirit-stirring fife,
The roll of the battle-drum!

HAROLD.
So, corporal, at last we are to have a muster of the combined forces of the kingdom.

CORPORAL. Yes, the king is never so happy as when he has all his children, as he calls US, about him.

HAROLD. And plaguy good he takes of his CHILDREN! He looks after our domestic as well as our public interests! It was a strange whim in old Fritz to offer each of his soldiers one of the factory girls for a wife!

CORPORAL.
I wonder the old hero does not marry some of them himself.

HAROLD. He would rather look after his soldiers than meddle with the fancies of the women—and at his age too!

CORPORAL. Nonsense! The king is a boy—a mere boy—of seventy! But he does meddle with the women sometimes.

HAROLD.
Say you so?

CORPORAL. Ay, and old ones too. It was but the other day that he pensioned a poor widow, whose only son fell in a skirmish at his side. Heaven bless his old cocked hat!

HAROLD. Yes is it not singular that one so mindful of the rights of old women should compel the young ones to toil as they do in the factory?

CORPORAL. Tush, tush, man!—that's none of your concern, nor mine. What have we to do with state affairs?

HAROLD. Right, corporal; and it's not worth while for us to trouble our heads about other people's business.

CORPORAL.
You're a sensible fellow—

HAROLD. Right again; and I would return the compliment if you did not wear such a flashy watch-riband (looks at it.)

CORPORAL.
That's personal!

HAROLD.
I mean it to be so. What the devil do you wear it for?

CORPORAL. To gratify a whim. I like this riband. It was a present from an old sweetheart of mine. Look what a jaunty air it gives one!—and where's the harm of keeping up appearances?—

HAROLD. What silly vanity! But let me give you a piece of advice: beware of the scrutiny of the king—he has an eye like a hawk, old as he is; and if he should happen to spy your watch-riband—

CORPORAL.
Pooh, pooh!—he would not notice such a trifle.—But who comes yonder? That Hungarian
Karl. Let's make way for him.—He's a fellow I don't fancy. What a man to woo and
win Sophia Mansfield!

HAROLD.
He'll never win her, woo her as he may. Count Laniska will look to that.

[HAROLD, CORPORAL and party retire into tents.

(Enter KARL, in great agitation.)

SONG—KARL.
Confusion!—Again rejected
By the maid I fondly love!
Illusion!—In soul dejected!
Jealous fears my bosom move.
Dear Sophia!—Hope's deceiver!
Whom I love; but love in vain!
Can I to my rival leave her?
No—the thought distracts my brain!

Love—revenge!—Oh, how I falter!
Passion's throes unman me quite:
Now he leads her to he alter—
How I tremble at the sight!
Hold, tormentors! cease to tear me!
All in vain I gasp for breath!
Hated rival—scorn I bear thee
Which can only end in death!

(HAROLD advances.)

HAROLD.
Karl, what ails you?

KARL (aside.) Observed! (To HAROLD.) An infirmity I've had from my youth upward. I shall be better presently.

HAROLD.
You tremble like one with the ague.

KARL. We Hungarians have not your tough constitution, comrade: besides, the weather is chilly—it freezes me to the bone.

HAROLD. It's the weather within, Karl. Repair to the factory, and sun yourself in the bright eyes of Sophia Mansfield! That will warm you, especially if Count Laniska happens to be by to stir up the fire of your jealousy—eh?

KARL.
You have a sharp wit, which I lack, comrade.

HAROLD (sarcastically.)
And I've another thing which you lack—COMRADE.

KARL.
What may that be?

HAROLD.
A clear conscience, my old boy!

[Exit HAROLD into tent

KARL. Does he suspect? No—sleeping and waking I have concealed this (his arm) damning evidence of my guilt. The mark of Cain I bear about me is known to none, and the secret dies with me.—For that young Pole, Sophia scorns me; but let him beware!—My revenge, though slow, is sure!

(KARL turns to go; but perceiving Count Laniska advancing, he retires to a tent.
Enter LANISKA, who notices KARL in the distance.)

SONG—LANISKA.
When I behold that lowering brow,
Which indicates the mind within,
I marvel much that woman's vow
A man like that could ever win!
Yet it is said, in rustic bower,
(The fable I have often heard)
A serpent has mysterious power
To captivate a timid bird.

This precept then I sadly trace—
That love's a fluttering thing of air;
And yonder lurks the viper base,
Who would my gentle bird ensnare!
'Twas in the shades of Eden's bower
This fascination had its birth,
And even there possessed the power
To lure the paragon of earth!

(At the conclusion of the song, KARL, is about to retire. LANISKA addresses him.)

COUNT.
Come hither, Karl.

KARL.
I await upon your leisure, count.

COUNT.
I would have some words with you.

KARL.
You may not relish the frankness of my manner.

COUNT.
Indeed!

KARL. Look you, Count Laniska; I am a plain, blunt, straight-forward, rough-spoken fellow, and a soldier like yourself. I know my rights; and, knowing, will maintain them. It was by the king's permission and authority that I chose Sophia Mansfield for my bride—

COUNT.
She has rejected you.

KARL. What has that to do with the matter? Women are often perverse, and not always the best judges of their own welfare; and you know she MUST be mine—

COUNT.
Must?—

KARL.
Yes, MUST. I have the king's promise, and Frederick was never known to break his word.

COUNT.
You surely will not marry her against her will?

KARL. Why not? Sophia is the only woman I ever loved: and now that I have her sure, think you I will resign her?

COUNT. And think you the king will force an angel into the arms of a monster? He can not be so great a tyrant—

KARL.
Tyrant!

COUNT. Yes. Man was created to cherish woman, not to oppress her; and he is the worst of tyrants who would injure that sex whom heave ordains it his duty to protect.

KARL.
Apply you this to the king?

COUNT. To the king, or to any HE in Christendom, who would use his power to oppress the unfortunate! But come, sir, we will not dispute about a hasty word—we have higher duties to perform.

KARL. True, count; we oppose our weapons to the enemies of our country, not the bosoms of our friends. I say OUR country; for, although you were born in Poland, and I in Hungary, Frederick has made Prussia almost as dear to us as our native land, TYRANT though he may be.—But we will not quarrel about a single captive, when the king has placed so many at the disposal of those who fight his battles. [Trumpet sounds without.

(Enter HAROLD with dispatches.)

HAROLD (to COUNT.)
Dispatches from the king. (Aside.) And a letter from Sophia Mansfield. [Exit.

(The COUNT receives and examines the dispatches; kisses SOPHIA's letter, and puts it into his bosom. KARL does not notice it.)

DUET—COUNT AND KARL.
'Tis a soldier's rigid duty
Orders strictly to obey;
Let not, then the smile of beauty
Lure us from the camp away.
In our country's cause united,
Gallantly we'll take the field;
But, the victory won, delighted
Singly to the fair we yield!

Soldiers who have ne'er retreated,
Beauty's tear will sure beguile;
Hearts that armies ne'er defeated,
Love can conquer with a smile.
Who would strive to live in story,
Did not woman's hand prepare
Amaranthine wreaths of glory
Which the valiant proudly wear?

[Exit the COUNT. KARL follows, menacing him.