[Rises.]
Mourn for our friend,
Our common parent, yet be not dismay'd!
'Tis not alone his lands that I inherit—
His heart—his spirit, have devolved on me;
And my young arm shall execute the task,
Which in his hoary age he could not pay.
Give me your hands, ye venerable sires!
Thine, Melchthal, too! Nay, do not hesitate,
Nor from me turn distrustfully away.
Accept my plighted vow—my knightly oath!
FÜRST.
Give him your hands, my friends! A heart like his,
That sees and owns its error, claims our trust.
MELCH.
You ever held the peasantry in scorn;
What surety have we, that you mean us fair?
RUDENZ.
Oh, think not of the error of my youth!
STAUFFACHER (to MELCHTHAL).
Be one! They were our father's latest words.
See they be not forgotten!