Читать книгу The Maid of Orleans - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 9

   Welcome, my trusty citizens of Orleans!

   What tidings bring ye from my faithful town?

   Doth she continue with her wonted zeal

   Still bravely to withstand the leaguering foe?

   Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme;

   And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour,

   Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed —

   The foe at each assault advantage gains;

   Bare of defenders are the city walls,

   For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush,

   While few, alas! return to view their homes,

   And famine's scourge impendeth o'er the town.

   In this extremity the noble Count

   Of Rochepierre, commander of the town,

   Hath made a compact with the enemy,

   According to old custom, to yield up,

   On the twelfth day, the city to the foe,

   Unless, meanwhile, before the town appear

   A host of magnitude to raise the siege.

   The interval is brief.

               We hither come,

   Attended by a hostile retinue,

   To implore thee, sire, to pity thy poor town,

   And to send succor ere the appointed day,

   When, if still unrelieved, she must surrender.

   And could Saintrailles consent to give his voice

   To such a shameful compact?

                  Never, sir!

   Long as the hero lived, none dared to breathe

   A single word of treaty or surrender.

   He then is dead?

            The noble hero fell,

   His monarch's cause defending on our walls.

   What! Saintrailles dead! Oh, in that single man

   A host is foundered!

              That too!

                    Well? What is it?

   Count Douglass sendeth here. The Scottish troops

   Revolt, and threaten to retire at once.

   Unless their full arrears are paid to-day.

   Duchatel!

        Sire! I know not what to counsel.

   Pledge, promise all, even unto half my realm.

   'Tis vain! They have been fed with hope too often.

   They are the finest troops of all my hosts!

   They must not now, not now abandon me!

   Oh, king, assist us! Think of our distress!

   How! Can I summon armies from the earth?

   Or grow a cornfield on my open palm?

   Rend me in pieces! Pluck my bleeding heart

   Forth from my breast, and coin it 'stead of gold!

   I've blood for you, but neither gold nor troops.