Epilogue to the Tragedy of Essex. — Spoken in the Character of the Queen — Translated From Gœthe
No Essex here!—unblest—they give no sign.
And shall such live, while earth’s best nobleness
Departs and leaves her barren? Now too late
Weakness and cunning both are exorcised.
How could I trust thee whom I knew so well?
Am I not like the fool of fable? He
Who in his bosom warmed the frozen viper,
And fancied man might hope for gratitude
From the betrayer’s seed? Away! begone!
No breath, no sound shall here insult my anguish.
Essex is dumb, and they shall all be so;
No human presence shall control my mood.
Begone, I say! The queen would be alone!
(They all go out.)
Alone and still! This day the cup of woe
Is full; and while I drain its bitter dregs,
Calm, queenlike, stern, I would review the past.
Well it becomes the favorite of fortune,
The royal arbitress of others’ weal,
The world’s desire, and England’s deity,
Self-poised, self-governed, clear and firm to gaze
Where others close their aching eyes, to dream.
Who feels imperial courage glow within
Fears not the mines which lie beneath his throne;
Bold he ascends, though knowing well his peril—
Majestical and fearless holds the sceptre.
The golden circlet of enormous weight
He wears with brow serene and smiling air,
As though a myrtle chaplet graced his temples.
And thus didst thou. The far removed thy power
Attracted and subjected to thy will,
The hates and fears which oft beset thy way
Were seen, were met, and conquered by thy courage.
Thy tyrant father’s wrath, thy mother’s hopeless fate,
Thy sister’s harshness,—all were cast behind;
And to a soul like thine, bonds and harsh usage
Taught fortitude, prudence, and self-command,
To act, or to endure. Fate did the rest.
One brilliant day thou heard’st, “Long live the Queen!”
A queen thou wert; and in the heart’s despite,
Despite the foes without, within, who ceaseless
Have threatened war and death,—a queen thou art,
And wilt be, while a spark of life remains.
But this last deadly blow—I feel it here!
Yet the low, prying world shall ne’er perceive it.
“Actress” they call me,—’tis a queen’s vocation!
The people stare and whisper—what would they
But acting, to amuse them? Is deceit
Unknown, except in regal palaces?
The child at play already is an actor.
Still to thyself, let weal or woe betide,
Elizabeth! be true and steadfast ever!
Maintain thy fixed reserve: ’tis just; what heart
Can sympathize with a queen’s agony?
The false, false world,—it wooes me for my treasures,
My favors, and the place my smile confers;
And if for love I offer mutual love,
My minion, not content, must have the crown.
’Twas thus with Essex; yet to thee, O heart!
I dare to say it, thy all died with him!
Man must experience—be he who he may—
Of bliss a last, irrevocable day.
Each owns this true, but cannot bear to live
And feel the last has come, the last has gone;
That never eye again in earnest tenderness
Shall turn to him,—no heart shall thickly beat
When his footfall is heard,—no speaking blush
Tell the soul’s wild delight at meeting,—never
Rapture in presence, hope in absence more,
Be his,—no sun of love illume his landscape!
Yet thus it is with me. Throughout this heart
Deep night, without a star! What all the host
To me,—my Essex fallen from the heavens!
To me he was the centre of the world,
The ornament of time. Wood, lawn, or hall,
The busy mart, the verdant solitude,
To me were but the fame of one bright image;
That face is dust,—those lustrous eyes are closed,
And the frame mocks me with its empty centre.
How nobly free, how gallantly he bore him,
The charms of youth combined with manhood’s vigor!
How sage his counsel, and how warm his valor,—
The glowing fire and the aspiring flame!
Even in his presumption he was kingly!
But ah! does memory cheat me? What was all,
Since Truth was wanting, and the man I loved
Could court his death to vent his anger on me,
And I must punish him, or live degraded.
I chose the first; but in his death I died.
Land, sea, church, people, throne,—all, all are nought,
I live a living death, and call it royalty.
Yet, wretched ruler o’er these empty gauds,
A part remains to play, and I will play it.
A purple mantle hides my empty heart,
The kingly crown adorns my aching brow,
And pride conceals my anguish from the world.
But in the still and ghostly midnight hour,
From each intruding eye and ear set free,
I still may shed the bitter, hopeless tear,
Nor fear the babbling of the earless walls.
I to myself may say, “I die! I die!
Elizabeth, unfriended and alone,
So die as thou hast lived,—alone, but queenlike!”