Demetrius. Friedrich von Schiller

In the long years that spared him to the throne.

         The first, a lady of the heroic line

         Of Romanoff, bare him Feodor, who reigned

         After his father's death. One only son,

         Dmitri, the last blossom of his strength,

         And a mere infant when his father died,

         Was born of Marfa, of Nagori's line.

         Czar Feodor, a youth, alike effeminate

         In mind and body, left the reins of power

         To his chief equerry, Boris Godunow,

         Who ruled his master with most crafty skill.

         Feodor was childless, and his barren bride

         Denied all prospect of an heir. Thus, when

         The wily Boiar, by his fawning arts,

         Had coiled himself into the people's favor,

         His wishes soared as high as to the throne.

         Between him and his haughty hopes there stood

         A youthful prince, the young Demetrius

         Iwanowitsch, who with his mother lived

         At Uglitsch, where her widowhood was passed.

         Now, when his fatal purpose was matured,

         He sent to Uglitsch ruffians, charged to put

         The Czarowitsch to death.

         One night, when all was hushed, the castle's wing,

         Where the young prince, apart from all the rest,

         With his attendants lay, was found on fire.

         The raging flames ingulfed the pile; the prince

         Unseen, unheard, was spirited away,

         And all the world lamented him as dead.

         All Moscow knows these things to be the truth.

ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN

         Yes, these are facts familiar to us all.

         The rumor ran abroad, both far and near,

         That Prince Demetrius perished in the flames

         When Uglitsch was destroyed. And, as his death

         Raised to the throne the Czar who fills it now,

         Fame did not hesitate to charge on him

         This murder foul and pitiless. But yet,

         His death is not the business now in hand!

         This prince is living still! He lives in you!

         So runs your plea. Now bring us to the proofs!

         Whereby do you attest that you are he?

         What are the signs by which you shall be known?

         How 'scaped you those were sent to hunt you down

         And now, when sixteen years are passed, and you

         Well nigh forgot, emerge to light once more?

DEMETRIUS

         'Tis scarce a year since I have known myself;

         I lived a secret to myself till then,

         Surmising naught of my imperial birth.

         I was a monk with monks, close pent within

         The cloister's precincts, when I first began

         To waken to a consciousness of self.

         My impetuous spirit chafed against the bars,

         And the high blood of princes began to course

         In strange unbidden moods along my veins.

         At length I flung the monkish cowl aside,

         And fled to Poland, where the noble Prince

         Of Sendomir, the generous, the good,

         Took me as guest into his princely house,

         And trained me up to noble deeds of arms.

ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN

         How? You still ignorant of what you were?

         Yet ran the rumor then on every side,

         That Prince Demetrius was still alive.

         Czar Boris trembled on his throne, and sent

         His sassafs to the frontiers, to keep

         Sharp watch on every traveller that stirred.

         Had not the tale its origin with you?

         Did you not give the rumor birth yourself?

         Had you not named to any that you were

         Demetrius?

DEMETRIUS

               I relate that which I know.

         If a report went forth I was alive,

         Then had some god been busy with the fame.

         Myself I knew not. In the prince's house,

         And in the throng of his retainers lost,

         I spent the pleasant springtime of my youth.

                      In silent homage

         My heart was vowed to his most lovely daughter.

         Yet in those days it never dreamed to raise

         Its wildest thoughts to happiness so high.

         My passion gave offence to her betrothed,

         The Castellan of Lemberg. He with taunts

         Chafed me, and in the blindness of his rage

         Forgot himself so wholly as to strike me.

         Thus savagely provoked, I drew my sword;

         He, blind with fury, rushed upon the blade,

         And perished there by my unwitting hand.

MEISCHEK

         Yes, it was even so.

DEMETRIUS

         Mine was the worst mischance! A nameless youth,

         A Russian and a stranger, I had slain

         A grandee of the empire – in the house

         Of my kind patron done a deed of blood,

         And sent to death his son-in-law and friend.

         My innocence availed not; not the pity

         Of all his household, nor his kindness – his,

         The noble Palatine's, – could save my life;

         For it was forfeit to the law, that is,

         Though lenient to the Poles, to strangers stern.

         Judgment was passed on me – that judgment death.

         I knelt upon the scaffold, by the block;

         To the fell headsman's sword I bared my throat,

         And in the act disclosed a cross of gold,

         Studded with precious gems, which had been hung

         About my neck at the baptismal font.

         This sacred pledge of Christian redemption

         I had, as is the custom of my people,

         Worn on my neck concealed,