(His chains fall off.) What's that you
Have done to me? (To the guard.)
Villains! put on my chains again!
My hands

Are free from blood, and have no gust for it,
That they should drink my child's!-

I'll not

Murder my boy for Gesler.

Ges. Dost thou consent?

Tell. Give me my bow and quiver!

Ges. For what?

Tell. To shoot my boy!

Alb. No, father, no!

To save me! You'll be sure to hit the apple.

Will you not save me, father?

Tell. Lead me forth,—

I'll make the trial!

Alb. Thank you!

Tell. Thank me!-Do

You know for what?—I will not make the trial,

To take him to his mother in my arms,

And lay him down a corpse before her!

Ges. Then

He dies this moment; and you certainly

Do murder him whose life you have a chance

To save, and will not use it.

Alb. Father

Tell. Speak not to me.

Let me not hear thy voice,-thou must be dumb;

And so should all things be;-earth should be dumb!

And heaven,—unless its thunders muttered at

The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it! Give me

My bow and quiver!

Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence

A hundred paces. Take the distance.

Tell. Is

The line a true one?

Ges. Be thankful, slave,

Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler!-Villain, stop!
You measure to the sun. (To the attendant.)
Ges. And what of that?

What matter, whether to or from the sun?

Tell. I'd have it at my back. The sun should shine Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.

I cannot see to shoot against the sun:

I will not shoot against the sun!

Ges. Give him his way! Thou hast cause to bless

my mercy.

Tell. I shall remember it. I'd like to see

The apple I'm about to shoot at.

Ges. Show me

The basket. There! (Gives a very small apple.)
Tell. You've picked the smallest one.

Ges. I know I have.

Tell. Oh, do you? But you see

The colour of 't is dark,-I'd have it light,
To see it better.

Ges. Take it as it is:

Thy skill will be the greater, if thou hit'st it.

Tell. True, true,-I didn't think of that ;-I wonder I did not think of that. Give me some chance To save my boy,-(Throws away the apple) I will not murder him,

If I can help it,-for the honour of

The form thou wear'st, if all the heart is gone.

Ges. Well, choose thyself.

(Hands a basket of apples. Tell takes one.)

Tell. Have I a friend among

The lookers on?

Verner. Here, Tell!

Tell. I thank thee, Verner! Take the boy And set him, Verner, with his back to me.

Set him upon his knees;-and place this apple Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,— Thus, Verner: charge him to keep steady,-tell him I'll hit the apple! Verner, do all this

More briefly than I tell it thee.

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go?

Tell. My boy! (Holding out his arms to him.)
Alb. My father! (Running into Tell's arms.)
Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I?-Go now,
My son, and keep in mind that I can shoot.

Go, boy,-be thou but steady, I will hit
The apple. Go:-God bless thee!—Go.

My bow! (Sarnem gives the bow.)
Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou
Hast never failed him yet, old servant. No,

I'm sure of thee,-I know thy honesty;

Thou'rt stanch, stanch :-I'd deserve to find thee treacherous,

Could I suspect thee so. Come, I will stake

My all upon thee! Let me see my quiver. (Retires.)
Ges. Give him a single arrow. (To an attendant.)
Tell. Is't so you pick an arrow, friend?

The point, you see, is bent, the feather jagged;
That's all the use 'tis for. (Breaks it.)

Ges. Let him have

Another. (Tell examines it.)

Tell. Why, 'tis better than the first, But yet not good enough for such an aim

As I'm to take. 'Tis heavy in the shaft:

I'll not shoot with it! (Throws it away.) Let me see

my quiver.

Bring it! 'tis not one arrow in a dozen

I'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less

A dove like that! What is't you fear? I'm but

A naked man, a wretched naked man!

Your helpless thrall, alone in the midst of you,
With every one of you a weapon in

His hand. What can I do in such a strait

With all the arrows in that quiver? Come,

Will you give it me or not?

Ges. It matters not.

Show him the quiver.

(Tell kneels and picks out an arrow, then secretes one in his vest.)

Tell. I'm ready! Keep silence, for (To the people) Heaven's sake! and do not stir, and let me have

Your prayers, your prayers:-and be my witnesses,
That, if his life's in peril from my hand,

'Tis only for the chance of saving it.

Now, friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless
And silent!

(Tell shoots; and a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd.) Ver. (Rushing in with Albert.) Thy boy is safe! no

hair of him is touched!

Alb. Father, I'm safe!-your Albert's safe! Dear father,

Speak to me! speak to me!

Ver. He cannot, boy!

Open his vest, and give him air.

(Albert opens his father's vest, and an arrow drops; Tell starts, fixes his eyes on Albert, and clasps him to his breast.) Tell. My boy! my boy!

Ges. For what

Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!
Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!
Liberty

Would, at thy downfall, shout from every peak!
My country then were free!

XIII.-TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS.
(KNOWLES.)

YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again!-O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are, how mighty, and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile
Makes glad-whose frown is terrible; whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear

Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,

I'm with you once again!—I call to you
With all my voice!-I hold my hands to you,
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow,
O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight

Of measuring the ample range beneath

And round about; absorbed, he heeded not

The death that threatened him. I could not shoot-'Twas Liberty! I turned my bow aside,

And let him soar away!

Heavens! with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And think the land was free. Yes, it was free—
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free-
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun.

How happy was I then! I loved

Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake—
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.
-On the wild jutting cliff, o'ertaken oft
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along;
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
Then I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just