RUDENZ.

The land is sore oppress’d, I know it, uncle. 
But why?  Who plunged it into this distress? 
A word, one little easy word, might buy
Instant deliverance from all our ills,
And win the good will of the Emperor. 
Woe unto those who seal the people’s eyes,
And make them adverse to their country’s good—­
The men, who, for their own vile selfish ends,
Are seeking to prevent the Forest States
From swearing fealty to Austria’s House,
As all the countries round about have done. 
It fits their humor well, to take their seats
Amid the nobles on the Herrenbank;[46]
They’ll have the Kaiser for their lord, forsooth—­
That is to say, they’ll have no lord at all.

ATTING.

Must I hear this, and from thy lips, rash boy!

RUDENZ.

You urged me to this answer.  Hear me out. 
What, uncle, is the character you’ve stoop’d
To fill contentedly through life?  Have you
No higher pride than in these lonely wilds
To be the Landamman or Banneret,[47]
The petty chieftain of a shepherd race? 
How!  Were it not a far more glorious choice,
To bend in homage to our royal lord,
And swell the princely splendors of his court,
Than sit at home, the peer of your own vassals,
And share the judgment-seat with vulgar clowns?

ATTING.

Ah, Uly, Uly; all too well I see,
The tempter’s voice has caught thy willing ear,
And pour’d its subtle poison in thy heart.

RUDENZ.

Yes, I conceal it not.  It doth offend
My inmost soul, to hear the stranger’s gibes,
That taunt us with the name of “Peasant Nobles!”
Think you the heart that’s stirring here can brook,
While all the young nobility around
Are reaping honor under Habsburg’s banner,
That I should loiter, in inglorious ease,
Here on the heritage my fathers left,
And, in the dull routine of vulgar toil,
Lose all life’s glorious spring?  In other lands
Great deeds are done.  A world of fair renown
Beyond these mountains stirs in martial pomp. 
My helm and shield are rusting in the hall;
The martial trumpet’s spirit-stirring blast,
The herald’s call, inviting to the lists,
Rouse not the echoes of these vales, where naught
Save cowherd’s horn and cattle bell is heard,
In one unvarying dull monotony.

ATTING.

Deluded boy, seduced by empty show! 
Despise the land that gave thee birth!  Ashamed
Of the good ancient customs of thy sires! 
The day will come, when thou, with burning tears,
Wilt long for home, and for thy native hills,
And that dear melody of tuneful herds,
Which now, in proud disgust, thou dost despise! 
A day when wistful pangs shall shake thy heart,
Hearing their music in a foreign land. 
Oh! potent is the spell that binds to home! 
No, no, the cold, false world is not for thee. 
At the proud court, with thy true heart, thou wilt