142 The French Annuals. [Frs: 
Carl. Shall I pick branches of the oak, master? Your limbs tremble with 
cold. ’ 
First Pil. For a long time they had pursued him through the forests. He 
had glided, like a serpent, through the thickest brambles.; he had plunged, 
like the mud beetle, into the foulest morasses ; he had climbed the rocks with 
the activity of the chamois ;—but his footsteps had remained imprinted on the 
rock, the wood, the morass, the river—every where the curse of Heaven had 
made him known—— j 
Carl. Hush! Do not wake the dead. I must go; my heart is freezing. 
Hans. Wait for the dawn: we shall conduct you to the next monastery. ;. 
the friars will cure you. 
First Pil. Stones and thorns had torn his feet ; his muscles were stiffened by 
rain and fatigue—— 
Carl. Oh! rub me with your balsam, brother; my flesh is falling off in 
fragments. 
Hans. Poor madman! 
First Pil. His eyes were dried up ; and the hand of God had written upon. 
his forehead—ParricipE !—— 
Carl. Oh! oh! How the tears fall into the fire from these dripping, 
branches! They weep—they Wipe my forehead ; I burn! 
First Pil. At last the emissaries of the tribunal seized him. They reminded 
him of what he had done; they announced to him that they were about to 
blot his name from the book of the living ; and then advised him to recommend 
his soul to heaven ;—but he could not pray 
Carl. Again—again! The worm eats my liver. 
First Pil. They then passed over him the fatal cord—— 
Carl (raising his hands). Mercy! mercy ! 
Hans. And you remained cold and tranquil? 
Second Pil. What could we do? They drew the cord round his neck 
we do to thee, Carl de Wolffstein, the Parricide ! 
[The Squires draw their swords. Carl falls wpon his knees.7] 
First Pil. Do you not know the form of this poniard? In the name of the 
holy Wehmic Tribunal, we order you to return your swords into their scab- 
bards. For the future, learn to know the free judges better. 
Carl. My father! my father! 
First Pil. Carl de Wolffstein, thy wife is declared a widow— thy children, 
orphans. Thy throat shall be delivered to the wolves—thy heart to the birds 
of the air—thy body to the fishes of the sea. 
Carl. Save me, good brother—assist me! They are going to kill me. 
First Pil. Assist thyself by prayers—save thy soul; but thy body must 
perish. Carl de Wolffstein, the spirit of thy father cries for vengeance ! 
Carl. Oh! untie this knot, that I may breathe. Help—help! Their hands 
burn me. Oh! grant me my life—my life! _ 
‘First Pil. Thy death! Move forward, sinner ! [ They drag him off. 
Hans. Hark! how he groans! His cries augment—they redouble! Ah! 
he cries no longer. 
as 
There is, of course, a tolerably large assortment of poetry in the 
Annales, and in general of the most sombre kind ; for the Romantiques, to 
be as un-French as possible, are as melancholy as. gibcats. . There are 
some translations too—and rather well executed—from Lord Byron, 
who is, of course, a prodigious favourite. His lordship is also the theme 
of much laboured and most flattering criticism. They have published 
an original poem of_ his to Lady Blesington, which perhaps is not 
printed in his works—Lady Blesington’s answer certainly is not ; and, 
therefore, we give them, correcting the French cacography. It is a. 
point of pride in France to mis-spell English ; and a very wise point 
it is— 
