[Travelers pass over the stage.]

I’ll sit me down upon this bench of stone,
Hewn for the way-worn traveler’s brief repose—­
For here there is no home.  Men hurry past
Each other, with quick step and careless look,
Nor stay to question of their grief.  Here goes
The merchant, all anxiety—­the pilgrim,
With scantly furnished scrip—­the pious monk,
The scowling robber, and the jovial player,
The carrier with his heavy-laden horse
That comes to us from the far haunts of men;
For every road conducts to the world’s end. 
They all push onward—­every man intent
On his own several business—­mine is murder.

[Sits down.]

Time was, my dearest children, when with joy
You hail’d your father’s safe return to home
From his long mountain toils; for, when he came,
He ever brought with him some little gift—­
A lovely Alpine flower—­a curious bird—­
Or elf-bolt, such as on the hills are found. 
But now he goes in quest of other game,
Sits in this gorge, with murder in his thoughts,
And for his enemy’s life-blood lies in wait. 
But still it is of you alone he thinks,
Dear children.  ’Tis to guard your innocence,
To shield you from the tyrant’s fell revenge,
He bends his bow to do a deed of blood!

[Rises.]

Well—­I am watching for a noble prey! 
Does not the huntsman, with unflinching heart,
Roam for whole days, when winter frosts are keen,
Leap at the risk of death from rock to rock—­
And climb the jagged, slippery steeps, to which
His limbs are glued by his own streaming blood—­
And all to hunt a wretched chamois down? 
A far more precious prize is now my aim—­
The heart of that dire foe, who seeks my life.

[Sprightly music heard in the distance, which comes gradually nearer.]

From my first years of boyhood I have used
The bow—­been practised in the archer’s feats;
The bull’s eye many a time my shafts have hit,
And many a goodly prize have I brought home
From competitions.  But this day I’ll make
My master-shot, and win what’s best to win
In the whole circuit of our mountain range.

[A bridal party passes over the stage, and goes up the pass.  TELL gazes at it, leaning on his bow.  He is joined by STUSSI the Ranger.]

STUSSI.

There goes the cloister bailiff’s bridal train
Of Moerlischachen.  A rich fellow he! 
And has some half score pastures on the Alps. 
He goes to fetch his bride from Imisee. 
At Kuessnacht there will be high feast tonight. 
Come with us—­ev’ry honest man is asked.

TELL.

A gloomy guest fits not a wedding feast.

STUSSI.

If you’ve a trouble, dash it from your heart! 
Take what Heaven sends!  The times are heavy now,
And we must snatch at pleasure as it flies. 
Here ’tis a bridal, there a burial.