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Werther, meanwhile, walked impatiently up and down.
She went to the piano, and determined not to retire.
She then collected her thoughts, and sat down quietly at Werther’s side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.
“Have you brought nothing to read?” she inquired. He had nothing.
“There in my drawer,” she continued, “you will find your own translation of some of the songs of Ossian.
I have not yet read them, as I have still hoped to hear you recite them; but, for some time past, I have not been able to accomplish such a wish.” He smiled, and went for the manuscript, which he took with a shudder.
He sat down;
and, with eyes full of tears, he began to read.
“Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west!
thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud;
thy steps are stately on thy hill.
What dost thou behold in the plain?
The stormy winds are laid.
The murmur of the torrent comes from afar.
Roaring waves climb the distant rock.
The flies of evening are on their feeble wings:
the hum of their course is on the field.
What dost thou behold, fair light?
But thou dost smile and depart.
The waves come with joy around thee:
they bathe thy lovely hair.
Farewell, thou silent beam!
Let the light of Ossian’s soul arise!
“And it does arise in its strength!
I behold my departed friends.
Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years.
Fingal comes like a watery column of mist!
his heroes are around: and see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno!
Alpin with the tuneful voice: the soft complaint of Minona!
How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma’s feast!
when we contended, like gales of spring as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
“Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye.
Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from the hill.
The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice.
Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of song!
Salgar promised to come! but the night descended around.
Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!
“Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.
The wind is heard on the mountain.
The torrent is howling down the rock.
No hut receives me from the rain:
forlorn on the hill of winds!
“Rise moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone!
His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him!
But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream.
The stream and the wind roar aloud.
I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar;
why the chief of the hill his promise?
Here is the rock and here the tree!
here is the roaring stream!
Thou didst promise with night to be here.
Ah! whither is my Salgar gone?
With thee I would fly from my father, with thee from my brother of pride.
Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
“Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard around!
let my wanderer hear me! Salgar!
it is Colma who calls.
Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here!
Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo!
the calm moon comes forth.
The flood is bright in the vale.
The rocks are gray on the steep.
I see him not on the brow.
His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach.
Here I must sit alone!
“Who lie on the heath beside me?
Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends!
To Colma they give no reply.
Speak to me: I am alone!
My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead!
Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother!
my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar!
Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother!
Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise?
Thou wert fair on the hill among thousands!
he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice!
hear me, sons of my love!
They are silent! silent for ever!
Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead!
Speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest?
In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed?
No feeble voice is on the gale:
no answer half drowned in the storm!
“I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears!
Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead.
Close it not till Colma come.
My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind?
Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock.
When night comes on the hill when the loud winds arise my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends.
The hunter shall hear from his booth;
he shall fear, but love my voice!
For sweet shall my voice be for my friends:
pleasant were her friends to Colma.
“Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman.
Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp;
he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul of Ryno was a beam of fire!
But they had rested in the narrow house:
their voice had ceased in Selma!
Ullin had returned one day from the chase before the heroes fell.
He heard their strife on the hill:
their song was soft, but sad!
They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men!
His soul was like the soul of Fingal:
his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister’s eyes were full of tears.
Minona’s eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a cloud.
I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of morning rose!
“Ryno. The wind and the rain are past, calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven.
Over the green hills flies the inconstant sun.
Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear.
It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age:
red his tearful eye.
Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill?
why complainest thou, as a blast in the wood as a wave on the lonely shore?
“Alpin. My tears, O Ryno!
are for the dead my voice for those that have passed away.
Tall thou art on the hill;
fair among the sons of the vale.
But thou shalt fall like Morar:
the mourner shall sit on thy tomb.
The hills shall know thee no more:
thy bow shall lie in thy hall unstrung!
“Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert:
terrible as a meteor of fire.
Thy wrath was as the storm.
Thy sword in battle as lightning in the field.
Thy voice was as a stream after rain, like thunder on distant hills.
Many fell by thy arm:
they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath.
But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow.
Thy face was like the sun after rain:
like the moon in the silence of night:
calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.
“Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode!
With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before!
Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee.
A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter’s eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar!
thou art low indeed.
Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love.
Dead is she that brought thee forth.
Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.
“Who on his staff is this?
Who is this whose head is white with age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step?
It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee.
He heard of thy fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed.
He heard of Morar’s renown, why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy son heareth thee not.
Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust.
No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call.
When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field!
but the field shall see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel.
Thou has left no son.
The song shall preserve thy name.
Future times shall hear of thee they shall hear of the fallen Morar!
“The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.
Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal.
Why burst the sigh of Armin? he said.
Is there a cause to mourn?
The song comes with its music to melt and please the soul.
It is like soft mist that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale;
the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is gone.
Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?
“Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty.
Colgar the valiant lives, and Annira, fairest maid.
The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor!
but Armin is the last of his race.
Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb!
When shalt thou wake with thy songs?
with all thy voice of music?
“Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow along the heath.
Streams of the mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks!
Walk through broken clouds, O moon!
show thy pale face at intervals;
bring to my mind the night when all my children fell, when Arindal the mighty fell – when Daura the lovely failed.
Daura, my daughter, thou wert fair, fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow, sweet as the breathing gale.
Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the field, thy look was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a storm!
Armar, renowned in war, came and sought Daura’s love.
He was not long refused:
fair was the hope of their friends.
“Erath, son of Odgal, repined:
his brother had been slain by Armar. He came disguised like a son of the sea:
fair was his cliff on the wave, white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin!
a rock not distant in the sea bears a tree on its side;
red shines the fruit afar.
There Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love!
she went she called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love!
why tormentest thou me with fear?
Hear, son of Arnart, hear! it is Daura who calleth thee.
Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land.
She lifted up her voice– she called for her brother and her father.
Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you, Daura.
“Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the hill, rough in the spoils of the chase.
His arrows rattled by his side;
his bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his steps.
He saw fierce Erath on the shore;
he seized and bound him to an oak.
Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs;
he loads the winds with his groans.
Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring Daura to land.
Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft.
It sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son!
for Erath the traitor thou diest.
The oar is stopped at once: he panted on the rock, and expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother’s blood.
The boat is broken in twain.
Armar plunges into the sea to rescue his Daura, or die.
Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves;
he sank, and he rose no more.
“Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain;
frequent and loud were her cries.
What could her father do?
All night I stood on the shore:
I saw her by the faint beam of the moon.
All night I heard her cries.
Loud was the wind;
the rain beat hard on the hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died away like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks.
Spent with grief, she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone.
Gone is my strength in war, fallen my pride among women.
When the storms aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock.
“Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children;
half viewless they walk in mournful conference together.”
A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte’s eyes and gave relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther’s recitation.
He threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly.
Charlotte leaned upon her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief:
the agitation of both was excessive.
They felt that their own fate was pictured in the misfortunes of Ossian’s heroes, they felt this together, and their tears redoubled.
Werther supported his forehead on Charlotte’s arm:
she trembled, she wished to be gone;
but sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight upon her soul.
She recovered herself shortly, and begged Werther, with broken sobs, to leave her, implored him with the utmost earnestness to comply with her request.
He trembled; his heart was ready to burst: then, taking up the book again, he recommenced reading, in a voice broken by sobs.
“Why dost thou waken me, O spring? Thy voice woos me, exclaiming, I refresh thee with heavenly dews;
but the time of my decay is approaching, the storm is nigh that shall whither my leaves.
Tomorrow the traveller shall come, he shall come, who beheld me in beauty:
his eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me.”
The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther.
Full of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte’s feet, seized her hands, and pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead.
An apprehension of his fatal project now struck her for the first time.
Her senses were bewildered:
she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom;
and, leaning toward him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched his.
They lost sight of everything.
The world disappeared from their eyes.
He clasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses.
“Werther!” she cried with a faint voice, turning herself away; “Werther!” and, with a feeble hand, she pushed him from her.
At length, with the firm voice of virtue, she exclaimed, “Werther!” He resisted not, but, tearing himself from her arms, fell on his knees before her.
Charlotte rose, and, with disordered grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she exclaimed, “It is the last time, Werther!
You shall never see me any more!” Then, casting one last, tender look upon her unfortunate lover, she rushed into the adjoining room, and locked the door.
Werther held out his arms, but did not dare to detain her.
He continued on the ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he heard a noise which brought him to his senses.
The servant entered. He then walked up and down the room;
and, when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte’s door, and, in a low voice, said, “Charlotte, Charlotte!
but one word more, one last adieu!” She returned no answer.
He stopped, and listened and entreated; but all was silent.
At length he tore himself from the place, crying, “Adieu, Charlotte, adieu for ever!”
Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him, let him pass in silence.
The night was dark and stormy, – it rained and snowed.
He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything; and;
as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet.
His hat was afterward found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley;
and it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a dark, tempestuous night without losing his life.
He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour.
The next morning his servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing.
He was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.
“For the last, last time I open these eyes. Alas!
they will behold the sun no more.
It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature!
put on mourning: your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel;
and yet it seems like a mysterious dream when I repeat – this is my last day!
The last! Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought.
The last! To-day I stand erect in all my strength to-morrow, cold and stark, I shall lie extended upon the ground.
To die! what is death?
We do but dream in our discourse upon it.
I have seen many human beings die;
but, so straitened is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the beginning or the end of our existence.
At this moment I am my own – or rather I am thine, thine, my adored! and the next we are parted, severed – perhaps for ever! No, Charlotte, no!
How can I, how can you, be annihilated? We exist.
What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning sound that fixes no impression on the mind.
Dead, Charlotte! laid in the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave!
I had a friend once who was everything to me in early youth.
She died.
I followed her hearse; I stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered;
and when I heard the creaking of the cords as they were loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound, which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely covered over, I threw myself on the ground;
my heart was smitten, grieved, shattered, rent – but I neither knew what had happened, nor what was to happen to me.
Death! the grave!
I understand not the words. – Forgive, oh, forgive me!
Yesterday – ah, that day should have been the last of my life!
Thou angel!
for the first time in my existence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul.
She loves, she loves me!
Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they received from thine.
New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul.
Forgive me, oh, forgive!
“I knew that I was dear to you;
I saw it in your first entrancing look, knew it by the first pressure of your hand;
but when I was absent from you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned.
“Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when, at that crowded assembly, you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me?
Half the night I was on my knees before those flowers, and I regarded them as the pledges of your love;
but those impressions grew fainter, and were at length effaced.
“Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish the living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which now burns within me.
She loves me! These arms have encircled her waist, these lips have trembled upon hers.
She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you are mine for ever!
“And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband?
He may be so for this world;
and in this world it is a sin to love you, to wish to tear you from his embrace.
Yes, it is a crime;
and I suffer the punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin.
I have inhaled a balm that has revived my soul.
From this hour you are mine; yes, Charlotte, you are mine!
I go before you. I go to my Father and to your Father.
I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me comfort till you arrive.
Then will I fly to meet you.
I will claim you, and remain your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.
“I do not dream, I do not rave.
Drawing nearer to the grave my perceptions become clearer.
We shall exist; we shall see each other again;
we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and expose to her my inmost heart.
Your mother – your image!”
About eleven o’clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned.
He answered, “Yes;” for he had seen him pass on horseback:
upon which Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:
“Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu.”
