_Octavio._ My son! of those old narrow ordinances Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors. For always formidable was the league 65 And partnership of free power with free will. The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds, Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid, 70 Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches. My son! the road the human being travels, That on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow The river's course, the valley's playful windings, Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines, 75 Honouring the holy bounds of property! And thus secure, though late, leads to its end. _Questenberg._ O hear your father, noble youth! hear him, Who is at once the hero and the man. _Octavio._ My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee! 80 A war of fifteen years Hath been thy education and thy school. Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists A higher than the warrior's excellence. In war itself war is no ultimate purpose. 85 The vast and sudden deeds of violence, Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment, These are not they, my son, that generate The calm, the blissful, and the enduring mighty! Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect! 90 Builds his light town of canvas, and at once The whole scene moves and bustles momently, With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel The motley market fills; the roads, the streams Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries! 95 But on some morrow morn, all suddenly, The tents drop down, the horde renews its march. Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie, And the year's harvest is gone utterly. 100 _Max._ O let the Emperor make peace, my father! Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel For the first violet[614:1] of the leafless spring, Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed! _Octavio._ What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once? 105