[In spite of Mr. Carlyle's assertion of Schiller's "total deficiency in humor," [12] we think that the following poem suffices to show that he possessed the gift in no ordinary degree, and that if the aims of a genius so essentially earnest had allowed him to indulge it he would have justified the opinion of the experienced Iffland as to his capacities for original comedy.]
Can I, my friend, with thee condole?—Can I conceive the woes that try men,When late repentance racks the soulEnsnared into the toils of hymen?Can I take part in such distress?—Poor martyr,—most devoutly, "Yes!"Thou weep'st because thy spouse has flownTo arms preferred before thine own;—A faithless wife,—I grant the curse,—And yet, my friend, it might be worse!Just hear another's tale of sorrow,And, in comparing, comfort borrow!
What! dost thou think thyself undone,Because thy rights are shared with one!O, happy man—be more resigned,My wife belongs to all mankind!My wife—she's found abroad—at home;But cross the Alps and she's at Rome;Sail to the Baltic—there you'll find her;Lounge on the Boulevards—kind and kinder:In short, you've only just to dropWhere'er they sell the last new tale,And, bound and lettered in the shop,You'll find my lady up for sale!
She must her fair proportions renderTo all whose praise can glory lend her;—Within the coach, on board the boat,Let every pedant "take a note;"Endure, for public approbation,Each critic's "close investigation,"And brave—nay, court it as a flattery—Each spectacled Philistine's battery.Just as it suits some scurvy carcaseIn which she hails an Aristarchus,Ready to fly with kindred souls,O'er blooming flowers or burning coals,To fame or shame, to shrine or gallows,Let him but lead—sublimely callous!A Leipsic man—(confound the wretch!)Has made her topographic sketch,A kind of map, as of a town,Each point minutely dotted down;Scarce to myself I dare to hintWhat this d——d fellow wants to print!Thy wife—howe'er she slight the vows—Respects, at least, the name of spouse;But mine to regions far too highFor that terrestrial name is carried;My wife's "The famous Ninon!"—I"The gentleman that Ninon married!"
It galls you that you scarce are ableTo stake a florin at the table—Confront the pit, or join the walk,But straight all tongues begin to talk!O that such luck could me befall,Just to be talked about at all!Behold me dwindling in my nook,Edged at her left,—and not a look!A sort of rushlight of a life,Put out by that great orb—my wife!
Scarce is the morning gray—beforePostman and porter crowd the door;No premier has so dear a levee—She finds the mail-bag half its trade;My God—the parcels are so heavy!And not a parcel carriage-paid!But then—the truth must be confessed—They're all so charmingly addressed:Whate'er they cost, they well requite her—"To Madame Blank, the famous writer!"Poor thing, she sleeps so soft! and yet'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber;"Madame—from Jena—the Gazette—The Berlin Journal—the last number!"Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue(Sweet eyes!) fall straight—on the Review!I by her side—all undetected,While those cursed columns are inspected;Loud squall the children overhead,Still she reads on, till all is read:At last she lays that darling by,And asks—"What makes the baby cry?"
Already now the toilet's careClaims from her couch the restless fair;The toilet's care!—the glass has wonJust half a glance, and all is done!A snappish—pettish word or soWarns the poor maid 'tis time to go:—Not at her toilet wait the GracesUncombed Erynnys takes their places;So great a mind expands its scopeFar from the mean details of—soap!
Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster—Now round my muse her votaries cluster;Spruce Abbe Millefleurs—Baron Herman—The English Lord, who don't know German,—But all uncommonly well readFrom matchless A to deathless Z!Sneaks in the corner, shy and small,A thing which men the husband call!While every fop with flattery fires her,Swears with what passion he admires her.—"'Passion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?"Lord bless your soul, the worst's to come:—
I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,—And hope—the rogue will stay to dinner!But oh, at dinner!—there's the sting;I see my cellar on the wing!You know if Burgundy is dear?—Mine once emerged three times a year;—And now to wash these learned throttles,In dozens disappear the bottles;They well must drink who well do eat(I've sunk a capital on meat).Her immortality, I fear, aDeath-blow will prove to my Madeira;It has given, alas! a mortal shockTo that old friend—my Steinberg hock! [13]
If Faust had really any handIn printing, I can understandThe fate which legends more than hint;—The devil take all hands that print!
And what my thanks for all?—a pout—Sour looks—deep sighs; but what about?About! O, that I well divine—That such a pearl should fall to swine—That such a literary rubyShould grace the finger of a booby!
Spring comes;—behold, sweet mead and leaNature's green splendor tapestries o'er;Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree;Larks sing—the woodland wakes once more.The woodland wakes—but not for her!From Nature's self the charm has flown;No more the Spring of earth can stirThe fond remembrance of our own!The sweetest bird upon the boughHas not one note of music now;And, oh! how dull the grove's soft shade,Where once—(as lovers then)—we strayed!The nightingales have got no learning—Dull creatures—how can they inspire her?The lilies are so undiscerning,They never say—"how they admire her!"
In all this jubilee of being,Some subject for a point she's seeing—Some epigram—(to be impartial,Well turned)—there may be worse in Martial!
But, hark! the goddess stoops to reason:—"The country now is quite in season,I'll go!"—"What! to our country seat?""No!—Travelling will be such a treat;Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear;But Carlsbad's quite the rage this year!"Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces;Nature is gay—in watering-places!Those pleasant spas—our reigning passion—Where learned Dons meet folks of fashion;Where—each with each illustrious soulFamiliar as in Charon's boat,All sorts of fame sit cheek-by-jowl,Pearls in that string—the table d'hote!Where dames whom man has injured—fly,To heal their wounds or to efface, them;While others, with the waters, tryA course of flirting,—just to brace them!
Well, there (O man, how light thy woesCompared with mine—thou need'st must see!)My wife, undaunted, greatly goes—And leaves the orphans (seven!!!) to me!
O, wherefore art thou flown so soon,Thou first fair year—Love's honeymoon!All, dream too exquisite for life!Home's goddess—in the name of wife!Reared by each grace—yet but to beMan's household Anadyomene!With mind from which the sunbeams fall,Rejoice while pervading all;Frank in the temper pleased to please—Soft in the feeling waked with ease.So broke, as native of the skies,The heart-enthraller on my eyes;So saw I, like a morn of May,The playmate given to glad my way;With eyes that more than lips bespoke,Eyes whence—sweet words—"I love thee!" broke!So—Ah, what transports then were mine!I led the bride before the shrine!And saw the future years revealed,Glassed on my hope—one blooming field!More wide, and widening more, were givenThe angel-gates disclosing heaven;Round us the lovely, mirthful troopOf children came—yet still to meThe loveliest—merriest of the groupThe happy mother seemed to be!Mine, by the bonds that bind us moreThan all the oaths the priest before;Mine, by the concord of content,When heart with heart is music-blent;When, as sweet sounds in unison,Two lives harmonious melt in one!When—sudden (O the villain!)—cameUpon the scene a mind profound!—A bel esprit, who whispered "Fame,"And shook my card-house to the ground.
What have I now instead of allThe Eden lost of hearth and hall?What comforts for the heaven bereft?What of the younger angel's left?A sort of intellectual mule,Man's stubborn mind in woman's shape,Too hard to love, too frail to rule—A sage engrafted on an ape!To what she calls the realm of mind,She leaves that throne, her sex, to crawl,The cestus and the charm resigned—A public gaping-show to all!She blots from beauty's golden bookA name 'mid nature's choicest few,To gain the glory of a nookIn Doctor Dunderhead's Review.
Sweet friend, the world, like some fair infant blessed,Radiant with sportive grace, around thee plays;Yet 'tis not as depicted in thy breast—Not as within thy soul's fair glass, its raysAre mirrored. The respectful fealtyThat my heart's nobleness hath won for thee,The miracles thou workest everywhere,The charms thy being to this life first lent,—To it, mere charms to reckon thou'rt content,To us, they seem humanity so fair.The witchery sweet of ne'er-polluted youth,The talisman of innocence and truth—Him I would see, who these to scorn can dare!Thou revellest joyously in telling o'erThe blooming flowers that round thy path are strown,—The glad, whom thou hast made so evermore,—The souls that thou hast conquered for thine own.In thy deceit so blissful be thou glad!Ne'er let a waking disenchantment sadHurl thee despairing from thy dream's proud flight!Like the fair flowerets that thy beds perfume,Observe them, but ne'er touch them as they bloom,—Plant them, but only for the distant sight.Created only to enchant the eye,In faded beauty at thy feet they'll lie,The nearer thee, the nearer their long night!
I see her still—by her fair train surrounded,The fairest of them all, she took her place;Afar I stood, by her bright charms confounded,For, oh! they dazzled with their heavenly grace.With awe my soul was filled—with bliss unbounded,While gazing on her softly radiant face;But soon, as if up-borne on wings of fire,My fingers 'gan to sweep the sounding lyre.
The thoughts that rushed across me in that hour,The words I sang, I'd fain once more invoke;Within, I felt a new-awakened power,That each emotion of my bosom spoke.My soul, long time enchained in sloth's dull bower,Through all its fetters now triumphant broke,And brought to light unknown, harmonious numbers,Which in its deepest depths, had lived in slumbers.
And when the chords had ceased their gentle sighing,And when my soul rejoined its mortal frame,I looked upon her face and saw love vieing,In every feature, with her maiden shame.And soon my ravished heart seemed heavenward flying,When her soft whisper o'er my senses came.The blissful seraphs' choral strains aloneCan glad mine ear again with that sweet tone,
Of that fond heart, which, pining silently,Ne'er ventures to express its feelings lowly,The real and modest worth is known to me—'Gainst cruel fate I'll guard its cause so holy.Most blest of all, the meek one's lot shall be—Love's flowers by love's own hand are gathered solely—The fairest prize to that fond heart is due,That feels it, and that beats responsive, too!
She sought to breathe one word, but vainly;Too many listeners were nigh;And yet my timid glance read plainlyThe language of her speaking eye.Thy silent glades my footstep presses,Thou fair and leaf-embosomed grove!Conceal within thy green recessesFrom mortal eye our sacred love!
Afar with strange discordant noises,The busy day is echoing;And 'mid the hollow hum of voices,I hear the heavy hammer ring.'Tis thus that man, with toil ne'er endingExtorts from heaven his daily bread;Yet oft unseen the Gods are sendingThe gifts of fortune on his head!
Oh, let mankind discover neverHow true love fills with bliss our heartsThey would but crush our joy forever,For joy to them no glow imparts.Thou ne'er wilt from the world obtain it—'Tis never captured save as prey;Thou needs must strain each nerve to gain it,E'er envy dark asserts her sway.
The hours of night and stillness loving,It comes upon us silently—Away with hasty footstep movingSoon as it sees a treacherous eye.Thou gentle stream, soft circlets weaving,A watery barrier cast around,And, with thy waves in anger heaving,Guard from each foe this holy ground!
Hear I the creaking gate unclose?The gleaming latch uplifted?No—'twas the wind that, whirring, rose,Amidst the poplars drifted!Adorn thyself, thou green leaf-bowering roof,Destined the bright one's presence to receive,For her, a shadowy palace-hall aloofWith holy night, thy boughs familiar weave.And ye sweet flatteries of the delicate air,Awake and sport her rosy cheek around,When their light weight the tender feet shall bear,When beauty comes to passion's trysting-ground.
Hush! what amidst the copses crept—So swiftly by me now?No-'twas the startled bird that sweptThe light leaves of the bough!Day, quench thy torch! come, ghostlike, from on high,With thy loved silence, come, thou haunting Eve,Broaden below thy web of purple dye,Which lulled boughs mysterious round us weave.For love's delight, enduring listeners none,The froward witness of the light will flee;Hesper alone, the rosy silent one,Down-glancing may our sweet familiar be!
What murmur in the distance spoke,And like a whisper died?No—'twas the swan that gently brokeIn rings the silver tide!Soft to my ear there comes a music-flow;In gleesome murmur glides the waterfall;To zephyr's kiss the flowers are bending low;Through life goes joy, exchanging joy with all.Tempt to the touch the grapes—the blushing fruit, [15]Voluptuous swelling from the leaves that bide;And, drinking fever from my cheek, the muteAir sleeps all liquid in the odor-tide!
Hark! through the alley hear I nowA footfall? Comes the maiden?No,—'twas the fruit slid from the bough,With its own richness laden!
Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death,And pale and paler wane his jocund hues,The flowers too gentle for his glowing breath,Ope their frank beauty to the twilight dews.The bright face of the moon is still and lone,Melts in vast masses the world silently;Slides from each charm the slowly-loosening zone;And round all beauty, veilless, roves the eye.
What yonder seems to glimmer?Her white robe's glancing hues?No,—'twas the column's shimmerAthwart the darksome yews!
O, longing heart, no more delight-upbuoyedLet the sweet airy image thee befool!The arms that would embrace her clasp the voidThis feverish breast no phantom-bliss can cool,O, waft her here, the true, the living one!Let but my hand her hand, the tender, feel—The very shadow of her robe alone!—So into life the idle dream shall steal!
As glide from heaven, when least we ween,The rosy hours of bliss,All gently came the maid, unseen:—He waked beneath her kiss!
Could I from this valley drear,Where the mist hangs heavily,Soar to some more blissful sphere,Ah! how happy should I be!Distant hills enchant my sight,Ever young and ever fair;To those hills I'd take my flightHad I wings to scale the air.
Harmonies mine ear assail,Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;And the gently-sighing galeGreets me with its fragrant balm.Peeping through the shady bowers,Golden fruits their charms display.And those sweetly-blooming flowersNe'er become cold winter's prey.
In you endless sunshine bright,Oh! what bliss 'twould be to dwell!How the breeze on yonder heightMust the heart with rapture swell!Yet the stream that hems my pathChecks me with its angry frown,While its waves, in rising wrath,Weigh my weary spirit down.
See—a bark is drawing near,But, alas, the pilot fails!Enter boldly—wherefore fear?Inspiration fills its sails,Faith and courage make thine own,—Gods ne'er lend a helping-hand;'Tis by magic power aloneThou canst reach the magic land!
Oh! thou bright-beaming god, the plains are thirsting,Thirsting for freshening dew, and man is pining;Wearily move on thy horses—Let, then, thy chariot descend!
Seest thou her who, from ocean's crystal billows,Lovingly nods and smiles?—Thy heart must know her!Joyously speed on thy horses,—Tethys, the goddess, 'tis nods!
Swiftly from out his flaming chariot leaping,Into her arms he springs,—the reins takes Cupid,—Quietly stand the horses,Drinking the cooling flood.
Now from the heavens with gentle step descending,Balmy night appears, by sweet love followed;Mortals, rest ye, and love ye,—Phoebus, the loving one, rests!
Youth's gay springtime scarcely knowingWent I forth the world to roam—And the dance of youth, the glowing,Left I in my father's home,Of my birthright, glad-believing,Of my world-gear took I none,Careless as an infant, cleavingTo my pilgrim staff alone.For I placed my mighty hope inDim and holy words of faith,"Wander forth—the way is open,Ever on the upward path—Till thou gain the golden portal,Till its gates unclose to thee.There the earthly and the mortal,Deathless and divine shall be!"Night on morning stole, on stealeth,Never, never stand I still,And the future yet concealeth,What I seek, and what I will!Mount on mount arose before me,Torrents hemmed me every side,But I built a bridge that bore meO'er the roaring tempest-tide.Towards the east I reached a river,On its shores I did not rest;Faith from danger can deliver,And I trusted to its breast.Drifted in the whirling motion,Seas themselves around me roll—Wide and wider spreads the ocean,Far and farther flies the goal.While I live is never givenBridge or wave the goal to near—Earth will never meet the heaven,Never can the there be here!
And wilt thou, faithless one, then, leave me,With all thy magic phantasy,—With all the thoughts that joy or grieve me,Wilt thou with all forever fly?Can naught delay thine onward motion,Thou golden time of life's young dream?In vain! eternity's wide oceanCeaselessly drowns thy rolling stream.
The glorious suns my youth enchantingHave set in never-ending night;Those blest ideals now are wantingThat swelled my heart with mad delight.The offspring of my dream hath perished,My faith in being passed away;The godlike hopes that once I cherishAre now reality's sad prey.
As once Pygmalion, fondly yearning,Embraced the statue formed by him,Till the cold marble's cheeks were burning,And life diffused through every limb,So I, with youthful passion fired,My longing arms round Nature threw,Till, clinging to my breast inspired,She 'gan to breathe, to kindle too.
And all my fiery ardor proving,Though mute, her tale she soon could tell,Returned each kiss I gave her loving,The throbbings of my heart read well.Then living seemed each tree, each flower,Then sweetly sang the waterfall,And e'en the soulless in that hourShared in the heavenly bliss of all.
For then a circling world was burstingMy bosom's narrow prison-cell,To enter into being thirsting,In deed, word, shape, and sound as well.This world, how wondrous great I deemed it,Ere yet its blossoms could unfold!When open, oh, how little seemed it!That little, oh, how mean and cold!
How happy, winged by courage daring,The youth life's mazy path first pressed—No care his manly strength impairing,And in his dream's sweet vision blest!The dimmest star in air's dominionSeemed not too distant for his flight;His young and ever-eager pinionSoared far beyond all mortal sight.
Thus joyously toward heaven ascending,Was aught for his bright hopes too far?The airy guides his steps attending,How danced they round life's radiant car!Soft love was there, her guerdon bearing,And fortune, with her crown of gold,And fame, her starry chaplet wearing,And truth, in majesty untold.
But while the goal was yet before them,The faithless guides began to stray;Impatience of their task came o'er them,Then one by one they dropped away.Light-footed Fortune first retreating,Then Wisdom's thirst remained unstilled,While heavy storms of doubt were beatingUpon the path truth's radiance filled.
I saw Fame's sacred wreath adorningThe brows of an unworthy crew;And, ah! how soon Love's happy morning,When spring had vanished, vanished too!More silent yet, and yet more weary,Became the desert path I trod;And even hope a glimmer drearyScarce cast upon the gloomy road.
Of all that train, so bright with gladness,Oh, who is faithful to the end?Who now will seek to cheer my sadness,And to the grave my steps attend?Thou, Friendship, of all guides the fairest,Who gently healest every wound;Who all life's heavy burdens sharest,Thou, whom I early sought and found!
Employment too, thy loving neighbor,Who quells the bosom's rising storms;Who ne'er grows weary of her labor,And ne'er destroys, though slow she forms;Who, though but grains of sand she placesTo swell eternity sublime,Yet minutes, days, ay! years effacesFrom the dread reckoning kept by Time!
Beside the brook the boy reclinedAnd wove his flowery wreath,And to the waves the wreath consigned—The waves that danced beneath."So fleet mine hours," he sighed, "awayLike waves that restless flow:And so my flowers of youth decayLike those that float below."
"Ask not why I, alone on earth,Am sad in life's young time;To all the rest are hope and mirthWhen spring renews its prime.Alas! the music Nature makes,In thousand songs of gladness—While charming all around me, wakesMy heavy heart to sadness."
"Ah! vain to me the joys that breakFrom spring, voluptuous are;For only one 't is mine to seek—The near, yet ever far!I stretch my arms, that shadow-shapeIn fond embrace to hold;Still doth the shade the clasp escape—The heart is unconsoled!"
"Come forth, fair friend, come forth below,And leave thy lofty hall,The fairest flowers the spring can knowIn thy dear lap shall fall!Clear glides the brook in silver rolled,Sweet carols fill the air;The meanest hut hath space to holdA happy loving pair!"
Far away, where darkness reigneth,All my dreams of bliss are flown;Yet with love my gaze remainethFixed on one fair star alone.But, alas! that star so brightSheds no lustre save by night.
If in slumbers ending never,Gloomy death had sealed thine eyes,Thou hadst lived in memory ever—Thou hadst lived still in my sighs;But, alas! in light thou livest—To my love no answer givest!
Can the sweet hopes love once cherishedEmma, can they transient prove?What has passed away and perished—Emma, say, can that be love?That bright flame of heavenly birth—Can it die like things of earth?
Once more, then, we meetIn the circles of yore;Let our song be as sweetIn its wreaths as before,Who claims the first placeIn the tribute of song?The God to whose graceAll our pleasures belong.Though Ceres may spreadAll her gifts on the shrine,Though the glass may be redWith the blush of the vine,What boots—if the whileFall no spark on the hearth;If the heart do not smileWith the instinct of mirth?—From the clouds, from God's breastMust our happiness fall,'Mid the blessed, most blestIs the moment of all!Since creation beganAll that mortals have wrought,All that's godlike in manComes—the flash of a thought!For ages the stoneIn the quarry may lurk,An instant aloneCan suffice to the work;An impulse give birthTo the child of the soul,A glance stamp the worthAnd the fame of the whole. [17]On the arch that she buildethFrom sunbeams on high,As Iris just gildeth,And fleets from the sky,So shineth, so gloomethEach gift that is ours;The lightning illumeth—The darkness devours! [18]
[The scenery of Gotthardt is here personified.]
To the solemn abyss leads the terrible path,The life and death winding dizzy between;In thy desolate way, grim with menace and wrath,To daunt thee the spectres of giants are seen;That thou wake not the wild one [20], all silently tread—Let thy lip breathe no breath in the pathway of dread!
High over the marge of the horrible deepHangs and hovers a bridge with its phantom-like span, [21]Not by man was it built, o'er the vastness to sweep;Such thought never came to the daring of man!The stream roars beneath—late and early it raves—But the bridge, which it threatens, is safe from the waves.
Black-yawning a portal, thy soul to affright,Like the gate to the kingdom, the fiend for the king—Yet beyond it there smiles but a land of delight,Where the autumn in marriage is met with the spring.From a lot which the care and the trouble assail,Could I fly to the bliss of that balm-breathing vale!
Through that field, from a fount ever hidden their birth,Four rivers in tumult rush roaringly forth;They fly to the fourfold divisions of earth—The sunrise, the sunset, the south, and the north.And, true to the mystical mother that bore,Forth they rush to their goal, and are lost evermore.
High over the races of men in the blueOf the ether, the mount in twin summits is riven;There, veiled in the gold-woven webs of the dew,Moves the dance of the clouds—the pale daughters of heaven!There, in solitude, circles their mystical maze,Where no witness can hearken, no earthborn surveys.
August on a throne which no ages can move,Sits a queen, in her beauty serene and sublime, [22]The diadem blazing with diamonds aboveThe glory of brows, never darkened by time,His arrows of light on that form shoots the sun—And he gilds them with all, but he warms them with none!
Wilt thou not the lambkins guard?Oh, how soft and meek they look,Feeding on the grassy sward,Sporting round the silvery brook!"Mother, mother, let me goOn yon heights to chase the roe!"
Wilt thou not the flock compelWith the horn's inspiring notes?Sweet the echo of yon bell,As across the wood it floats!"Mother, mother, let me goOn yon heights to hunt the roe!"
Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind,Smiling gently in their bed?For no garden thou wilt findOn yon heights so wild and dread."Leave the flow'rets,—let them blow!Mother, mother, let me go!"
And the youth then sought the chase,Onward pressed with headlong speedTo the mountain's gloomiest place,—Naught his progress could impede;And before him, like the wind,Swiftly flies the trembling hind!
Up the naked precipiceClambers she, with footsteps light,O'er the chasm's dark abyssLeaps with spring of daring might;But behind, unweariedly,With his death-bow follows he.
Now upon the rugged topStands she,—on the loftiest height,Where the cliffs abruptly stop,And the path is lost to sight.There she views the steeps below,—Close behind, her mortal foe.
She, with silent, woeful gaze,Seeks the cruel boy to move;But, alas! in vain she prays—To the string he fits the groove.When from out the clefts, behold!Steps the Mountain Genius old.
With his hand the DeityShields the beast that trembling sighs;"Must thou, even up to me,Death and anguish send?" he cries,—Earth has room for all to dwell,—"Why pursue my loved gazelle?"
Believe me, togetherThe bright gods come ever,Still as of old;Scarce see I Bacchus, the giver of joy,Than comes up fair Eros, the laugh-loving boy,And Phoebus, the stately, behold!
They come near and nearer,The heavenly ones all—The gods with their presenceFill earth as their hall!
Say, how shall I welcome,Human and earthborn,Sons of the sky?Pour out to me—pour the full life that ye live!What to ye, O ye gods! can the mortal one give?
The joys can dwell onlyIn Jupiter's palace—Brimmed bright with your nectar,Oh, reach me the chalice!
"Hebe, the chaliceFill full to the brim!Steep his eyes—steep his eyes in the bath of the dew,Let him dream, while the Styx is concealed from his view,That the life of the gods is for him!"
It murmurs, it sparkles,The fount of delight;The bosom grows tranquil—The eye becomes bright.
The goblet is sparkling with purpled-tinged wine,Bright glistens the eye of each guest,When into the hall comes the Minstrel divine,To the good he now brings what is best;For when from Elysium is absent the lyre,No joy can the banquet of nectar inspire.
He is blessed by the gods, with an intellect clear,That mirrors the world as it glides;He has seen all that ever has taken place here,And all that the future still hides.He sat in the god's secret councils of oldAnd heard the command for each thing to unfold.
He opens in splendor, with gladness and mirth,That life which was hid from our eyes;Adorns as a temple the dwelling of earth,That the Muse has bestowed as his prize,No roof is so humble, no hut is so low,But he with divinities bids it o'erflow.
And as the inventive descendant of Zeus,On the unadorned round of the shield,With knowledge divine could, reflected, produceEarth, sea, and the star's shining field,—So he, on the moments, as onward they roll,The image can stamp of the infinite whole.
From the earliest age of the world he has come,When nations rejoiced in their prime;A wanderer glad, he has still found a homeWith every race through all time.Four ages of man in his lifetime have died,And the place they once held by the fifth is supplied.
Saturnus first governed, with fatherly smile,Each day then resembled the last;Then flourished the shepherds, a race without guileTheir bliss by no care was o'ercast,They loved,—and no other employment they had,And earth gave her treasures with willingness glad.
Then labor came next, and the conflict beganWith monsters and beasts famed in song;And heroes upstarted, as rulers of man,And the weak sought the aid of the strong.And strife o'er the field of Scamander now reigned,But beauty the god of the world still remained.
At length from the conflict bright victory sprang,And gentleness blossomed from might;In heavenly chorus the Muses then sang,And figures divine saw the light;—The age that acknowledged sweet phantasy's swayCan never return, it has fleeted away.
The gods from their seats in the heavens were hurled,And their pillars of glory o'erthrown;And the Son of the Virgin appeared in the worldFor the sins of mankind to atone.The fugitive lusts of the sense were suppressed,And man now first grappled with thought in his breast.
Each vain and voluptuous charm vanished now,Wherein the young world took delight;The monk and the nun made of penance a vow,And the tourney was sought by the knight.Though the aspect of life was now dreary and wild,Yet love remained ever both lovely and mild.
An altar of holiness, free from all stain,The Muses in silence upreared;And all that was noble and worthy, againIn woman's chaste bosom appeared;The bright flame of song was soon kindled anewBy the minstrel's soft lays, and his love pure and true.
And so, in a gentle and ne'er-changing band,Let woman and minstrel unite;They weave and they fashion, with hand joined to hand,The girdle of beauty and right.When love blends with music, in unison sweet,The lustre of life's youthful days ne'er can fleet.
The clouds fast gather,The forest-oaks roar—A maiden is sittingBeside the green shore,—The billows are breaking with might, with might,And she sighs aloud in the darkling night,Her eyelid heavy with weeping.
"My heart's dead within me,The world is a void;To the wish it gives nothing,Each hope is destroyed.I have tasted the fulness of bliss belowI have lived, I have loved,—Thy child, oh take now,Thou Holy One, into Thy keeping!"
"In vain is thy sorrow,In vain thy tears fall,For the dead from their slumbersThey ne'er can recall;Yet if aught can pour comfort and balm in thy heart,Now that love its sweet pleasures no more can impart,Speak thy wish, and thou granted shalt find it!"
"Though in vain is my sorrow,Though in vain my tears fall,—Though the dead from their slumbersThey ne'er can recall,Yet no balm is so sweet to the desolate heart,When love its soft pleasures no more can impart,As the torments that love leaves behind it!"
Yes, my friends!—that happier times have beenThan the present, none can contravene;That a race once lived of nobler worth;And if ancient chronicles were dumb,Countless stones in witness forth would comeFrom the deepest entrails of the earth.But this highly-favored race has gone,Gone forever to the realms of night.We, we live! The moments are our own,And the living judge the right.
Brighter zones, my friends, no doubt excelThis, the land wherein we're doomed to dwell,As the hardy travellers proclaim;But if Nature has denied us much,Art is yet responsive to our touch,And our hearts can kindle at her flame.If the laurel will not flourish here—If the myrtle is cold winter's prey,Yet the vine, to crown us, year by year,Still puts forth its foliage gay.
Of a busier life 'tis well to speak,Where four worlds their wealth to barter seek,On the world's great market, Thames' broad stream;Ships in thousands go there and depart—There are seen the costliest works of art,And the earth-god, Mammon, reigns supremeBut the sun his image only gravesOn the silent streamlet's level plain,Not upon the torrent's muddy waves,Swollen by the heavy rain.
Far more blessed than we, in northern statesDwells the beggar at the angel-gates,For he sees the peerless city—Rome!Beauty's glorious charms around him lie,And, a second heaven, up toward the skyMounts St. Peter's proud and wondrous dome.But, with all the charms that splendor grants,Rome is but the tomb of ages past;Life but smiles upon the blooming plantsThat the seasons round her cast.
Greater actions elsewhere may be rifeThan with us, in our contracted life—But beneath the sun there's naught that's new;Yet we see the great of every agePass before us on the world's wide stageThoughtfully and calmly in reviewAll. in life repeats itself forever,Young for ay is phantasy alone;What has happened nowhere,—happened never,—That has never older grown!
Four elements, joined inHarmonious strife,Shadow the world forth,And typify life.
Into the gobletThe lemon's juice pour;Acid is everLife's innermost core.
Now, with the sugar'sAll-softening juice,The strength of the acidSo burning reduce.
The bright sparkling waterNow pour in the bowl;Water all-gentlyEncircles the whole.
Let drops of the spiritTo join them now flow;Life to the livingNaught else can bestow.
Drain it off quicklyBefore it exhales;Save when 'tis glowing,The draught naught avails.
See, he sitteth on his matSitteth there upright,With the grace with which he satWhile he saw the light.
Where is now the sturdy gripe,—Where the breath sedate,That so lately whiffed the pipeToward the Spirit great?
Where the bright and falcon eye,That the reindeer's treadOn the waving grass could spy,Thick with dewdrops spread?
Where the limbs that used to dartSwifter through the snowThan the twenty-membered hart,Than the mountain roe?
Where the arm that sturdilyBent the deadly bow?See, its life hath fleeted by,—See, it hangeth low!
Happy he!—He now has goneWhere no snow is found:Where with maize the fields are sown,Self-sprung from the ground;
Where with birds each bush is filled,Where with game the wood;Where the fish, with joy unstilled,Wanton in the flood.
With the spirits blest he feeds,—Leaves us here in gloom;We can only praise his deeds,And his corpse entomb.
Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring,Sound the death-note sad!Bury with him everythingThat can make him glad!
'Neath his head the hatchet hideThat he boldly swung;And the bear's fat haunch beside,For the road is long;
And the knife, well sharpened,That, with slashes three,Scalp and skin from foeman's headTore off skilfully.
And to paint his body, placeDyes within his hand;Let him shine with ruddy graceIn the Spirit-land!
Priam's castle-walls had sunk,Troy in dust and ashes lay,And each Greek, with triumph drunk,Richly laden with his prey,Sat upon his ship's high prow,On the Hellespontic strand,Starting on his journey now,Bound for Greece, his own fair land.Raise the glad exulting shout!Toward the land that gave them birthTurn they now the ships about,As they seek their native earth.
And in rows, all mournfully,Sat the Trojan women there,—Beat their breasts in agony,Pallid, with dishevelled hair.In the feast of joy so gladMingled they the song of woe,Weeping o'er their fortunes sad,In their country's overthrow."Land beloved, oh, fare thee well!By our foreign masters led,Far from home we're doomed to dwell,—Ah, how happy are the dead!"
Soon the blood by Calchas spiltOn the altar heavenward smokes;Pallas, by whom towns are builtAnd destroyed, the priest invokes;Neptune, too, who all the earthWith his billowy girdle laves,—Zeus, who gives to terror birth,Who the dreaded Aegis waves.Now the weary fight is done,Ne'er again to be renewed;Time's wide circuit now is run,And the mighty town subdued!
Atreus' son, the army's head,Told the people's numbers o'er,Whom he, as their captain, ledTo Scamander's vale of yore.Sorrow's black and heavy cloudsPassed across the monarch's brow:Of those vast and valiant crowds,Oh, how few were left him now!Joyful songs let each one raise,Who will see his home again,In whose veins the life-blood plays,For, alas! not all remain!
"All who homeward wend their way,Will not there find peace of mind;On their household altars, theyMurder foul perchance may find.Many fall by false friend's stroke,Who in fight immortal proved:"—So Ulysses warning spoke,By Athene's spirit moved.Happy he, whose faithful spouseGuards his home with honor true!Woman ofttimes breaks her vows,Ever loves she what is new.
And Atrides glories thereIn the prize he won in fight,And around her body fairTwines his arms with fond delight.Evil works must punished be.Vengeance follows after crime,For Kronion's just decreeRules the heavenly courts sublime.Evil must in evil end;Zeus will on the impious bandWoe for broken guest-rights send,Weighing with impartial hand.
"It may well the glad befit,"Cried Olleus' valiant son, [24]"To extol the Gods who sitOn Olympus' lofty throne!Fortune all her gifts supplies,Blindly, and no justice knows,For Patroclus buried lies,And Thersites homeward goes!Since she blindly throws awayEach lot in her wheel contained,Let him shout with joy to-dayWho the prize of life has gained."
"Ay, the wars the best devour!Brother, we will think of thee,In the fight a very tower,When we join in revelry!When the Grecian ships were fired,By thine arm was safety brought;Yet the man by craft inspired [25]Won the spoils thy valor sought.Peace be to thine ashes blest!Thou wert vanquished not in fight:Anger 'tis destroys the best,—Ajax fell by Ajax' might!"
Neoptolemus poured then,To his sire renowned [26] the wine—"'Mongst the lots of earthly men,Mighty father, prize I thine!Of the goods that life supplies,Greatest far of all is fame;Though to dust the body flies,Yet still lives a noble name.Valiant one, thy glory's rayWill immortal be in song;For, though life may pass away,To all time the dead belong!"
"Since the voice of minstrelsySpeaks not of the vanquished man,I will Hector's witness be,"—Tydeus' noble son [27] began:"Fighting bravely in defenceOf his household-gods he fell.Great the victor's glory thence,He in purpose did excel!Battling for his altars dear,Sank that rock, no more to rise;E'en the foemen will revereOne whose honored name ne'er dies."
Nestor, joyous reveller old,Who three generations saw,Now the leaf-crowned cup of goldGave to weeping Hecuba."Drain the goblet's draught so cool,And forget each painful smart!Bacchus' gifts are wonderful,—Balsam for a broken heart.Drain the goblet's draught so cool,And forget each painful smart!Bacchus' gifts are wonderful,—Balsam for a broken heart.
"E'en to Niobe, whom HeavenLoved in wrath to persecute,Respite from her pangs was given,Tasting of the corn's ripe fruit.Whilst the thirsty lip we laveIn the foaming, living spring,Buried deep in Lethe's waveLies all grief, all sorrowing!Whilst the thirsty lip we laveIn the foaming, living spring,Swallowed up in Lethe's waveIs all grief, all sorrowing!"
And the Prophetess [28] inspiredBy her God, upstarted now,—Toward the smoke of homesteads fired,Looking from the lofty prow."Smoke is each thing here below;Every worldly greatness dies,As the vapory columns go,—None are fixed but Deities!Cares behind the horseman sit—Round about the vessel play;Lest the morrow hinder it,Let us, therefore, live to-day."
On the mountain's breezy summit,Where the southern sunbeams shine,Aided by their warming vigor,Nature yields the golden wine.
How the wondrous mother formeth,None have ever read aright;Hid forever is her working,And inscrutable her might.
Sparkling as a son of Phoebus,As the fiery source of light,From the vat it bubbling springeth,Purple, and as crystal bright;
And rejoiceth all the senses,And in every sorrowing breastPoureth hope's refreshing balsam,And on life bestows new zest.
But their slanting rays all feeblyOn our zone the sunbeams shoot;They can only tinge the foliage,But they ripen ne'er the fruit.
Yet the north insists on living,And what lives will merry be;So, although the grape is wanting,We invent wine cleverly.
Pale the drink we now are offeringOn the household altar here;But what living Nature maketh,Sparkling is and ever clear.
Let us from the brimming goblet,Drain the troubled flood with mirth;Art is but a gift of heaven,Borrowed from the glow of earth.
Even strength's dominions boundless'Neath her rule obedient lie;From the old the new she fashionsWith creative energy.
She the elements' close unionSevers with her sovereign nod;With the flame upon the altar,Emulates the great sun-god.
For the distant, happy islandsNow the vessel sallies forth,And the southern fruits, all-golden,Pours upon the eager north.
As a type, then,—as an image,Be to us this fiery juice,Of the wonders that frail mortalsCan with steadfast will produce!
Does pleasant spring return once more?Does earth her happy youth regain?Sweet suns green hills are shining o'er;Soft brooklets burst their icy chain:Upon the blue translucent riverLaughs down an all-unclouded day,The winged west winds gently quiver,The buds are bursting from the spray;While birds are blithe on every tree;The Oread from the mountain-shoreSighs, "Lo! thy flowers come back to thee—Thy child, sad mother, comes no more!"
Alas! how long an age it seemsSince all the earth I wandered over,And vainly, Titan, tasked thy beamsThe loved—the lost one—to discover!Though all may seek—yet none can callHer tender presence back to meThe sun, with eyes detecting all,Is blind one vanished form to see.Hast thou, O Zeus! hast thou awayFrom these sad arms my daughter torn?Has Pluto, from the realms of day,Enamored—to dark rivers borne?
Who to the dismal phantom-strandThe herald of my grief will venture?The boat forever leaves the land,But only shadows there may enter.—Veiled from each holier eye reposeThe realms where midnight wraps the dead,And, while the Stygian river flows,No living footstep there may tread!A thousand pathways wind the drearDescent;—none upward lead to-day;—No witness to the mother's earThe daughter's sorrows can betray.
Mothers of happy human clayCan share at least their children's doom;And when the loved ones pass away,Can track—can join them—in the tomb!The race alone of heavenly birthAre banished from the darksome portals;The Fates have mercy on the earth,And death is only kind to mortals! [30]Oh, plunge me in the night of nights,From heaven's ambrosial halls exiled!Oh, let the goddess lose the rightsThat shut the mother from the child!
Where sits the dark king's joyless bride,Where midst the dead her home is made;Oh that my noiseless steps might glide,Amidst the shades, myself a shade!I see her eyes, that search through tears,In vain the golden light to greet;That yearn for yonder distant spheres,That pine the mother's face to meet!Till some bright moment shall renewThe severed hearts' familiar ties;And softened pity steal in dew,From Pluto's slow-relenting eyes!
Ah, vain the wish, the sorrows are!Calm in the changeless paths aboveRolls on the day-god's golden car—Fast are the fixed decrees of Jove!Far from the ever-gloomy plain,He turns his blissful looks away.Alas! night never gives againWhat once it seizes as its prey!Till over Lethe's sullen swell,Aurora's rosy hues shall glow;And arching through the midmost hellShine forth the lovely Iris-bow!
And is there naught of her; no token—No pledge from that beloved hand?To tell how love remains unbroken,How far soever be the land?Has love no link, no lightest thread,The mother to the child to bind?Between the living and the dead,Can hope no holy compact find?No! every bond is not yet riven;We are not yet divided wholly;To us the eternal powers have givenA symbol language, sweet and holy.
When Spring's fair children pass away,When, in the north wind's icy air,The leaf and flower alike decay,And leave the rivelled branches bare,Then from Vertumnus' lavish hornI take life's seeds to strew below—And bid the gold that germs the cornAn offering to the Styx to go!Sad in the earth the seeds I lay—Laid at thy heart, my child—to beThe mournful tokens which conveyMy sorrow and my love to thee!
But, when the hours, in measured dance,The happy smile of spring restore,Rife in the sun-god's golden glanceThe buried dead revive once more!The germs that perished to thine eyes,Within the cold breast of the earth,Spring up to bloom in gentler skies,The brighter for the second birth!The stem its blossom rears above—Its roots in night's dark womb repose—The plant but by the equal loveOf light and darkness fostered—grows!
If half with death the germs may sleep,Yet half with life they share the beams;My heralds from the dreary deep,Soft voices from the solemn streams,—Like her, so them, awhile entombs,Stern Orcus, in his dismal reign,Yet spring sends forth their tender bloomsWith such sweet messages again,To tell,—how far from light above,Where only mournful shadows meet,Memory is still alive to love,And still the faithful heart can beat!
Joy to ye children of the field!Whose life each coming year renews,To your sweet cups the heaven shall yieldThe purest of its nectar-dews!Steeped in the light's resplendent streams,The hues that streak the Iris-bowShall trim your blooms as with the beamsThe looks of young Aurora know.The budding life of happy spring,The yellow autumn's faded leaf,Alike to gentle hearts shall bringThe symbols of my joy and grief.