Religion 'twas produced this poem's fire;Perverted also?—prithee, don't inquire!
What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height?What the exulting Evoe? [63]Why glows the cheek? Whom is't that I, with pinions light,Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?
Is it the genius whom the gladsome throng obeys?Do I his numerous train descry?In plenty's teeming horn the gifts of heaven he sways,And reels from very ecstacy!—
See how the golden grape in glorious beauty shines,Kissed by the earliest morning-beams!The shadow of yon bower, how lovingly it signs,As it with countless blessings teams!
Ha! glad October, thou art welcome unto me!—October's first-born, welcome thou!Thanks of a purer kind, than all who worship thee,More heartfelt thanks I'm bringing now!
For thou to me the one whom I have loved so well,And love with fondness to the grave,Who merits in my heart forevermore to dwell,—The best of friends in Rieger [64] gave.
'Tis true thy breath doth rock the leaves upon the trees,And sadly make their charms decay;Gently they fall:—and swift, as morning phantasiesWith those who waken, fly away.
'Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes,Who makes all Nature's chords resoundWith discord dull, and turns the plains and groves to wastes,So that they sadly mourn around.
See how the gloomy forms of years, as on they roll,Each joyous banquet overthrows,When, in uplifted hand, from out the foaming bowl,Joy's noble purple brightly flows!
See how they disappear, when friends sweet converse hold,And loving wander arm-in-arm;And, to revenge themselves on winter's north wind cold,Upon each other's breasts grow warm!
And when spring's children smile upon us once again,When all the youthful splendor bright,When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strainAwakens with it each delight:
How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!What life from out our glances pours!Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades,Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!
Oh, may this whisper breathe—(let Rieger bear in mindThe storm by which in age we're bent!)—His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kindGleams softly from the firmament!
In silence be he led to yonder thundering height,And guided be his eye, that he,In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright.And that, with growing ecstacy,
On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells,He may experience friendship's bliss,Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells,Conscious that all their love is his.
Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say:"And G—, too, is a friend of thine!When silvery locks no more around his temples play,G— still will be a friend of thine!"
"E'en yonder"—and now in his eye the crystal tearWill gleam—"e'en yonder he will love!Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere,Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!"
Here lies a man cut off by fateToo soon for all good men;For sextons he died late—too lateFor those who wield the pen.
You tell me that you feel surpriseBecause Quirl's paper's grown in size;And yet they're crying through the streetThat there's a rise in bread and meat.
Plague's contagious murderous breathGod's strong might with terror reveals,As through the dreary valley of deathWith its brotherhood fell it steals!
Fearfully throbs the anguish-struck heart,Horribly quivers each nerve in the frame;Frenzy's wild laughs the torment proclaim,Howling convulsions disclose the fierce smart.
Fierce delirium writhes upon the bed—Poisonous mists hang o'er the cities dead;Men all haggard, pale, and wan,To the shadow-realm press on.Death lies brooding in the humid air,Plague, in dark graves, piles up treasures fair,And its voice exultingly raises.Funeral silence—churchyard calm,Rapture change to dread alarm.—Thus the plague God wildly praises!
'Tis ended!Welcome! 'tis endedOh thou sinner majestic,All thy terrible part is now played!
Noble abased one!Thou, of thy race beginner and ender!Wondrous son of her fearfulest humor,Mother Nature's blunder sublime!
Through cloud-covered night a radiant gleam!Hark how behind him the portals are closing!Night's gloomy jaws veil him darkly in shade!Nations are trembling,At his destructive splendor afraid!Thou art welcome! 'Tis ended!Oh thou sinner majestic,All thy terrible part is now played!
Crumble,—decayIn the cradle of wide-open heaven!Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes,When the hot thirst for gloryRaises its barriers over against the dread throne!See! to eternity shame has consigned thee!To the bright stars of fameThou hast clambered aloft, on the shoulders of shame!Yet time will come when shame will crumble beneath thee,When admiration at length will be thine!
With moist eye, by thy sepulchre dreaded,Man has passed onward—Rejoice in the tears that man sheddeth,Oh thou soul of the judged!With moist eye, by the sepulchre dreaded,Lately a maiden passed onward,Hearing the fearful announcementTold of thy deeds by the herald of marble;And the maiden—rejoice thee! rejoice thee!Sought not to dry up her tears.Far away I stood as the pearls were falling,And I shouted: Amalia!
Oh, ye youths! Oh, ye youths!—With the dangerous lightning of geniusLearn to play with more caution!Wildly his bit champs the charger of Phoebus;Though, 'neath the reins of his master,More gently he rocks earth and heaven,Reined by a child's hand, he kindlesEarth and heaven in blazing destruction!Obstinate Phaeton perished,Buried beneath the sad wreck.
Child of the heavenly genius!Glowing bosom all panting for action!Art thou charmed by the tale of my robber?Glowing like time was his bosom, and panting for action!He, like thee, was the child of the heavenly genius.But thou smilest and goest—Thy gaze flies through the realms of the world's long story,Moor, the robber, it finds not there—Stay, thou youth, and smile not!Still survive all his sins and his shame—Robber Moor liveth—in all but name.
Earthly gods—my lyre shall win your praise,Though but wont its gentle sounds to raiseWhen the joyous feast the people throng;Softly at your pompous-sounding names,Shyly round your greatness purple flames,Trembles now my song.
Answer! shall I strike the golden string,When, borne on by exultation's wing,O'er the battle-field your chariots trail?When ye, from the iron grasp set free,For your mistress' soft arms, joyouslyChange your pond'rous mail?—
Shall my daring hymn, ye gods, resound,While the golden splendor gleams around,Where, by mystic darkness overcome,With the thunderbolt your spleen may play,Or in crime humanity array,Till—the grave is dumb?
Say! shall peace 'neath crowns be now my theme?Shall I boast, ye princes, that ye dream?—While the worm the monarch's heart may tear,Golden sleep twines round the Moor by stealth,As he, at the palace, guards the wealth,Guards—but covets ne'er.
Show how kings and galley-slaves, my Muse,Lovingly one single pillow use,—How their lightnings flatter, when surpressed,When their humors have no power to harm,When their mimic minotaurs are calm,And—the lions rest!
Up, thou Hecate! with thy magic sealMake the barred-up grave its wealth reveal,—Hark! its doors like thunder open spring;When death's dismal blast is heard to sigh,And the hair on end stands fearfully,Princes' bliss I sing!
Do I hear the strand, the coast, detectWhere your wishes' haughty fleet was wrecked,Where was stayed your greatness' proud careerThat they ne'er with glory may grow warm,Night, with black and terror-spreading arm,Forges monarchs here.
On the death-chest sadly gleams the crown,With its heavy load of pearls weighed down,And the sceptre, needed now no more.In what splendor is the mould arrayed!Yet but worms are with the body paid,That—the world watched o'er.
Haughty plants within that humble bedSee how death their pomp decayed and fledWith unblushing ribaldry besets!They who ruled o'er north and east and westSuffer now his ev'ry nauseous jest,And—no sultan threats?
Leap for joy, ye stubborn dumb, to-day,And your heavy slumber shake away!From the battle, victory upsprings!Hearken to the trump's exulting song!Ye are worshipped by the shouting throng!—Rouse ye, then, ye kings!
Seven sleepers!—to the clarion hark!How it rings, and how the fierce dogs bark!Shouts from out a thousand barrels whizz;Eager steeds are neighing for the wood,—Soon the bristly boar rolls in his blood,—Yours the triumph is!
But what now?—Are even princes dumb?Tow'rd me scornful echoes ninefold come,Stealing through the vault's terrific gloom—Sleep assails the page by slow degrees,And Madonna gives to you the keysOf—her sleeping-room.
Not an answer—hushed and still is all—Does the veil, then, e'en on monarchs fall,Which enshrouds their humble flatt'rers glance?And ye ask for worship in the dust,Since the blind jade, Fate, a world has thrustIn your purse, perchance?
And ye clatter, giant puppet troops,Marshalled in your proudly childish groups,Like the juggler on the opera scene?—Though the sound may please the vulgar ear,Yet the skilful, filled with sadness, jeerPowers so great, but mean.
Let your towering shame be hid from sightIn the garment of a sovereign's right,From the ambush of the throne outspring!Tremble, though, before the voice of songThrough the purple, vengeance will, ere long,Strike down e'en a king!
An aged satyr soughtAround my Muse to pass,Attempting to pay court,And eyed her fondly through his glass.
By Phoebus' golden torch,By Luna's pallid light,Around her temple's porchCrept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;
And warbled many a lay,Her beauty's praise to sing,And fiercely scraped awayOn his discordant fiddle-string.
With tears, too, swelled his eyes,As large as nuts, or larger;He gasped forth heavy sighs,Like music from Silenus' charger.
The Muse sat still, and playedWithin her grotto fair,And peevishly surveyedSignor Adonis Goatsfoot there.
"Who ever would kiss thee,Thou ugly, dirty dunce?Wouldst thou a gallant be,As Midas was Apollo once?
"Speak out, old horned boorWhat charms canst thou display?Thou'rt swarthy as a Moor,And shaggy as a beast of prey.
"I'm by a bard adoredIn far Teutonia's land;To him, who strikes the chord,I'm linked in firm and loving band."
She spoke, and straightway fledThe spoiler,—he pursued her,And, by his passion led,Soon caught her, shouted, and thus wooed her:
"Thou prudish one, stay, stay!And hearken unto me!Thy poet, I dare say,Repents the pledge he gave thee.
"Behold this pretty thing,—No merit would I claim,—Its weight I often flingOn many a clown's back, to his shame.
"His sharpness it increases,And spices his discourse,Instilling learned theses,When mounted on his hobby-horse
"The best of songs are known,Thanks to this heavy whipYet fool's blood 'tis aloneWe see beneath its lashes drip.
"This lash, then, shall be his,If thou'lt give me a smack;Then thou mayest hasten, miss,Upon thy German sweetheart's track."
The Muse, with purpose sly,Ere long agreed to yield—The satyr said good-by,And now the lash I wield!
And I won't drop it here,Believe in what I say!The kisses of one's dearOne does not lightly throw away.
They kindle raptures sweet,But fools ne'er know their flame!The gentle Muse will kneel at honor's feet,But cudgels those who mar her fame.
Look outside, good friend, I pray!Two whole mortal hoursDogs and I've out here to-dayWaited, by the powers!
Rain comes down as from a spout,Doomsday-storms rage round about,
Dripping are my hose;Drenched are coat and mantle too,Coat and mantle, both just new,Wretched plight, heaven knows!Pretty stir's abroad to-day;Look outside, good friend, I pray!
Ay, the devil! look outside!Out is blown my lamp,—Gloom and night the heavens now hide,Moon and stars decamp.Stumbling over stock and stone,Jerkin, coat, I've torn, ochone!
Let me pity begHedges, bushes, all around,Here a ditch, and there a mound,Breaking arm and leg.Gloom and night the heavens now hideAy, the devil! look outside!
Ay, the deuce, then look outside!Listen to my prayer!Praying, singing, I have tried,Wouldst thou have me swear?I shall be a steaming mass,Freeze to rock and stone, alas!If I don't remove.All this, love, I owe to thee,Winter-bumps thou'lt make for me,Thou confounded love!Cold and gloom spread far and wide!Ay, the deuce! then look outside!
Thousand thunders! what's this nowFrom the window shoots?Oh, thou witch! 'Tis dirt, I vow,That my head salutes!Rain, frost, hunger, tempests wild,Bear I for the devil's child,Now I'm vexed full sore.Worse and worse 'tis! I'll begone.Pray be quick, thou Evil One!I'll remain no more.Pretty tumult there's outside!Fare thee well—I'll homeward stride.
Farewell! the beauteous sun is sinking fast,The moon lifts up her head;Farewell! mute night o'er earth's wide round at lastHer darksome raven-wing has spread.
Across the wintry plain no echoes float,Save, from the rock's deep womb,The murmuring streamlet, and the screech-owl's note,Arising from the forest's gloom.
The fish repose within the watery deeps,The snail draws in his head;The dog beneath the table calmly sleeps,My wife is slumbering in her bed.
A hearty welcome to ye, brethren mine!Friends of my life's young spring!Perchance around a flask of Rhenish wineYe're gathered now, in joyous ring.
The brimming goblet's bright and purple beamsMirror the world with joy,And pleasure from the golden grape-juice gleams—Pleasure untainted by alloy.
Concealed behind departed years, your eyesFind roses now alone;And, as the summer tempest quickly flies,Your heavy sorrows, too, are flown.
From childish sports, to e'en the doctor's hood,The book of life ye thumb,And reckon o'er, in light and joyous mood,Your toils in the gymnasium;
Ye count the oaths that Terence—may he ne'er,Though buried, calmly slumber!—Caused you, despite Minelli's notes, to swear,—Count your wry faces without number.
How, when the dread examinations came,The boy with terror shook!How, when the rector had pronounced his name,The sweat streamed down upon his book!
All this is now involved in mist forever,The boy is now a man,And Frederick, wiser grown, discloses neverWhat little Fritz once loved to plan.
At length—a doctor one's declared to be,—A regimental one!And then,—and not too soon,—discover weThat plans soap-bubbles are alone. [68]
Blow on! blow on! and let the bubbles rise,If but this heart remain!And if a German laurel as the prizeOf song, 'tis given me to gain!
The name of Wirtemberg they holdTo come from Wirth am berg [69], I'm told.A Wirtemberger who ne'er drinksNo Wirtemberger is, methinks!
HUSBAND.The boy's my very image! See!Even the scars my small-pox left me!
WIFE.I can believe it easilyThey once of all my senses reft me.
'Twixt the heavens and earth, high in the airy ocean,In the tempest's cradle I'm borne with a rocking motion;Clouds are towering,Storms beneath me are lowering,Giddily all the wonders I see,And, O Eternal, I think of Thee!
All Thy terrible pomp, lend to the Finite now,Mighty Nature! Oh, of Infinity, thouGiant daughter!Mirror God, as in water!Tempest, oh, let thine organ-pealGod to the reasoning worm reveal!
Hark! it peals—how the rocks quiver beneath its growlsZeboath's glorious name, wildly the hurricane howls!Graving the whileWith the lightning's style"Creatures, do ye acknowledge me?"—Spare us, Lord! We acknowledge Thee!
A.Hark, neighbor, for one moment stay!Herr Doctor Scalpel, so they say,Has got off safe and sound;At Paris I your uncle foundFast to a horse's crupper bound,—Yet Scalpel made a king his prey.
B.Oh, dear me, no! A real misnomer!The fact is, he has his diploma;The other one has not.
A.Eh? What? Has a diploma?In Suabia may such things be got?
On every nose he rightly readWhat intellects were in the headAnd yet—that he was not the oneBy whom God meant it to be done,This on his own he never read.
The dead has risen here, to live through endless ages;This I with firmness trust and know.I was first led to guess it by the sages,The knaves convince me that 'tis really so.
The following variations appear in the first two verses of Hector'sFarewell, as given in The Robbers, act ii. scene 2.
ANDROMACHE.Wilt thou, Hector, leave me?—leave me weeping,Where Achilles' murderous blade is heapingBloody offerings on Patroclus' grave?Who, alas, will teach thine infant trulySpears to hurl, the gods to honor duly,When thou'rt buried 'neath dark Xanthus' wave?
HECTOR.Dearest wife, go,—fetch my death-spear glancing,Let me join the battle-dance entrancing,For my shoulders bear the weight of Troy!Heaven will be our Astyanax' protector!Falling as his country's savior, HectorSoon will greet thee in the realms of joy.
The following additional verse is found in Amalia's Song, as sung in The Robbers, act iii. scene 1. It is introduced between the first and second verses, as they appear in poems.
His embrace—what maddening rapture bound us!Bosom throbbed 'gainst bosom with wild might;Mouth and ear were chained—night reigned around us—And the spirit winged toward heaven its flight.
From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.
CHORUS OF ROBBERS.What so good for banishing sorrowAs women, theft, and bloody affray?We must dance in the air to-morrow,Therefore let's be right merry to-day!
A free and jovial life we've led,Ever since we began it.Beneath the tree we make our bed,We ply our task when the storm's o'erheadAnd deem the moon our planet.The fellow we swear by is Mercury,A capital hand at our trade is he.
To-day we become the guests of a priest,A rich farmer to-morrow must feed us;And as for the future, we care not the least,But leave it to heaven to heed us.
And when our throats with a vintage rareWe've long enough been supplying,Fresh courage and strength we drink in there,And with the evil one friendship swear,Who down in hell is frying.
The groans o'er fathers reft of breath,The sorrowing mothers' cry of death,Deserted brides' sad sobs and tears.Are sweetest music to our ears.
Ha! when under the axe each one quivering lies,When they bellow like calves, and fall round us like flies,Naught gives such pleasure to our sight,It fills our ears with wild delight.And when arrives the fatal dayThe devil straight may fetch us!Our fee we get without delay—They instantly Jack-Ketch us.One draught upon the road of liquor bright and clear,And hip! hip! hip; hurrah! we're seen no longer here!
From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.
BRUTUS.Ye are welcome, peaceful realms of light!Oh, receive Rome's last-surviving son!From Philippi, from the murderous fight,Come I now, my race of sorrow run.—Cassius, where art thou?—Rome overthrown!All my brethren's loving band destroyed!Safety find I at death's door alone,And the world to Brutus is a void!
CAESAR.Who now, with the ne'er-subdued-one's tread,Hither from yon rocks makes haste to come?—Ha! if by no vision I'm misled,'Tis the footstep of a child of Rome.—Son of Tiber—whence dost thou appear?Stands the seven-hilled city as of yoreOft her orphaned lot awakes my tear,For alas, her Caesar is no more?
BRUTUS.Ha! thou with the three-and-twenty wounds!Who hath, dead one, summoned thee to light?Back to gaping Orcus' fearful bonds,Haughty mourner! triumph not to-night!On Philippi's iron altar, lo!Reeks now freedom's final victim's blood;Rome o'er Brutus' bier feels her death-throe,—He seeks Minos.—Back to thy dark flood!
CAESAR.Oh, the death-stroke Brutus' sword then hurled!Thou, too—Brutus—thou? Could this thing be?Son! It was thy father!—Son! the worldWould have fallen heritage to thee!Go—'mongst Romans thou art deemed immortal,For thy steel hath pierced thy father's breast.Go—and shout it even to yon portal:"Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal,For his steel hath pierced his father's breast."Go—thou knowest now what on Lethe's strandMade me a prisoner stand.—Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land!
BRUTUS.Father, stay!—In all earth's realms so fair,It hath been my lot to know but one,Who with mighty Caesar could compare;And of yore thou called'st him thy son.None but Caesar could a Rome o'erthrow,Brutus only made great Caesar fear;Where lives Brutus, Caesar's blood must flow;If thy path lies yonder, mine is here.
From Wallenstein's Camp, scene 1.
How sweet the wild soundOf drum and of fife!To roam o'er earth's round,Lead a wandering life,With steed trained aright,And bold for the fight,With a sword by the side,To rove far and wide,—Quick, nimble, and freeAs the finch that we seeOn bushes and trees,Or braving the breeze,—Huzza, then! the Friedlander's banner for me!
From Wallenstein's Camp, scene the last.
SECOND CUIRASSIER sings.Up, up, my brave comrades! to horse! to horse!Let us haste to the field and to freedom!To the field, for 'tis there that is proved our hearts' force,'Tis there that in earnest we need 'em!None other can there our places supply,Each must stand alone,—on himself must rely.
CHORUS.None other can there our places supply,Each must stand alone,—on himself must rely.
DRAGOON.Now freedom appears from the world to have flown,None but lords and their vassals one traces;While falsehood and cunning are ruling aloneO'er the living cowardly races.The man who can look upon death without fear—The soldier,—is now the sole freeman left here.
CHORUS.The man who can look upon death without fear—The soldier,—is now the sole freeman left here.
FIRST YAGER.The cares of this life, he casts them away,Untroubled by fear or by sorrow;He rides to his fate with a countenance gay,And finds it to-day or to-morrow;And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employTo drink full deep of the goblet of joy,
CHORUS.And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employTo drink full deep of the goblet of joy.[They refill their glasses and drink.
CAVALRY SERGEANT.The skies o'er him shower his lot filled with mirth,He gains, without toil, its full measure;The peasant, who grubs in the womb of the earth,Believes that he'll find there the treasure,Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,And digs—till at length he has dug his own grave.
CHORUS.Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,And digs—till at length he has dug his own grave.
FIRST YAGER.The horseman, as well as his swift-footed beast,Are guests by whom all are affrighted,When glimmer the lamps at the wedding feast,In the banquet he joins uninvited;He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,But carries by storm love's blissful prize.
CHORUS.He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,But carries by storm love's blissful prize.
SECOND CUIRASSIER.Why weeps the maiden? Why sorrows she so?Let me hence, let me hence, girl, I pray thee?The soldier on earth no sure quarters can know,With true love he ne'er can repay thee.Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,His peace he never can leave behind.
CHORUS.Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,His peace he can never leave behind,
FIRST YAGER.(Taking his two neighbors by the hand. The rest do the same,forming a large semi-circle.)Away, then, my comrades, our chargers let's mount!In the battle the bosom bounds lightly!Youth boils, and life's goblet still foams at the fount,Away! while the spirit glows brightly!Unless ye have courage your life to stake,That life ye never your own can make!
CHORUS.Unless ye have courage your life to stake,That life ye never your own can make!
From William Tell, act i. scene 1.
The lake forms an inlet in the land; a cottage is near the shore; a fisher-boy is rowing in a boat. Beyond the lake are seen the green pastures, the villages and farms of Schwytz glowing in the sunshine. On the left of the spectator are the peaks of the Hacken, enveloped in clouds; on his right, in the distance, are seen the glaciers. Before the curtain rises the RANZ DES VACHES, and the musical sound of the cattle-bells are heard, and continue also for some time after the scene opens.
FISHER-BOY (sings in his boat).AIR—Ranz des Vaches.
Bright smiles the lake, as it woos to its deep,—A boy on its margin of green lies asleep;Then hears he a strain,Like the flute's gentle note,Sweet as voices of angelsIn Eden that float.And when he awakens, with ecstasy blest,The waters are playing all over his breast,From the depths calls a voice"Dearest child, with me go!I lure down the sleeper,I draw him below."
HERDSMAN (on the mountain).AIR—Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.
Ye meadows, farewell!Ye pastures so glowing!The herdsman is going,For summer has fled!We depart to the mountain; we'll come back again,When the cuckoo is calling,—when wakens the strain,—When the earth is tricked out with her flowers so gay,When the stream sparkles bright in the sweet month of May.Ye meadows, farewell!Ye pastures so glowing!The herdsman is going,For summer has fled!
CHAMOIS-HUNTER (appearing on the top of a rock).AIR—Second Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.
O'er the heights growls the thunder, while quivers the bridge,Yet no fear feels the hunter, though dizzy the ridge;He strides on undaunted,O'er plains icy-bound,Where spring never blossoms,Nor verdure is found;And, a broad sea of mist lying under his feet,Man's dwellings his vision no longer can greet;The world he but viewsWhen the clouds broken are—With its pastures so green,Through the vapor afar.
From William Tell, act iii. scene 1.
WALTER sings.
Bow and arrow bearing,Over hills and streamsMoves the hunter daring,Soon as daylight gleams.
As all flying creaturesOwn the eagle's sway,So the hunter, Nature'sMounts and crags obey.
Over space he reigneth,And he makes his prizeAll his bolt attaineth,All that creeps or flies.
From William Tell, act iv. scene 3.
Death comes to man with hasty stride,No respite is to him e'er given;He's stricken down in manhood's pride,E'en in mid race from earth he's driven.Prepared, or not, to go from here,Before his Judge he must appear!
From Turandot, act ii. scene 4.
The tree whereon decayAll those from mortals sprung,—Full old, and yet whose sprayIs ever green and young;To catch the light, it rollsEach leaf upon one side;The other, black as coals,The sun has ne'er descried.
It places on new ringsAs often as it blows;The age, too, of all thingsTo mortal gaze it shows.Upon its bark so greenA name oft meets the eye,Yet 'tis no longer seen,When it grows old and dry.This tree—what can it mean?I wait for thy reply. [70]
From Mary Stuart, act iii, scene 1.
Let me my newly-won liberty taste!Let me rejoice as a child once again!And, as on pinions, with airy foot hastOver the tapestried green of the plain!Have I escaped from my prison so drear?Shall I no more in my sad dungeon pine?Let me in long and in thirsty draughts hereDrink in the breezes, so free, so divine
Thanks, thanks, ye trees, in smiling verdure dressed,In that ye veil my prison-walls from sight!I'll dream that I am free and blestWhy should I waken from a dream so bright?Do not the spacious heavens encompass me?Behold! my gaze, unshackled, free,Pierces with joy the trackless realms of light!There, where the gray-tinged hills of mist project,My kingdom's boundaries begin;Yon clouds, that tow'rd the south their course direct,France's far-distant ocean seek to win.
Swiftly-flying clouds, hardy sailors through air!Mortal hath roamed with ye, sailed with ye, ne'er!Greetings of love to my youthful home bear!I am a prisoner, I am in chains,Ah, not a herald, save ye, now remains,Free through the air hath your path ever been,Ye are not subject to England's proud queen!
Yonder's a fisherman trimming his boat.E'en that frail skiff from all danger might tear me,And to the dwellings of friends it might bear me.Scarcely his earnings can keep life afloat.Richly with treasures his lap I'd heap over,—Oh! what a draught should reward him to-day!Fortune held fast in his nets he'd discover,If in his bark he would take me away!
Hear'st thou the horn of the hunter resound,Wakening the echo through forest and plain?Ah, on my spirited courser to bound!Once more to join in the mirth-stirring train!Hark! how the dearly-loved tones come again!Blissful, yet sad, the remembrance they wake;Oft have they fallen with joy on mine ear,When in the highlands the bugle rang clear,Rousing the chase over mountain and brake.
From The Maid of Orleans, Prologue, scene 4.
JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).
Farewell, ye mountains, and ye pastures dear,Ye still and happy valleys, fare ye well!No longer may Joan's footsteps linger here,Joan bids ye now a long, a last farewell!
Ye meadows that I watered, and each bushSet by my hands, ne'er may your verdure fail!Farewell, ye grots, ye springs that cooling gushThou echo, blissful voice of this sweet vale,So wont to give me back an answering strain,—Joan must depart, and ne'er return again!
Ye haunts of all my silent joys of old,I leave ye now behind forevermore!Disperse, ye lambs, far o'er the trackless wold!She now hath gone who tended you of yore!I must away to guard another fold,On yonder field of danger, stained with gore.Thus am I bidden by a spirit's tone'Tis no vain earthly longing drives me on.
For He who erst to Moses on the heightOf Horeb, in the fiery bush came down,And bade him stand in haughty Pharaoh's sight,He who made choice of Jesse's pious son,The shepherd, as his champion in the fight,—He who to shepherds grace hath ever shown,He thus addressed me from this lofty tree:"Go hence! On earth my witness thou shalt be!
"In rugged brass, then, clothe thy members now,In steel thy gentle bosom must be dressed!No mortal love thy heart must e'er allow,With earthly passion's sinful flame possessed.Ne'er will the bridal wreath adorn thy brow,No darling infant blossom on thy breast;Yet thou with warlike honors shalt be laden,Raising thee high above each earthly maiden.
"For when the bravest in the fight despair,When France appears to wait her final blow,Then thou my holy oriflamme must bear;And, as the ripened corn the reapers mow,Hew down the conqueror as he triumphs there;His fortune's wheel thou thus wilt overthrow,To France's hero-sons salvation bring,Deliver Rheims once more, and crown thy king!"
The Lord hath promised to send down a signA helmet he hath sent, it comes from Him,—His sword endows mine arm with strength divine,I feel the courage of the cherubim;To join the battle-turmoil how I pine!A raging tempest thrills through every limb;The summons to the field bursts on mine ear,My charger paws the ground, the trump rings clear.
From The Maid of Orleans, act iv. scene 1.
JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).
Each weapon rests, war's tumults cease to sound,While dance and song succeed the bloody fray;Through every street the merry footsteps bound,Altar and church are clad in bright array,And gates of branches green arise around,Over the columns twine the garlands gay;Rheims cannot hold the ever-swelling trainThat seeks the nation-festival to gain.
All with one joyous feeling are elate,One single thought is thrilling every breast;What, until now, was severed by fierce hate,Is by the general rapture truly blessed.By each who called this land his parent-state,The name of Frenchman proudly is confessed;The glory is revived of olden days,And to her regal son France homage pays.
Yet I who have achieved this work of pride,I cannot share the rapture felt by all:My heart is changed, my heart is turned aside,It shuns the splendor of this festival;'Tis in the British camp it seeks to hide,—'Tis on the foe my yearning glances fall;And from the joyous circle I must steal,My bosom's crime o'erpowering to conceal.
Who? I? What! in my bosom chasteCan mortal's image have a seat?This heart, by heavenly glory graced,—Dares it with earthly love to beat?The saviour of my country, I,—The champion of the Lord Most High,Own for my country's foe a flame—To the chaste sun my guilt proclaim,And not be crushed beneath my shame?
(The music behind the scene changes into a soft, melting melody.)
Woe! oh woe! what strains enthralling!How bewildering to mine earEach his voice beloved recalling,Charming up his image dear!
Would that battle-tempests bound me!Would that spears were whizzing round meIn the hotly-raging strife!Could my courage find fresh life!
How those tones, those voices blestCoil around my bosom burningAll the strength within my breastMelting into tender yearning,Into tears of sadness turning!
(The flutes are again heard—she falls into a silent melancholy.)
Gentle crook! oh that I neverFor the sword had bartered thee!Sacred oak! why didst thou everFrom thy branches speak to me?Would that thou to me in splendor,Queen of heaven, hadst ne'er come down!Take—all claim I must surrender,—Take, oh take away thy crown!
Ah, I open saw yon heaven,Saw the features of the blest!Yet to earth my hopes are riven,In the skies they ne'er can rest!Wherefore make me ply with ardorThis vocation, terror-fraught?Would this heart were rendered harder.That by heaven to feel was taught!
To proclaim Thy might sublimeThose select, who, free from crime,In Thy lasting mansions stand;Send Thou forth Thy spirit-band,The immortal, and the pure,Feelingless, from tears secureNever choose a maiden fair,Shepherdess' weak spirit ne'er!
Kings' dissensions wherefore dread I,Why the fortune of the fight?Guilelessly my lambs once fed IOn the silent mountain-height.Yet Thou into life didst bear me,To the halls where monarchs throne.In the toils of guilt to snare me—Ah, the choice was not mine own!
[1] The allusion in the original is to the seemingly magical power possessed by a Jew conjuror, named Philadelphia, which would not be understood in English.
[2] This most exquisite love poem is founded on the platonic notion, that souls were united in a pre-existent state, that love is the yearning of the spirit to reunite with the spirit with which it formerly made one—and which it discovers on earth. The idea has often been made subservient to poetry, but never with so earnest and elaborate a beauty.
[3] "Und Empfindung soll mein Richtschwert seyn." A line of great vigor in the original, but which, if literally translated, would seem extravagant in English.
[4] Joseph, in the original.
[5] The youth's name was John Christian Weckherlin.
[6] Venus.
[7] Originally Laura, this having been one of the "Laura-Poems," as the Germans call them of which so many appeared in the Anthology (see Preface). English readers will probably not think that the change is for the better.
[8] Tityus.
[9] This concluding and fine strophe is omitted in the later editions of Schiller's "Poems."
[10] Hercules who recovered from the Shades Alcestis, after she had given her own life to save her husband, Admetus. Alcestis, in the hands of Euripides (that woman-hater as he is called!) becomes the loveliest female creation in the Greek drama.
[11] i. e. Castor and Pollux are transferred to the stars, Hercules to Olympus, for their deeds on earth.
[12] Carlyle's Miscellanies, vol. iii, p. 47.
[13] Literally "Nierensteiner,"—a wine not much known in England, and scarcely—according to our experience—worth the regrets of its respectable owner.
[14] In Schiller the eight long lines that conclude each stanza of this charming love-poem, instead of rhyming alternately as in the translation, chime somewhat to the tune of Byron's Don Juan—six lines rhyming with each other, and the two last forming a separate couplet. In other respects the translation, it is hoped, is sufficiently close and literal.
[15] The peach.
[16] Sung in "The Parasite," a comedy which Schiller translated from Picard—much the best comedy, by the way, that Picard ever wrote.
[17] The idea diffused by the translator through this and the preceding stanza is more forcibly condensed by Schiller in four lines.
[18] "And ere a man hath power to say, "behold,"The jaws of Darkness do devour it up,So quick bright things come to confusion."—SHAKESPEARE.
[19] The three following ballads, in which Switzerland is the scene, betray their origin in Schiller's studies for the drama of William Tell.
[20] The avalanche—the equivoque of the original, turning on the Swiss word Lawine, it is impossible to render intelligible to the English reader. The giants in the preceding line are the rocks that overhang the pass which winds now to the right, now to the left, of a roaring stream.
[21] The Devil's Bridge. The Land of Delight (called in Tell "a serene valley of joy") to which the dreary portal (in Tell the black rock gate) leads, is the Urse Vale. The four rivers, in the next stanza, are the Reus, the Rhine, the Tessin, and the Rhone.
[22] The everlasting glacier. See William Tell, act v, scene 2.
[23] This has been paraphrased by Coleridge.
[24] Ajax the Less.
[25] Ulysses.
[26] Achilles.
[27] Diomed.
[28] Cassandra.
[29] It may be scarcely necessary to treat, however briefly, of the mythological legend on which this exquisite elegy is founded; yet we venture to do so rather than that the forgetfulness of the reader should militate against his enjoyment of the poem. Proserpine, according to the Homeride (for the story is not without variations), when gathering flowers with the Ocean-Nymphs, is carried off by Aidoneus, or Pluto. Her mother, Ceres, wanders over the earth for her in vain, and refuses to return to heaven till her daughter is restored to her. Finally, Jupiter commissions Hermes to persuade Pluto to render up his bride, who rejoins Ceres at Eleusis. Unfortunately she has swallowed a pomegranate seed in the Shades below, and is thus mysteriously doomed to spend one-third of the year with her husband in Hades, though for the remainder of the year she is permitted to dwell with Ceres and the gods. This is one of the very few mythological fables of Greece which can be safely interpreted into an allegory. Proserpine denotes the seed-corn one-third of the year below the earth; two-thirds (that is, dating from the appearance of the ear) above it. Schiller has treated this story with admirable and artistic beauty; and, by an alteration in its symbolical character has preserved the pathos of the external narrative, and heightened the beauty of the interior meaning—associating the productive principle of the earth with the immortality of the soul. Proserpine here is not the symbol of the buried seed, but the buried seed is the symbol of her—that is, of the dead. The exquisite feeling of this poem consoled Schiller's friend, Sophia La Roche, in her grief for her son's death. [30] What a beautiful vindication of the shortness of human life!
[31] The corn-flower.
[32] For this story, see Herodotus, book iii, sections 40-43.
[33] President of Council of Five Hundred.
[34] We have already seen in "The Ring of Polycrates," Schiller's mode of dealing with classical subjects. In the poems that follow, derived from similar sources, the same spirit is maintained. In spite of Humboldt, we venture to think that Schiller certainly does not narrate Greek legends in the spirit of an ancient Greek. The Gothic sentiment, in its ethical depth and mournful tenderness, more or less pervades all that he translates from classic fable into modern pathos. The grief of Hero in the ballad subjoined, touches closely on the lamentations of Thekla, in "Wallenstein." The Complaint of Ceres, embodies Christian grief and Christian hope. The Trojan Cassandra expresses the moral of the Northern Faust. Even the "Victory Feast" changes the whole spirit of Homer, on whom it is founded, by the introduction of the ethical sentiment at the close, borrowed, as a modern would apply what he so borrows from the moralizing Horace. Nothing can be more foreign to the Hellenic genius, (if we except the very disputable intention of the "Prometheus"), than the interior and typical design which usually exalts every conception in Schiller. But it is perfectly open to the modern poet to treat of ancient legends in the modern spirit. Though he selects a Greek story, he is still a modern who narrates—he can never make himself a Greek any more than Aeschylus in the "Persae" could make himself a Persian. But this is still more the privilege of the poet in narrative, or lyrical composition, than in the drama, for in the former he does not abandon his identity, as in the latter he must—yet even this must has its limits. Shakspeare's wonderful power of self-transfusion has no doubt enabled him, in his plays from Roman history, to animate his characters with much of Roman life. But no one can maintain that a Roman would ever have written plays in the least resembling "Julius Caesar," or "Coriolanus," or "Antony and Cleopatra." The portraits may be Roman, but they are painted in the manner of the Gothic school. The spirit of antiquity is only in them, inasmuch as the representation of human nature, under certain circumstances, is accurately, though loosely outlined. When the poet raises the dead, it is not to restore, but to remodel.
[35] This notes the time of year—not the time of day—viz., about the 23d of September.—HOFFMEISTER.
[36] Hecate as the mysterious goddess of Nature.—HOFFMEISTER.
[37] This story, the heroes of which are more properly known to us under the names of Damon and Pythias (or Phintias), Schiller took from Hyginus in whom the friends are called Moerus and Selinuntius. Schiller has somewhat amplified the incidents in the original, in which the delay of Moerus is occasioned only by the swollen stream—the other hindrances are of Schiller's invention. The subject, like "The Ring of Polycrates," does not admit of that rich poetry of description with which our author usually adorns some single passage in his narratives. The poetic spirit is rather shown in the terse brevity with which picture after picture is not only sketched but finished—and in the great thought at the close. Still it is not one of Schiller's best ballads. His additions to the original story are not happy. The incident of the robbers is commonplace and poor. The delay occasioned by the thirst of Moerus is clearly open to Goethe's objection (an objection showing very nice perception of nature)—that extreme thirst was not likely to happen to a man who had lately passed through a stream on a rainy day, and whose clothes must have been saturated with moisture—nor in the traveller's preoccupied state of mind, is it probable that he would have so much felt the mere physical want. With less reason has it been urged by other critics, that the sudden relenting of the tyrant is contrary to his character. The tyrant here has no individual character at all. He is the mere personation of disbelief in truth and love—which the spectacle of sublime self-abnegation at once converts. In this idea lies the deep philosophical truth, which redeems all the defects of the piece—for poetry, in its highest form, is merely this—"Truth made beautiful."
[38] The somewhat irregular metre of the original has been preserved in this ballad, as in other poems; although the perfect anapaestic metre is perhaps more familiar to the English ear.
[39] "Die Gestalt"—Form, the Platonic Archetype.
[40] More literally translated thus by the author of the article on Schiller in the Foreign and Colonial Review, July, 1843—
"Thence all witnesses forever banishedOf poor human nakedness."
[41] The law, i. e., the Kantian ideal of truth and virtue. This stanza and the next embody, perhaps with some exaggeration, the Kantian doctrine of morality.
[42] "But in God's sight submission is command." "Jonah," by the Rev. F. Hodgson. Quoted in Foreign and Colonial Review, July, 1843: Art. Schiller, p. 21.
[43] It seems generally agreed that poetry is allegorized in these stanzas; though, with this interpretation, it is difficult to reconcile the sense of some of the lines—for instance, the last in the first stanza. How can poetry be said to leave no trace when she takes farewell?
[44] "I call the living—I mourn the dead—I break the lightning." These words are inscribed on the great bell of the Minster of Schaffhausen—also on that of the Church of Art near Lucerne. There was an old belief in Switzerland that the undulation of air caused by the sound of a bell, broke the electric fluid of a thunder-cloud.
[45] A piece of clay pipe, which becomes vitrified if the metal is sufficiently heated.
[46] The translator adheres to the original, in forsaking the rhyme in these lines and some others.
[47] Written in the time of the French war.
[48] Literally, "the manners." The French word moeurs corresponds best with the German.
[49] The epithet in the first edition is ruhmlose.
[50] For this interesting story, see Cox's "House of Austria," vol i, pp. 87-98 (Bohn's Standard Library).
[51] See "Piccolomini," act ii., scene 6; and "The Death of Wallenstein," act v., scene 3.
[52] This poem is very characteristic of the noble ease with which Schiller often loves to surprise the reader, by the sudden introduction of matter for the loftiest reflection in the midst of the most familiar subjects. What can be more accurate and happy than the poet's description of the national dance, as if such description were his only object—the outpouring, as it were, of a young gallant intoxicated by the music, and dizzy with the waltz? Suddenly and imperceptibly the reader finds himself elevated from a trivial scene. He is borne upward to the harmony of the sphere. He bows before the great law of the universe—the young gallant is transformed into the mighty teacher; and this without one hard conceit —without one touch of pedantry. It is but a flash of light; and where glowed the playful picture shines the solemn moral.
[53] The first five verses in the original of this poem are placed as a motto on Goethe's statue in the Library at Weimar. The poet does not here mean to extol what is vulgarly meant by the gifts of fortune; he but develops a favorite idea of his, that, whatever is really sublime and beautiful, comes freely down from heaven; and vindicates the seeming partiality of the gods, by implying that the beauty and the genius given, without labor, to some, but serve to the delight of those to whom they are denied.
[54] Achilles.
[55] "Nur ein Wunder kann dich tragen In das schoene Wunderland."—SCHILLER, Sehnsucht.
[56] This simile is nobly conceived, but expressed somewhat obscurely. As Hercules contended in vain against Antaeus, the Son of Earth—so long as the earth gave her giant offspring new strength in every fall,—so the soul contends in vain with evil—the natural earth-born enemy, while the very contact of the earth invigorates the enemy for the struggle. And as Antaeus was slain at last, when Hercules lifted him from the earth, and strangled him while raised aloft, so can the soul slay the enemy (the desire, the passion, the evil, the earth's offspring), when bearing it from earth itself, and stifling it in the higher air.
[57] By this Schiller informs us elsewhere that he does not mean death alone; but that the thought applies equally to every period of life when we can divest ourselves of the body and perceive or act as pure spirits; we are truly then under the influence of the sublime.
[58] Duke Bernard of Weimar, one of the heroes of the Thirty Years' war.
[59] These verses were sent by Schiller to the then Electoral High Chancellor, with a copy of his "William Tell."
[60] Addressed in the original to Mdlle. Slevoigt, on her marriage to Dr. Sturm.
[61] This was the title of the publication in which many of the finest of Schiller's "Poems of the Third Period" originally appeared.
[62] A pointless satire upon Klopstock and his Messias.
[63] Schiller, who is not very particular about the quantities of classical names, gives this word with the o long—which is, of course, the correct quantity—in The Gods of Greece.
[64] A well-known general, who died in 1783.
[65] See the play of The Robbers.
[66] Written in consequence of the ill-treatment Schiller experienced at the hands of the Grand Duke Charles of Wirtemberg.
[67] Written in the Suabian dialect.
[68] An allusion to the appointment of regimental surgeon, conferred upon Schiller by the Grand Duke Charles in 1780, when he was twenty-one years of age.
[69] The Landlord on the Mountain.
[70] The year.