Kitabı oku: «The Poems of Schiller — First period», sayfa 4

 
    From its crumbling house the spirit fly,
   And the storm its ashes strew around, —
    But its love, its love shall never die!
 

THE BATTLE

 
        Heavy and solemn,
        A cloudy column,
     Through the green plain they marching came!
   Measure less spread, like a table dread,
   For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
   The looks are bent on the shaking ground,
   And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound;
   Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt,
   Gallops the major along the front —
               "Halt!"
   And fettered they stand at the stark command,
   And the warriors, silent, halt!
 
 
   Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
   What on the hill-top shines in flowing,
   "See you the foeman's banners waving?"
   "We see the foeman's banners waving!"
   "God be with ye — children and wife!"
   Hark to the music — the trump and the fife,
   How they ring through the ranks which they rouse to the strife!
   Thrilling they sound with their glorious tone,
   Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone!
   Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er,
   In the life to come that we meet once more!
 
 
   See the smoke how the lightning is cleaving asunder!
   Hark the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder!
   From host to host, with kindling sound,
   The shouting signal circles round,
   Ay, shout it forth to life or death —
   Freer already breathes the breath!
   The war is waging, slaughter raging,
   And heavy through the reeking pall,
   The iron death-dice fall!
   Nearer they close — foes upon foes
   "Ready!" — From square to square it goes,
   Down on the knee they sank,
   And fire comes sharp from the foremost rank.
   Many a man to the earth it sent,
   Many a gap by the balls is rent —
   O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man,
   That the line may not fail to the fearless van,
   To the right, to the left, and around and around,
   Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground.
   God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight,
   Over the hosts falls a brooding night!
   Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er
   In the life to come that we meet once more!
 
 
   The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood
   And the living are blent in the slippery flood,
   And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go,
   Stumble still on the corpses that sleep below.
   "What, Francis!" "Give Charlotte my last farewell."
   As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell —
   "I'll give — Oh God! are their guns so near?
   Ho! comrades! — yon volley! — look sharp to the rear! —
   I'll give thy Charlotte thy last farewell,
   Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain,
   The friend thou forsakest thy side shall regain!"
   Hitherward — thitherward reels the fight,
   Dark and more darkly day glooms into night —
   Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er
   In the life to come that we meet once more!
 
 
   Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!
    The adjutant flying, —
   The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
    Their thunder booms in dying —
             Victory!
   The terror has seized on the dastards all,
    And their colors fall!
             Victory!
   Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight
   And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night,
   Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,
   The triumph already sweeps marching in song.
   Farewell, fallen brothers, though this life be o'er,
   There's another, in which we shall meet you once more!
 

ROUSSEAU

 
   Monument of our own age's shame,
   On thy country casting endless blame,
    Rousseau's grave, how dear thou art to me
   Calm repose be to thy ashes blest!
   In thy life thou vainly sought'st for rest,
    But at length 'twas here obtained by thee!
 
 
   When will ancient wounds be covered o'er?
   Wise men died in heathen days of yore;
    Now 'tis lighter — yet they die again.
   Socrates was killed by sophists vile,
   Rousseau meets his death through Christians' wile, —
    Rousseau — who would fain make Christians men!
 

FRIENDSHIP

[From "Letters of Julius to Raphael," an unpublished Novel.]

 
   Friend! — the Great Ruler, easily content,
    Needs not the laws it has laborious been
   The task of small professors to invent;
    A single wheel impels the whole machine
   Matter and spirit; — yea, that simple law,
   Pervading nature, which our Newton saw.
 
 
   This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein,
    Their radiant labyrinths to weave around
   Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain,
    Which into interwoven systems bound
   All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun
   As brooks that ever into ocean run!
 
 
   Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide
    Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond?
   Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side
    Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond
   Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go
   To that perfection which the angels know!
 
 
   Happy, O happy — I have found thee — I
    Have out of millions found thee, and embraced;
   Thou, out of millions, mine! — Let earth and sky
    Return to darkness, and the antique waste —
   To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be,
   Still shall each heart unto the other flee!
 
 
   Do I not find within thy radiant eyes
    Fairer reflections of all joys most fair?
   In thee I marvel at myself — the dyes
    Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there,
   And in the bright looks of the friend is given
   A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven!
 
 
   Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes
    From the intolerant storm to rest awhile,
   In love's true heart, sure haven of repose;
    Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile
   From that bright eloquence affection gave
   To friendly looks? — there, finds not pain a grave?
 
 
   In all creation did I stand alone,
    Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find,
   Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone,
    My griefs should feel a listener in the wind;
   My joy — its echo in the caves should be!
   Fool, if ye will — Fool, for sweet sympathy!
 
 
   We are dead groups of matter when we hate;
    But when we love we are as gods! — Unto
   The gentle fetters yearning, through each state
    And shade of being multiform, and through
   All countless spirits (save of all the sire) —
   Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire.
 
 
   Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade,
    From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek,
   Who the fine link between the mortal made,
    And heaven's last seraph — everywhere we seek
   Union and bond — till in one sea sublime
   Of love be merged all measure and all time!
 
 
   Friendless ruled God His solitary sky;
    He felt the want, and therefore souls were made,
   The blessed mirrors of his bliss! — His eye
    No equal in His loftiest works surveyed;
   And from the source whence souls are quickened, He
   Called His companion forth — ETERNITY!
 

ELYSIUM

 
   Past the despairing wail —
   And the bright banquets of the Elysian vale
    Melt every care away!
   Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
   Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
    Elysian life survey!
   There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
   His merry west-winds blithely leads
    The ever-blooming May!
   Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the hours,
   In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
    And truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.
   And joy to-day and joy to-morrow,
    But wafts the airy soul aloft;
   The very name is lost to sorrow,
    And pain is rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.
 
 
   Here the pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
   And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,
    The load he shall bear never more;
   Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams,
   Lulled with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams,
   The fields, when the harvest is o'er.
   Here, he, whose ears drank in the battle roar,
   Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind
    A thunder-storm, — before whose thunder tread
   The mountains trembled, — in soft sleep reclined,
    By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed
   In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore,
   Hears the stern clangor of wild spears no more!
   Here the true spouse the lost-beloved regains,
   And on the enamelled couch of summer-plains
    Mingles sweet kisses with the zephyr's breath.
   Here, crowned at last, love never knows decay,
   Living through ages its one bridal day,
    Safe from the stroke of death!