Kitabı oku: «The Poems of Schiller — Third period», sayfa 2

THE FAVOR OF THE MOMENT

 
   Once more, then, we meet
    In the circles of yore;
   Let our song be as sweet
    In its wreaths as before,
   Who claims the first place
    In the tribute of song?
   The God to whose grace
    All our pleasures belong.
   Though Ceres may spread
    All her gifts on the shrine,
   Though the glass may be red
    With the blush of the vine,
   What boots — if the while
    Fall no spark on the hearth;
   If the heart do not smile
    With the instinct of mirth? —
   From the clouds, from God's breast
    Must our happiness fall,
   'Mid the blessed, most blest
    Is the moment of all!
   Since creation began
    All that mortals have wrought,
   All that's godlike in man
    Comes — the flash of a thought!
   For ages the stone
    In the quarry may lurk,
   An instant alone
    Can suffice to the work;
   An impulse give birth
    To the child of the soul,
   A glance stamp the worth
    And the fame of the whole. ⁴
On the arch that she buildeth
    From sunbeams on high,
   As Iris just gildeth,
    And fleets from the sky,
   So shineth, so gloometh
    Each gift that is ours;
   The lightning illumeth —
    The darkness devours! ⁵
 

THE LAY OF THE MOUNTAIN

[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 ⁶, all silently tread —
   Let thy lip breathe no breath in the pathway of dread!
 
 
   High over the marge of the horrible deep
    Hangs and hovers a bridge with its phantom-like span, ⁷
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 blue
    Of 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, ⁸
The diadem blazing with diamonds above
    The 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!
 

THE ALPINE HUNTER

 
   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 go
   On yon heights to chase the roe!"
 
 
   Wilt thou not the flock compel
    With the horn's inspiring notes?
   Sweet the echo of yon bell,
    As across the wood it floats!
   "Mother, mother, let me go
   On yon heights to hunt the roe!"
 
 
   Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind,
    Smiling gently in their bed?
   For no garden thou wilt find
    On 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 speed
   To the mountain's gloomiest place, —
    Naught his progress could impede;
   And before him, like the wind,
   Swiftly flies the trembling hind!
 
 
   Up the naked precipice
    Clambers she, with footsteps light,
   O'er the chasm's dark abyss
    Leaps with spring of daring might;
   But behind, unweariedly,
   With his death-bow follows he.
 
 
   Now upon the rugged top
    Stands 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 Deity
   Shields 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?"
 

DITHYRAMB. ⁹

 
      Believe me, together
      The 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 presence
       Fill 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 only
       In Jupiter's palace —
      Brimmed bright with your nectar,
       Oh, reach me the chalice!
 
 
      "Hebe, the chalice
      Fill 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 FOUR AGES OF THE WORLD

 
   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 old
   And 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, produce
    Earth, 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 home
    With 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 guile
    Their 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 began
    With 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 sway
   Can 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 world
    For 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, again
    In woman's chaste bosom appeared;
   The bright flame of song was soon kindled anew
   By 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 MAIDEN'S LAMENT

 
      The clouds fast gather,
       The forest-oaks roar —
      A maiden is sitting
       Beside 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 below
   I 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 slumbers
       They 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 slumbers
       They 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!"
 

TO MY FRIENDS

 
   Yes, my friends! — that happier times have been
   Than 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 come
    From 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 excel
   This, 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 supreme
   But the sun his image only graves
    On 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 states
   Dwells 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 sky
    Mounts 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 plants
    That the seasons round her cast.
 
 
   Greater actions elsewhere may be rife
   Than with us, in our contracted life —
    But beneath the sun there's naught that's new;
   Yet we see the great of every age
   Pass before us on the world's wide stage
    Thoughtfully and calmly in review
   All. in life repeats itself forever,
    Young for ay is phantasy alone;
   What has happened nowhere, — happened never, —
    That has never older grown!
 

PUNCH SONG

 
      Four elements, joined in
       Harmonious strife,
      Shadow the world forth,
       And typify life.
 
 
      Into the goblet
       The lemon's juice pour;
      Acid is ever
       Life's innermost core.
 
 
      Now, with the sugar's
       All-softening juice,
      The strength of the acid
       So burning reduce.
 
 
      The bright sparkling water
       Now pour in the bowl;
      Water all-gently
       Encircles the whole.
 
 
      Let drops of the spirit
       To join them now flow;
      Life to the living
       Naught else can bestow.
 
 
      Drain it off quickly
       Before it exhales;
      Save when 'tis glowing,
       The draught naught avails.
 

NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT

 
   See, he sitteth on his mat
    Sitteth there upright,
   With the grace with which he sat
    While he saw the light.
 
 
   Where is now the sturdy gripe, —
    Where the breath sedate,
   That so lately whiffed the pipe
    Toward the Spirit great?
 
 
   Where the bright and falcon eye,
    That the reindeer's tread
   On the waving grass could spy,
    Thick with dewdrops spread?
 
 
   Where the limbs that used to dart
    Swifter through the snow
   Than the twenty-membered hart,
    Than the mountain roe?
 
 
   Where the arm that sturdily
    Bent the deadly bow?
   See, its life hath fleeted by, —
    See, it hangeth low!
 
 
   Happy he! — He now has gone
    Where 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 everything
    That can make him glad!
 
 
   'Neath his head the hatchet hide
    That 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 head
    Tore off skilfully.
 
 
   And to paint his body, place
    Dyes within his hand;
   Let him shine with ruddy grace
    In the Spirit-land!