The Poems of Schiller - First period Part 3

THE GREATNESS OF THE WORLD.

Through the world which the Spirit creative and kind First formed out of chaos, I fly like the wind, Until on the strand Of its billows I land, My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the sh.o.r.e.

I saw infant stars into being arise, For thousands of years to roll on through the skies; I saw them in play Seek their goal far away,-- For a moment my fugitive gaze wandered on,-- I looked round me, and lo!--all those bright stars had flown!

Madly yearning to reach the dark kingdom of night.

I boldly steer on with the speed of the light; All misty and drear The dim heavens appear, While embryo systems and seas at their source Are whirling around the sun-wanderer's course.

When sudden a pilgrim I see drawing near Along the lone path,--"Stay! What seekest thou here?"

"My bark, tempest-tossed, I sail toward the land where the breeze blows no more, And Creation's last boundary stands on the sh.o.r.e."

"Stay, thou sailest in vain! 'Tis INFINITY yonder!"-- "'Tis INFINITY, too, where thou, pilgrim, wouldst wander!

Eagle-thoughts that aspire, Let your proud pinions tire!

For 'tis here that sweet phantasy, bold to the last, Her anchor in hopeless dejection must cast!"

FORTUNE AND WISDOM.

Enraged against a quondam friend, To Wisdom once proud Fortune said "I'll give thee treasures without end, If thou wilt be my friend instead."

"My choicest gifts to him I gave, And ever blest him with my smile; And yet he ceases not to crave, And calls me n.i.g.g.ard all the while."

"Come, sister, let us friends.h.i.+p vow!

So take the money, nothing loth; Why always labor at the plough?

Here is enough I'm sure for both!"

Sage wisdom laughed,--the prudent elf!-- And wiped her brow, with moisture hot: "There runs thy friend to hang himself,-- Be reconciled--I need thee not!"

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN. [5]

Mournful groans, as when a tempest lowers, Echo from the dreary house of woe; Death-notes rise from yonder minster's towers!

Bearing out a youth, they slowly go; Yes! a youth--unripe yet for the bier, Gathered in the spring-time of his days, Thrilling yet with pulses strong and clear, With the flame that in his bright eye plays-- Yes, a son--the idol of his mother, (Oh, her mournful sigh shows that too well!) Yes! my bosom-friend,--alas my brother!-- Up! each man the sad procession swell!

Do ye boast, ye pines, so gray and old, Storms to brave, with thunderbolts to sport?

And, ye hills, that ye the heavens uphold?

And, ye heavens, that ye the suns support!

Boasts the graybeard, who on haughty deeds As on billows, seeks perfection's height?

Boasts the hero, whom his prowess leads Up to future glory's temple bright!

If the gnawing worms the floweret blast, Who can madly think he'll ne'er decay?

Who above, below, can hope to last, If the young man's life thus fleets away?

Joyously his days of youth so glad Danced along, in rosy garb beclad, And the world, the world was then so sweet!

And how kindly, how enchantingly Smiled the future,--with what golden eye Did life's paradise his moments greet!

While the tear his mother's eye escaped, Under him the realm of shadows gaped And the fates his thread began to sever,-- Earth and Heaven then vanished from his sight.

From the grave-thought shrank he in affright-- Sweet the world is to the dying ever!

Dumb and deaf 'tis in that narrow place, Deep the slumbers of the buried one!

Brother! Ah, in ever-slackening race All thy hopes their circuit cease to run!

Sunbeams oft thy native hill still lave, But their glow thou never more canst feel; O'er its flowers the zephyr's pinions wave, O'er thine ear its murmur ne'er can steal; Love will never tinge thine eye with gold, Never wilt thou embrace thy blooming bride, Not e'en though our tears in torrents rolled-- Death must now thine eye forever hide!

Yet 'tis well!--for precious is the rest, In that narrow house the sleep is calm; There, with rapture sorrow leaves the breast,-- Man's afflictions there no longer harm.

Slander now may wildly rave o'er thee, And temptation vomit poison fell, O'er the wrangle on the Pharisee, Murderous bigots banish thee to h.e.l.l!

Rogues beneath apostle-masks may leer, And the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of justice play, As it were with dice, with mankind here, And so on, until the judgment day!

O'er thee fortune still may juggle on, For her minions blindly look around,-- Man now totter on his staggering throne, And in dreary puddles now be found!

Blest art thou, within thy narrow cell!

To this stir of tragi-comedy, To these fortune-waves that madly swell, To this vain and childish lottery, To this busy crowd effecting naught, To this rest with labor teeming o'er, Brother!--to this heaven with devils--fraught, Now thine eyes have closed forevermore.

Fare thee well, oh, thou to memory dear, By our blessings lulled to slumbers sweet!

Sleep on calmly in thy prison drear,-- Sleep on calmly till again we meet!

Till the loud Almighty trumpet sounds, Echoing through these corpse-enc.u.mbered hills, Till G.o.d's storm-wind, bursting through the bounds Placed by death, with life those corpses fills-- Till, impregnate with Jehovah's blast, Graves bring forth, and at His menace dread, In the smoke of planets melting fast, Once again the tombs give up their dead!

Not in worlds, as dreamed of by the wise, Not in heavens, as sung in poet's song, Not in e'en the people's paradise-- Yet we shall o'ertake thee, and ere long.

Is that true which cheered the pilgrim's gloom?

Is it true that thoughts can yonder be True, that virtue guides us o'er the tomb?

That 'tis more than empty phantasy?

All these riddles are to thee unveiled!

Truth thy soul ecstatic now drinks up, Truth in radiance thousandfold exhaled From the mighty Father's blissful cup.

Dark and silent bearers draw, then, nigh!

To the slayer serve the feast the while!

Cease, ye mourners, cease your wailing cry!

Dust on dust upon the body pile!

Where's the man who G.o.d to tempt presumes?

Where the eye that through the gulf can see?

Holy, holy, holy art thou, G.o.d of tombs!

We, with awful trembling, wors.h.i.+p Thee!

Dust may back to native dust be ground, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.h.i.+nes in flowing, "See you the foeman's banners waving?"

"We see the foeman's banners waving!"

"G.o.d 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!