Chapter 4

The god at once, then, said farewell, At small politeness striving; When sudden through the crowds of hell A flying courier rushed pell-mell, From Tellus' bounds arriving. "Monarch! a doctor follows me! Behold this wondrous prodigy!"

"Place for the doctor!" each one said-- He comes with spurs and whip, To every one he nods his head, As if he had been born and bred In Tartarus--the rip! As jaunty, fearless, full of nous As Britons in the Lower House.

"Good morrow, worthy sirs!--Ahem! I'm glad to see that here (Where all they of Prometheus' stem Must come, whene'er the Fates condemn) One meets with such good cheer! Why for Elysium care a rush? I'd rather see hell's fountains gush!"

"Stop! stop! his impudence, I vow, Its due reward shall meet; By Charles's wain, I swear it now! He must--no questions I'll allow,-- Prescribe me a receipt. All hell is mine, I'm Pluto hight! Make haste to bring your wares to light!"

The doctor, with a knowing look, The swarthy king surveyed; He neither felt his pulse, nor took The usual steps,--(see Galen's book),-- No difference 'twould have made As piercing as electric fire He eyed him to his heart's desire.

"Monarch! I'll tell thee in a trice The thing that's needed here; Though desperate may seem the advice-- The case itself is very nice-- And children dragons fear. Devil must devil eat!--no more!-- Either a wife,--or hellebore!

"Whether she scold, or sportive play, ('Tween these, no medium's known), She'll drive the incubus away That has assailed thee many a day Upon thine iron throne. She'll make the nimble spirits fleet Up towards the head, down towards the feet."

Long may the doctor honored be Who let this saying fall! He ought to have his effigy By Phidias sculptured, so that he May be discerned by all; A monument forever thriving, Boerhaave, Hippocrates, surviving!

REPROACH--TO LAURA.

Maiden, stay!--oh, whither wouldst thou go? Do I still or pride or grandeur show? Maiden, was it right? Thou the giant mad'st a dwarf once more, Scattered'st far the mountains that of yore Climbed to glory's sunny height.

Thou hast doomed my flowerets to decay, All the phantoms bright hast blown away, Whose sweet follies formed the hero's trust; All my plans that proudly raised their head Thou dost, with gentle zephyr-tread, Prostrate, laughing, in the dust.

To the godhead, eagle-like, I flew,-- Smiling, fortune's juggling wheel to view, Careless wheresoe'er her ball might fly; Hovering far beyond Cocytus' wave, Death and life receiving like a slave-- Life and death from out one beaming eye!

Like the victors, who, with thunder-lance, On the iron plain of glory dance, Starting from their mistress' breast,-- From Aurora's rosy bed upsprings God's bright sun, to roam o'er towns of kings, And to make the young world blest!

Toward the hero doth this heart still strain? Drink I, eagle, still the fiery rain Of thine eye, that burneth to destroy? In the glances that destructive gleam, Laura's love I see with sweetness beam,-- Weep to see it--like a boy!

My repose, like yonder image bright, Dancing in the waters--cloudless, light, Maiden, hath been slain by thee! On the dizzy height now totter I-- Laura--if from me--my Laura fly! Oh, the thought to madness hurries me!

Gladly shout the revellers as they quaff, Raptures in the leaf-crowned goblet laugh, Jests within the golden wine have birth, Since the maiden hath enslaved my mind, I have left each youthful sport behind, Friendless roam I o'er the earth.

Hear I still bright glory's thunder-tone? Doth the laurel still allure me on? Doth thy lyre, Apollo Cynthius? In my breast no echoes now arise, Every shamefaced muse in sorrow flies,-- And thou, too, Apollo Cynthius?

Shall I still be, as a woman, tame? Do my pulses, at my country's name, Proudly burst their prison-thralls? Would I boast the eagle's soaring wing? Do I long with Roman blood to spring, When my Hermann calls?

Oh, how sweet the eye's wild gaze divine Sweet to quaff the incense at that shrine! Prouder, bolder, swells the breast. That which once set every sense on fire, That which once could every nerve inspire, Scarce a half-smile now hath power to wrest!

That Orion might receive my fame, On the time-flood's heaving waves my name Rocked in glory in the mighty tide; So that Kronos' dreaded scythe was shivered, When against my monument is quivered, Towering toward the firmament in pride.

Smil'st thou?--No? to me naught's perished now! Star and laurel I'll to fools allow, To the dead their marble cell;-- Love hath granted all as my reward, High o'er man 'twere easy to have soared, So I love him well!

THE SIMPLE PEASANT. [62]

MATTHEW. Gossip, you'll like to hear, no doubt! A learned work has just come out-- Messias is the name 'twill bear; The man has travelled through the air, And on the sun-beplastered roads Has lost shoe-leather by whole loads,-- Has seen the heavens lie open wide, And hell has traversed with whole hide. The thought has just occurred to me That one so skilled as he must be May tell us how our flax and wheat arise. What say you?--Shall I try to ascertain?

LUKE. You fool, to think that any one so wise About mere flax and corn would rack his brain.

ACTAEON.

Thy wife is destined to deceive thee! She'll seek another's arms and leave thee, And horns upon thy head will shortly sprout! How dreadful that when bathing thou shouldst see me (No ether-bath can wash the stigma out), And then, in perfect innocence, shouldst flee me!

MAN'S DIGNITY.

I am a man!--Let every one Who is a man, too, spring With joy beneath God's shining sun, And leap on high, and sing!

To God's own image fair on earth Its stamp I've power to show; Down to the front, where heaven has birth With boldness I dare go.

'Tis well that I both dare and can! When I a maiden see, A voice exclaims: thou art a man! I kiss her tenderly.

And redder then the maiden grows, Her bodice seems too tight-- That I'm a man the maiden knows, Her bodice therefore's tight.

Will she, perchance, for pity cry, If unawares she's caught? She finds that I'm a man--then, why By her is pity sought?

I am a man; and if alone She sees me drawing near, I make the emperor's daughter run, Though ragged I appear.

This golden watchword wins the smile Of many a princess fair; They call--ye'd best look out the while, Ye gold-laced fellows there!

That I'm a man is fully shown Whene'er my lyre I sweep; It thunders out a glorious tone-- It otherwise would creep.

The spirit that my veins now hold, My manhood calls its brother! And both command, like lions bold, And fondly greet each other.

From out this same creative flood From which we men have birth, Both godlike strength and genius bud, And everything of worth.

My talisman all tyrants hates, And strikes them to the ground; Or guides us gladly through life's gates To where the dead are found.

E'en Pompey, at Pharsalia's fight, My talisman o'erthrew; On German sand it hurled with might Rome's sensual children, too.

Didst see the Roman, proud and stern, Sitting on Afric's shore? His eyes like Hecla seem to burn, And fiery flames outpour.

Then comes a frank and merry knave, And spreads it through the land: "Tell them that thou on Carthage's grave Hast seen great Marius stand!"

Thus speaks the son of Rome with pride, Still mighty in his fall; He is a man, and naught beside,-- Before him tremble all.

His grandsons afterwards began Their portions to o'erthrow, And thought it well that every man Should learn with grace to crow.

For shame, for shame,--once more for shame! The wretched ones?--they've even Squandered the tokens of their fame, The choicest gifts of heaven.

God's counterfeit has sinfully Disgraced his form divine, And in his vile humanity Has wallowed like the swine.

The face of earth each vainly treads, Like gourds, that boys in sport Have hollowed out to human heads, With skulls, whose brains are--naught.

Like wine that by a chemist's art Is through retorts refined, Their spirits to the deuce depart, The phlegma's left behind.

From every woman's face they fly, Its very aspect dread,-- And if they dared--and could not--why, 'Twere better they were dead.

They shun all worthies when they can, Grief at their joy they prove-- The man who cannot make a man, A man can never love!

The world I proudly wander o'er, And plume myself and sing I am a man!--Whoe'er is more? Then leap on high, and spring!

THE MESSIAD.

Religion 'twas produced this poem's fire; Perverted also?--prithee, don't inquire!

THOUGHTS ON THE 1ST OCTOBER, 1781.

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 phantasies With those who waken, fly away.

'Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes, Who makes all Nature's chords resound With 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 strain Awakens 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 mind The storm by which in age we're bent!)-- His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kind Gleams 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 tear Will 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!"

EPITAPH.

Here lies a man cut off by fate Too soon for all good men; For sextons he died late--too late For those who wield the pen.

QUIRL.

You tell me that you feel surprise Because Quirl's paper's grown in size; And yet they're crying through the street That there's a rise in bread and meat.

THE PLAGUE.

A PHANTASY.

Plague's contagious murderous breath God's strong might with terror reveals, As through the dreary valley of death With 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!

MONUMENT OF MOOR THE ROBBER. [65]

'Tis ended! Welcome! 'tis ended Oh 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,--decay In the cradle of wide-open heaven! Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes, When the hot thirst for glory Raises its barriers over against the dread throne! See! to eternity shame has consigned thee! To the bright stars of fame Thou 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 announcement Told 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 genius Learn 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 kindles Earth 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.

THE BAD MONARCHS. [66]

Earthly gods--my lyre shall win your praise, Though but wont its gentle sounds to raise When 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, joyously Change 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 seal Make 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, detect Where your wishes' haughty fleet was wrecked, Where was stayed your greatness' proud career That 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 bed See how death their pomp decayed and fled With unblushing ribaldry besets! They who ruled o'er north and east and west Suffer 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 keys Of--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 thrust In 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, jeer Powers so great, but mean.

Let your towering shame be hid from sight In the garment of a sovereign's right, From the ambush of the throne outspring! Tremble, though, before the voice of song Through the purple, vengeance will, ere long, Strike down e'en a king!

THE SATYR AND MY MUSE.

An aged satyr sought Around 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 porch Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;

And warbled many a lay, Her beauty's praise to sing, And fiercely scraped away On 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 played Within her grotto fair, And peevishly surveyed Signor 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 boor What charms canst thou display? Thou'rt swarthy as a Moor, And shaggy as a beast of prey.

"I'm by a bard adored In far Teutonia's land; To him, who strikes the chord, I'm linked in firm and loving band."

She spoke, and straightway fled The 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 fling On 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 whip Yet fool's blood 'tis alone We 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 dear One 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.

THE PEASANTS. [67]

Look outside, good friend, I pray! Two whole mortal hours Dogs and I've out here to-day Waited, 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 beg Hedges, bushes, all around, Here a ditch, and there a mound, Breaking arm and leg. Gloom and night the heavens now hide Ay, 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 now From 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.

THE WINTER NIGHT.

Farewell! the beauteous sun is sinking fast, The moon lifts up her head; Farewell! mute night o'er earth's wide round at last Her 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 wine Ye're gathered now, in joyous ring.

The brimming goblet's bright and purple beams Mirror the world with joy, And pleasure from the golden grape-juice gleams-- Pleasure untainted by alloy.

Concealed behind departed years, your eyes Find 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 never What 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 we That 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 prize Of song, 'tis given me to gain!

THE WIRTEMBERGER.

The name of Wirtemberg they hold To come from Wirth am berg [69], I'm told. A Wirtemberger who ne'er drinks No Wirtemberger is, methinks!

THE MOLE.

HUSBAND. The boy's my very image! See! Even the scars my small-pox left me!

WIFE. I can believe it easily They once of all my senses reft me.

HYMN TO THE ETERNAL.

'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, thou Giant daughter! Mirror God, as in water! Tempest, oh, let thine organ-peal God to the reasoning worm reveal!

Hark! it peals--how the rocks quiver beneath its growls Zeboath's glorious name, wildly the hurricane howls! Graving the while With the lightning's style "Creatures, do ye acknowledge me?"-- Spare us, Lord! We acknowledge Thee!

DIALOGUE.

A. Hark, neighbor, for one moment stay! Herr Doctor Scalpel, so they say, Has got off safe and sound; At Paris I your uncle found Fast 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?

EPITAPH

ON A CERTAIN PHYSIOGNOMIST.

On every nose he rightly read What intellects were in the head And yet--that he was not the one By whom God meant it to be done, This on his own he never read.

TRUST IN IMMORTALITY.

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.

APPENDIX OF POEMS ETC. IN SCHILLER'S DRAMATIC WORKS.

APPENDIX.

The following variations appear in the first two verses of Hector's Farewell, as given in The Robbers, act ii. scene 2.

ANDROMACHE. Wilt thou, Hector, leave me?--leave me weeping, Where Achilles' murderous blade is heaping Bloody offerings on Patroclus' grave? Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly Spears 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, Hector Soon 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 sorrow As 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'erhead And 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 rare We'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 day The 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.

MOOR'S SONG.

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 yore Oft 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 world Would 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 strand Made 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.

RECRUIT'S SONG.

How sweet the wild sound Of 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 free As the finch that we see On 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 alone O'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 employ To drink full deep of the goblet of joy,

CHORUS. And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employ To 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.

SCENE--The high rocky shore of the Lake of Lucerne, opposite Schwytz.

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 angels In 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 views When 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 streams Moves the hunter daring, Soon as daylight gleams.

As all flying creatures Own the eagle's sway, So the hunter, Nature's Mounts and crags obey.

Over space he reigneth, And he makes his prize All his bolt attaineth, All that creeps or flies.

From William Tell, act iv. scene 3.

CHORUS OF BROTHERS OF MERCY.

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.

RIDDLE.

The tree whereon decay All those from mortals sprung,-- Full old, and yet whose spray Is ever green and young; To catch the light, it rolls Each leaf upon one side; The other, black as coals, The sun has ne'er descried.

It places on new rings As often as it blows; The age, too, of all things To mortal gaze it shows. Upon its bark so green A 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.

SCENE--A Park. MARY advances hastily from behind some trees. HANNAH KENNEDY follows her slowly.

MARY.

Let me my newly-won liberty taste! Let me rejoice as a child once again! And, as on pinions, with airy foot hast Over 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 here Drink 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 blest Why 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 bush Set by my hands, ne'er may your verdure fail! Farewell, ye grots, ye springs that cooling gush Thou 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 height Of 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 sign A 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.

SCENE--A hall prepared for a festival. The pillars are covered with festoons of flowers; flutes and hautboys are heard behind the scene.

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 train That 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 chaste Can 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 ear Each his voice beloved recalling, Charming up his image dear!

Would that battle-tempests bound me! Would that spears were whizzing round me In the hotly-raging strife! Could my courage find fresh life!

How those tones, those voices blest Coil around my bosom burning All the strength within my breast Melting into tender yearning, Into tears of sadness turning!

(The flutes are again heard--she falls into a silent melancholy.)

Gentle crook! oh that I never For the sword had bartered thee! Sacred oak! why didst thou ever From 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 ardor This vocation, terror-fraught? Would this heart were rendered harder. That by heaven to feel was taught!

To proclaim Thy might sublime Those select, who, free from crime, In Thy lasting mansions stand; Send Thou forth Thy spirit-band, The immortal, and the pure, Feelingless, from tears secure Never 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 I On 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!

FOOTNOTES.

[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.