The Poems of Schiller — First period

THE INFANTICIDE

 
   Hark where the bells toll, chiming, dull and steady,
    The clock's slow hand hath reached the appointed time.
   Well, be it so — prepare, my soul is ready,
    Companions of the grave — the rest for crime!
   Now take, O world! my last farewell — receiving
    My parting kisses — in these tears they dwell!
   Sweet are thy poisons while we taste believing,
    Now we are quits — heart-poisoner, fare-thee-well!
 
 
   Farewell, ye suns that once to joy invited,
   Changed for the mould beneath the funeral shade;
   Farewell, farewell, thou rosy time delighted,
   Luring to soft desire the careless maid,
   Pale gossamers of gold, farewell, sweet dreaming
   Fancies — the children that an Eden bore!
   Blossoms that died while dawn itself was gleaming,
   Opening in happy sunlight never more.
 
 
   Swanlike the robe which innocence bestowing,
    Decked with the virgin favors, rosy fair,
   In the gay time when many a young rose glowing,
    Blushed through the loose train of the amber hair.
   Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now —
    The shroud-like robe hell's destined victim wears;
   Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow —
    That sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares!
 
 
   Weep ye, who never fell-for whom, unerring,
    The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue,
   Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,
    Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few!
   Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling —
    Feeling! — my sin's avenger ³ doomed to be;
   Woe — for the false man's arm around me stealing,
    Stole the lulled virtue, charmed to sleep, from me.
 
 
   Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing
    (Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast),
   Gayly, when I in the dumb grave am lying,
    Pour the warm wish or speed the wanton jest,
   Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses,
    Answer the kiss her lip enamored brings,
   When the dread block the head he cradled presses,
    And high the blood his kiss once fevered springs.
 
 
   Thee, Francis, Francis ⁴, league on league, shall follow
    The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear;
   From yonder steeple dismal, dull, and hollow,
    Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear.
   On thy fresh leman's lips when love is dawning,
    And the lisped music glides from that sweet well —
   Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning,
    And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell!
 
 
   Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing
    To grief — the woman-shame no art can heal —
   To that small life beneath my heart reposing!
    Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel!
   Proud flew the sails — receding from the land,
    I watched them waning from the wistful eye,
   Round the gay maids on Seine's voluptuous strand,
    Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh.
 
 
   And there the babe! there, on the mother's bosom,
    Lulled in its sweet and golden rest it lay,
   Fresh in life's morning as a rosy blossom,
    It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away.
   Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking
    In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness,
   And cradled still the mother's heart, in breaking,
    The softening love and the despairing madness.
 
 
   "Woman, where is my father?" freezing through me,
    Lisped the mute innocence with thunder-sound;
   "Woman, where is thy husband?" — called unto me,
    In every look, word, whisper, busying round!
   Alas, for thee, there is no father's kiss; —
    He fondleth other children on his knee.
   How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss,
    When bastard on thy name shall branded be!
 
 
   Thy mother — oh, a hell her heart concealeth,
    Lone-sitting, lone in social nature's all!
   Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth,
    While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall.
   In every infant cry my soul is hearkening,
    The haunting happiness forever o'er,
   And all the bitterness of death is darkening
    The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before.
 
 
   Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses —
    Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turned —
   The avenging furies madden in thy kisses,
    That slept in his what time my lips they burned.
   Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder!
    The perjury stalked like murder in the sun —
   Forever — God! — sense, reason, soul, sunk under —
    The deed was done!
 
 
   Francis, O Francis! league on league shall chase thee
    The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight —
   Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee,
    And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight!
 
 
   Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory,
    Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare;
   That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory,
    And scourge thee back from heaven — its home is there!
 
 
   Lifeless — how lifeless! — see, oh see, before me
    It lies cold — stiff — O God! — and with that blood
   I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me
    Mine own life mingled — ebbing in the flood —
 
 
   Hark, at the door they knock — more loud within me —
    More awful still — its sound the dread heart gave!
   Gladly I welcome the cold arms that win me —
    Fire, quench thy tortures in the icy grave!
 
 
   Francis — a God that pardons dwells in heaven —
    Francis, the sinner — yes — she pardons thee —
   So let my wrongs unto the earth be given
    Flame seize the wood! — it burns — it kindles — see!
   There — there his letters cast — behold are ashes —
    His vows — the conquering fire consumes them here
   His kisses — see — see — all are only ashes —
    All, all — the all that once on earth were dear!
 
 
   Trust not the roses which your youth enjoyeth,
    Sisters, to man's faith, changeful as the moon!
   Beauty to me brought guilt — its bloom destroyeth
    Lo, in the judgment court I curse the boon
   Tears in the headsman's gaze — what tears? — 'tis spoken!
    Quick, bind mine eyes — all soon shall be forgot —
   Doomsman — the lily hast thou never broken?
    Pale Doomsman — tremble not!
 

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 shore.
   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 shore."
 
 
   "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 niggard all the while."
 
 
   "Come, sister, let us friendship 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 hell!
   Rogues beneath apostle-masks may leer,
    And the bastard 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-encumbered hills,
   Till God'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 God to tempt presumes?
    Where the eye that through the gulf can see?
   Holy, holy, holy art thou, God of tombs!
    We, with awful trembling, worship Thee!
   Dust may back to native dust be ground,