The Poems of Schiller — Third period

THE RING OF POLYCRATES. ¹⁸
A BALLAD

 
   Upon his battlements he stood,
   And downward gazed in joyous mood,
     On Samos' Isle, that owned his sway,
   "All this is subject to my yoke;"
   To Egypt's monarch thus he spoke, —
     "That I am truly blest, then, say!"
 
 
   "The immortals' favor thou hast known!
   Thy sceptre's might has overthrown
     All those who once were like to thee.
   Yet to avenge them one lives still;
   I cannot call thee blest, until
     That dreaded foe has ceased to be."
 
 
   While to these words the king gave vent,
   A herald from Miletus sent,
     Appeared before the tyrant there:
   "Lord, let thy incense rise to-day,
   And with the laurel branches gay
     Thou well may'st crown thy festive hair!"
 
 
   "Thy foe has sunk beneath the spear, —
   I'm sent to bear the glad news here,
     By thy true marshal Polydore" —
   Then from a basin black he takes —
   The fearful sight their terror wakes —
     A well-known head, besmeared with gore.
 
 
   The king with horror stepped aside,
   And then with anxious look replied:
     "Thy bliss to fortune ne'er commit.
   On faithless waves, bethink thee how
   Thy fleet with doubtful fate swims now —
     How soon the storm may scatter it!"
 
 
   But ere he yet had spoke the word,
   A shout of jubilee is heard
     Resounding from the distant strand.
   With foreign treasures teeming o'er,
   The vessels' mast-rich wood once more
     Returns home to its native land.
 
 
   The guest then speaks with startled mind:
   "Fortune to-day, in truth, seems kind;
     But thou her fickleness shouldst fear:
   The Cretan hordes, well skilled, in arms,
   Now threaten thee with war's alarms;
     E'en now they are approaching here."
 
 
   And, ere the word has 'scaped his lips,
   A stir is seen amongst the ships,
     And thousand voices "Victory!" cry:
   "We are delivered from our foe,
   The storm has laid the Cretan low,
     The war is ended, is gone by!"
 
 
   The shout with horror hears the guest:
   "In truth, I must esteem thee blest!
     Yet dread I the decrees of heaven.
   The envy of the gods I fear;
   To taste of unmixed rapture here
     Is never to a mortal given."
 
 
   "With me, too, everything succeeds;
   In all my sovereign acts and deeds
     The grace of Heaven is ever by;
   And yet I had a well-loved heir —
   I paid my debt to fortune there —
     God took him hence — I saw him die."
 
 
   "Wouldst thou from sorrow, then, be free.
   Pray to each unseen Deity,
     For thy well-being, grief to send;
   The man on whom the Gods bestow
   Their gifts with hands that overflow,
     Comes never to a happy end."
 
 
   "And if the Gods thy prayer resist,
   Then to a friend's instruction list, —
     Invoke thyself adversity;
   And what, of all thy treasures bright,
   Gives to thy heart the most delight —
     That take and cast thou in the sea!"
 
 
   Then speaks the other, moved by fear:
   "This ring to me is far most dear
     Of all this isle within it knows —
   I to the furies pledge it now,
   If they will happiness allow" —
     And in the flood the gem he throws.
 
 
   And with the morrow's earliest light,
   Appeared before the monarch's sight
     A fisherman, all joyously;
   "Lord, I this fish just now have caught,
   No net before e'er held the sort;
     And as a gift I bring it thee."
 
 
   The fish was opened by the cook,
   Who suddenly, with wondering look,
     Runs up, and utters these glad sounds:
   "Within the fish's maw, behold,
   I've found, great lord, thy ring of gold!
     Thy fortune truly knows no bounds!"
 
 
   The guest with terror turned away:
   "I cannot here, then, longer stay, —
     My friend thou canst no longer be!
   The gods have willed that thou shouldst die:
   Lest I, too, perish, I must fly" —
     He spoke, — and sailed thence hastily.
 

THE CRANES OF IBYCUS.
A BALLAD

 
   Once to the song and chariot-fight,
   Where all the tribes of Greece unite
   On Corinth's isthmus joyously,
   The god-loved Ibycus drew nigh.
   On him Apollo had bestowed
    The gift of song and strains inspired;
   So, with light staff, he took his road
    From Rhegium, by the godhead fired.
 
 
   Acrocorinth, on mountain high,
   Now burns upon the wanderer's eye,
   And he begins, with pious dread,
   Poseidon's grove of firs to tread.
   Naught moves around him, save a swarm
    Of cranes, who guide him on his way;
   Who from far southern regions warm
    Have hither come in squadron gray.
 
 
   "Thou friendly band, all hail to thee!
   Who led'st me safely o'er the sea!
   I deem thee as a favoring sign, —
   My destiny resembles thine.
   Both come from a far distant coast,
    Both pray for some kind sheltering place; —
   Propitious toward us be the host
    Who from the stranger wards disgrace!"
 
 
   And on he hastes, in joyous wood,
   And reaches soon the middle wood
   When, on a narrow bridge, by force
   Two murderers sudden bar his course.
   He must prepare him for the fray,
    But soon his wearied hand sinks low;
   Inured the gentle lyre to play,
    It ne'er has strung the deadly bow.
 
 
   On gods and men for aid he cries, —
   No savior to his prayer replies;
   However far his voice he sends,
   Naught living to his cry attends.
   "And must I in a foreign land,
    Unwept, deserted, perish here,
   Falling beneath a murderous hand,
    Where no avenger can appear?"
 
 
   Deep-wounded, down he sinks at last,
   When, lo! the cranes' wings rustle past.
   He hears, — though he no more can see, —
   Their voices screaming fearfully.
   "By you, ye cranes, that soar on high,
    If not another voice is heard,
   Be borne to heaven my murder-cry!"
    He speaks, and dies, too, with the word.
 
 
   The naked corpse, ere long, is found,
   And, though defaced by many a wound,
   His host in Corinth soon could tell
   The features that he loved so well.
   "And is it thus I find thee now,
    Who hoped the pine's victorious crown
   To place upon the singer's brow,
    Illumined by his bright renown?"
 
 
   The news is heard with grief by all
   Met at Poseidon's festival;
   All Greece is conscious of the smart,
   He leaves a void in every heart;
   And to the Prytanis ¹⁹ swift hie
    The people, and they urge him on
   The dead man's manes to pacify
    And with the murderer's blood atone.
 
 
   But where's the trace that from the throng
   The people's streaming crowds among,
   Allured there by the sports so bright,
   Can bring the villain back to light?
   By craven robbers was he slain?
    Or by some envious hidden foe?
   That Helios only can explain,
    Whose rays illume all things below.
 
 
   Perchance, with shameless step and proud,
   He threads e'en now the Grecian crowd —
   Whilst vengeance follows in pursuit,
   Gloats over his transgression's fruit.
   The very gods perchance he braves
    Upon the threshold of their fane, —
   Joins boldly in the human waves
    That haste yon theatre to gain.
 
 
   For there the Grecian tribes appear,
   Fast pouring in from far and near;
   On close-packed benches sit they there, —
   The stage the weight can scarcely bear.
   Like ocean-billows' hollow roar,
    The teaming crowds of living man
   Toward the cerulean heavens upsoar,
    In bow of ever-widening span.
 
 
   Who knows the nation, who the name,
   Of all who there together came?
   From Theseus' town, from Aulis' strand
   From Phocis, from the Spartan land,
   From Asia's distant coast, they wend,
    From every island of the sea,
   And from the stage they hear ascend
    The chorus's dread melody.
 
 
   Who, sad and solemn, as of old,
   With footsteps measured and controlled,
   Advancing from the far background,
   Circle the theatre's wide round.
   Thus, mortal women never move!
    No mortal home to them gave birth!
   Their giant-bodies tower above,
    High o'er the puny sons of earth.
 
 
   With loins in mantle black concealed,
   Within their fleshless bands they wield
   The torch, that with a dull red glows, —
   While in their cheek no life-blood flows;
   And where the hair is floating wide
    And loving, round a mortal brow,
   Here snakes and adders are descried,
    Whose bellies swell with poison now.
 
 
   And, standing in a fearful ring,
   The dread and solemn chant they sing,
   That through the bosom thrilling goes,
   And round the sinner fetters throws.
   Sense-robbing, of heart-maddening power,
    The furies' strains resound through air
   The listener's marrow they devour, —
    The lyre can yield such numbers ne'er.
 
 
   "Happy the man who, blemish-free,
   Preserves a soul of purity!
   Near him we ne'er avenging come,
   He freely o'er life's path may roam.
   But woe to him who, hid from view,
    Hath done the deed of murder base!
   Upon his heels we close pursue, —
    We, who belong to night's dark race!"
 
 
"And if he thinks to 'scape by flight,
   Winged we appear, our snare of might
   Around his flying feet to cast,
   So that he needs must fall at last.
   Thus we pursue him, tiring ne'er, —
    Our wrath repentance cannot quell, —
   On to the shadows, and e'en there
    We leave him not in peace to dwell!"
 
 
   Thus singing, they the dance resume,
   And silence, like that of the tomb,
   O'er the whole house lies heavily,
   As if the deity were nigh.
   And staid and solemn, as of old,
    Circling the theatre's wide round,
   With footsteps measured and controlled,
    They vanish in the far background.
 
 
   Between deceit and truth each breast.
   Now doubting hangs, by awe possessed,
   And homage pays to that dread might,
   That judges what is hid from sight, —
   That, fathomless, inscrutable,
    The gloomy skein of fate entwines,
   That reads the bosom's depths full well,
    Yet flies away where sunlight shines.
 
 
   When sudden, from the tier most high,
   A voice is heard by all to cry:
   "See there, see there, Timotheus!
   Behold the cranes of Ibycus!"
   The heavens become as black as night,
    And o'er the theatre they see,
   Far over-head, a dusky flight
    Of cranes, approaching hastily.
 
 
   "Of Ibycus!" — That name so blest
   With new-born sorrow fills each breast.
   As waves on waves in ocean rise,
   From mouth to mouth it swiftly flies:
   "Of Ibycus, whom we lament?
    Who fell beneath the murderer's hand?
   What mean those words that from him went?
    What means this cranes' advancing band?"
 
 
   And louder still become the cries,
   And soon this thought foreboding flies
   Through every heart, with speed of light —
   "Observe in this the furies' might!
   The poets manes are now appeased
    The murderer seeks his own arrest!
   Let him who spoke the word be seized,
    And him to whom it was addressed!"
 
 
   That word he had no sooner spoke,
   Than he its sound would fain invoke;
   In vain! his mouth, with terror pale,
   Tells of his guilt the fearful tale.
   Before the judge they drag them now
    The scene becomes the tribunal;
   Their crimes the villains both avow,
    When neath the vengeance-stroke they fall.
 

THE PLAYING INFANT

 
   Play on thy mother's bosom, babe, for in that holy isle
   The error cannot find thee yet, the grieving, nor the guile;
   Held in thy mother's arms above life's dark and troubled wave,
   Thou lookest with thy fearless smile upon the floating grave.
   Play, loveliest innocence! — Thee yet Arcadia circles round,
   A charmed power for thee has set the lists of fairy ground;
   Each gleesome impulse Nature now can sanction and befriend,
   Nor to that willing heart as yet the duty and the end.
   Play, for the haggard labor soon will come to seize its prey.
   Alas! when duty grows thy law, enjoyment fades away!
 

HERO AND LEANDER. ²⁰
A BALLAD

 
   See you the towers, that, gray and old,
   Frown through the sunlight's liquid gold,
    Steep sternly fronting steep?
   The Hellespont beneath them swells,
   And roaring cleaves the Dardanelles,
    The rock-gates of the deep!
   Hear you the sea, whose stormy wave,
    From Asia, Europe clove in thunder?
   That sea which rent a world, cannot
    Rend love from love asunder!
 
 
   In Hero's, in Leander's heart,
   Thrills the sweet anguish of the dart
    Whose feather flies from love.
   All Hebe's bloom in Hero's cheek —
   And his the hunter's steps that seek
    Delight, the hills above!
   Between their sires the rival feud
    Forbids their plighted hearts to meet;
   Love's fruits hang over danger's gulf,
    By danger made more sweet.
 
 
   Alone on Sestos' rocky tower,
   Where upward sent in stormy shower,
    The whirling waters foam, —
   Alone the maiden sits, and eyes
   The cliffs of fair Abydos rise
    Afar — her lover's home.
   Oh, safely thrown from strand to strand,
    No bridge can love to love convey;
   No boatman shoots from yonder shore,
    Yet Love has found the way. —
 
 
That love, which could the labyrinth pierce —
   Which nerves the weak, and curbs the fierce,
    And wings with wit the dull; —
   That love which o'er the furrowed land
   Bowed — tame beneath young Jason's hand —
    The fiery-snorting bull!
   Yes, Styx itself, that ninefold flows,
    Has love, the fearless, ventured o'er,
   And back to daylight borne the bride,
    From Pluto's dreary shore!
 
 
   What marvel then that wind and wave,
   Leander doth but burn to brave,
    When love, that goads him, guides!
   Still when the day, with fainter glimmer,
   Wanes pale — he leaps, the daring swimmer,
    Amid the darkening tides;
   With lusty arms he cleaves the waves,
    And strikes for that dear strand afar;
   Where high from Hero's lonely tower
    Lone streams the beacon-star.
 
 
   In vain his blood the wave may chill,
   These tender arms can warm it still —
    And, weary if the way,
   By many a sweet embrace, above
   All earthly boons — can liberal love
    The lover's toil repay,
   Until Aurora breaks the dream,
    And warns the loiterer to depart —
   Back to the ocean's icy bed,
    Scared from that loving heart.
 
 
   So thirty suns have sped their flight —
   Still in that theft of sweet delight
    Exult the happy pair;
   Caress will never pall caress,
   And joys that gods might envy, bless
    The single bride-night there.
   Ah! never he has rapture known,
    Who has not, where the waves are driven
   Upon the fearful shores of hell,
    Plucked fruits that taste of heaven!
 
 
   Now changing in their season are,
   The morning and the Hesper star; —
    Nor see those happy eyes
   The leaves that withering droop and fall,
   Nor hear, when, from its northern hall,
    The neighboring winter sighs;
   Or, if they see, the shortening days
    But seem to them to close in kindness;
   For longer joys, in lengthening nights,
    They thank the heaven in blindness.
 
 
   It is the time, when night and day,
   In equal scales contend for sway ²¹—
    Lone, on her rocky steep,
   Lingers the girl with wistful eyes
   That watch the sun-steeds down the skies,
    Careering towards the deep.
   Lulled lay the smooth and silent sea,
    A mirror in translucent calm,
   The breeze, along that crystal realm,
    Unmurmuring, died in balm.
 
 
   In wanton swarms and blithe array,
   The merry dolphins glide and play
    Amid the silver waves.
   In gray and dusky troops are seen,
   The hosts that serve the ocean-queen,
    Upborne from coral caves:
   They — only they — have witnessed love
    To rapture steal its secret way:
   And Hecate ²² seals the only lips
    That could the tale betray!
 
 
   She marks in joy the lulled water,
   And Sestos, thus thy tender daughter,
    Soft-flattering, woos the sea!
   "Fair god — and canst thou then betray?
   No! falsehood dwells with them that say
    That falsehood dwells with thee!
   Ah! faithless is the race of man,
    And harsh a father's heart can prove;
   But thee, the gentle and the mild,
    The grief of love can move!"
 
 
   "Within these hated walls of stone,
   Should I, repining, mourn alone,
    And fade in ceaseless care,
   But thou, though o'er thy giant tide,
   Nor bridge may span, nor boat may glide,
    Dost safe my lover bear.
   And darksome is thy solemn deep,
    And fearful is thy roaring wave;
   But wave and deep are won by love —
    Thou smilest on the brave!"
 
 
   "Nor vainly, sovereign of the sea,
   Did Eros send his shafts to thee
    What time the rain of gold,
   Bright Helle, with her brother bore,
   How stirred the waves she wandered o'er,
    How stirred thy deeps of old!
   Swift, by the maiden's charms subdued,
    Thou cam'st from out the gloomy waves,
   And in thy mighty arms, she sank
    Into thy bridal caves."
 
 
   "A goddess with a god, to keep
   In endless youth, beneath the deep,
    Her solemn ocean-court!
   And still she smooths thine angry tides,
   Tames thy wild heart, and favoring guides
    The sailor to the port!
   Beautiful Helle, bright one, hear
    Thy lone adoring suppliant pray!
   And guide, O goddess — guide my love
    Along the wonted way!"
 
 
   Now twilight dims the waters' flow,
   And from the tower, the beacon's glow
    Waves flickering o'er the main.
   Ah, where athwart the dismal stream,
   Shall shine the beacon's faithful beam
    The lover's eyes shall strain!
   Hark! sounds moan threatening from afar —
    From heaven the blessed stars are gone —
   More darkly swells the rising sea
    The tempest labors on!
 
 
   Along the ocean's boundless plains
   Lies night — in torrents rush the rains
    From the dark-bosomed cloud —
   Red lightning skirs the panting air,
   And, loosed from out their rocky lair,
    Sweep all the storms abroad.
   Huge wave on huge wave tumbling o'er,
    The yawning gulf is rent asunder,
   And shows, as through an opening pall,
    Grim earth — the ocean under!
 
 
   Poor maiden! bootless wail or vow —
   "Have mercy, Jove — be gracious, thou!
    Dread prayer was mine before!"
   What if the gods have heard — and he,
   Lone victim of the stormy sea,
    Now struggles to the shore!
   There's not a sea-bird on the wave —
    Their hurrying wings the shelter seek;
   The stoutest ship the storms have proved,
    Takes refuge in the creek.
 
 
   "Ah, still that heart, which oft has braved
   The danger where the daring saved,
    Love lureth o'er the sea; —
   For many a vow at parting morn,
   That naught but death should bar return,
    Breathed those dear lips to me;
   And whirled around, the while I weep,
    Amid the storm that rides the wave,
   The giant gulf is grasping down
    The rash one to the grave!
 
 
   "False Pontus! and the calm I hailed,
   The awaiting murder darkly veiled —
    The lulled pellucid flow,
   The smiles in which thou wert arrayed,
   Were but the snares that love betrayed
    To thy false realm below!
   Now in the midway of the main,
    Return relentlessly forbidden,
   Thou loosenest on the path beyond
    The horrors thou hadst hidden."
 
 
   Loud and more loud the tempest raves
   In thunder break the mountain waves,
    White-foaming on the rock —
   No ship that ever swept the deep
   Its ribs of gnarled oak could keep
    Unshattered by the shock.
   Dies in the blast the guiding torch
    To light the struggler to the strand;
   'Tis death to battle with the wave,
    And death no less to land!
 
 
   On Venus, daughter of the seas,
   She calls the tempest to appease —
    To each wild-shrieking wind
   Along the ocean-desert borne,
   She vows a steer with golden horn —
    Vain vow — relentless wind!
   On every goddess of the deep,
    On all the gods in heaven that be,
   She calls — to soothe in calm, awhile
    The tempest-laden sea!
 
 
   "Hearken the anguish of my cries!
   From thy green halls, arise — arise,
    Leucothoe the divine!
   Who, in the barren main afar,
   Oft on the storm-beat mariner
    Dost gently-saving shine.
   Oh, — reach to him thy mystic veil,
    To which the drowning clasp may cling,
   And safely from that roaring grave,
    To shore my lover bring!"
 
 
   And now the savage winds are hushing.
   And o'er the arched horizon, blushing,
    Day's chariot gleams on high!
   Back to their wonted channels rolled,
   In crystal calm the waves behold
    One smile on sea and sky!
   All softly breaks the rippling tide,
    Low-murmuring on the rocky land,
   And playful wavelets gently float
    A corpse upon the strand!
 
 
   'Tis he! — who even in death would still
   Not fail the sweet vow to fulfil;
    She looks — sees — knows him there!
   From her pale lips no sorrow speaks,
   No tears glide down her hueless cheeks;
    Cold-numbed in her despair —
   She looked along the silent deep,
    She looked upon the brightening heaven,
   Till to the marble face the soul
    Its light sublime had given!
 
 
   "Ye solemn powers men shrink to name,
   Your might is here, your rights ye claim —
    Yet think not I repine
   Soon closed my course; yet I can bless
   The life that brought me happiness —
    The fairest lot was mine!
   Living have I thy temple served,
    Thy consecrated priestess been —
   My last glad offering now receive
    Venus, thou mightiest queen!"
 
 
   Flashed the white robe along the air,
   And from the tower that beetled there
    She sprang into the wave;
   Roused from his throne beneath the waste,
   Those holy forms the god embraced —
    A god himself their grave!
   Pleased with his prey, he glides along —
    More blithe the murmured music seems,
   A gush from unexhausted urns
    His everlasting streams!