The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems

APPENDIX OF POEMS ETC. IN SCHILLER'S DRAMATIC WORKS. 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. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF SCHILLER — SUPPRESSED POEMS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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