The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems

Friedrich Schiller

Suppressed poems

THE JOURNALISTS AND MINOS

   I chanced the other eve, —      But how I ne'er will tell, —    The paper to receive.      That's published down in hell.    In general one may guess,      I little care to see    This free-corps of the press      Got up so easily;    But suddenly my eyes      A side-note chanced to meet,    And fancy my surprise      At reading in the sheet: —    "For twenty weary springs"      (The post from Erebus,    Remark me, always brings      Unpleasant news to us) —    "Through want of water, we      Have well-nigh lost our breath;    In great perplexity      Hell came and asked for Death;    "'They can wade through the Styx,      Catch crabs in Lethe's flood;    Old Charon's in a fix,      His boat lies in the mud,    "'The dead leap over there,      The young and old as well;    The boatman gets no fare,      And loudly curses hell.'    "King Minos bade his spies      In all directions go;    The devils needs must rise,      And bring him news below.    "Hurrah! The secret's told      They've caught the robber's nest;    A merry feast let's hold!      Come, hell, and join the rest!    "An author's countless band,      Stalked round Cocytus' brink,    Each bearing in his hand      A glass for holding ink.    "And into casks they drew      The water, strange to say,    As boys suck sweet wine through      An elder-reed in play.    "Quick! o'er them cast the net,      Ere they have time to flee!    Warm welcome ye will get,      So come to Sans-souci!    "Smelt by the king ere long,      He sharpened up his tooth,    And thus addressed the throng      (Full angrily, in truth):    "'The robbers is't we see?      What trade? What land, perchance?' —    'German news-writers we!' —      Enough to make us dance!    "'A wish I long have known      To bid ye stop and dine,    Ere ye by Death were mown,      That brother-in-law of mine.    "'Yet now by Styx I swear,      Whose flood ye would imbibe,    That torments and despair      Shall fill your vermin-tribe!    "'The pitcher seeks the well,      Till broken 'tis one day;    They who for ink would smell,      The penalty must pay.    "'So seize them by their thumbs,      And loosen straight my beast    E'en now he licks his gums,      Impatient for the feast.' —    "How quivered every limb      Beneath the bull-dog's jaws    Their honors baited him,      And he allowed no pause.    "Convulsively they swear,      Still writhe the rabble rout,    Engaged with anxious care      In pumping Lethe out."    Ye Christians, good and meek,      This vision bear in mind;    If journalists ye seek,      Attempt their thumbs to find.    Defects they often hide,      As folks whose hairs are gone    We see with wigs supplied      Probatum! I have done!

BACCHUS IN THE PILLORY

   Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb       Deaf and dumb,     Twirl the cane so troublesome!    Sprigs of fashion by the dozen    Thou dost bring to book, good cousin.     Cousin, thou art not in clover;    Many a head that's filled with smoke    Thou hast twirled and well-nigh broke,    Many a clever one perplexed,    Many a stomach sorely vexed,     Turning it completely over;    Many a hat put on awry,    Many a lamb chased cruelly,    Made streets, houses, edges, trees,    Dance around us fools with ease.     Therefore thou are not in clover,    Therefore thou, like other folk,    Hast thy head filled full of smoke,    Therefore thou, too, art perplexed,    And thy stomach's sorely vexed,     For 'tis turned completely over;     Therefore thou art not in clover.    Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb       Deaf and dumb,     Twirl the carle so troublesome!    Seest thou how our tongues and wits    Thou hast shivered into bits —     Seest thou this, licentious wight?    How we're fastened to a string,    Whirled around in giddy ring,    Making all like night appear,    Filling with strange sounds our ear?     Learn it in the stocks aright!    When our ears wild noises shook,    On the sky we cast no look,    Neither stock nor stone reviewed,    But were punished as we stood.     Seest thou now, licentious wight?    That, to us, yon flaring sun    Is the Heidelbergers' tun;    Castles, mountains, trees, and towers,    Seem like chopin-cups of ours.     Learn'st thou now, licentious wight?     Learn it in the stocks aright!    Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb,       Deaf and dumb,     Twirl the carle so troublesome!    Kinsman, once so full of glee,    Kinsman, where's thy drollery,     Where thy tricks, thou cunning one?    All thy tricks are spent and past,    To the devil gone at last    Like a silly fop thou'lt prate,    Like a washerwoman rate.     Thou art but a simpleton.    Now thou mayest — more shame to thee —    Run away, because of me;    Cupid, that young rogue, may glory    Learning wisdom from thy story;     Haste, thou sluggard, hence to flee    As from glass is cut our wit,    So, like lightning, 'twill be split;    If thou won't be chased away,    Let each folly also stay     Seest my meaning? Think of me!     Idle one, away with thee!

SPINOSA

    A mighty oak here ruined lies,     Its top was wont to kiss the skies,      Why is it now o'erthrown? —    The peasants needed, so they said,    Its wood wherewith to build a shed,      And so they've cut it down.

TO THE FATES

   Not in the crowd of masqueraders gay,     Where coxcombs' wit with wondrous splendor flares,    And, easier than the Indian's net the prey,     The virtue of young beauties snares; —    Not at the toilet-table of the fair,     Where vanity, as if before an idol, bows,    And often breathes a warmer prayer     Than when to heaven it pays its vows;    And not behind the curtain's cunning veil,     Where the world's eye is hid by cheating night,    And glowing flames the hearts assail,     That seemed but chilly in the light, —    Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip,     While Phoebus' rays she boldly drinks,    Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip,     And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks —    To ye — to ye, O lonely sister-band,     Daughters of destiny, ascend,    When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand,     These strains, where bliss and sadness blend.    You only has no sonnet ever wooed,     To win your gold no usurer e'er sighed    No coxcomb e'er with plaints your steps pursued,     For you, Arcadian shepherd ne'er has died.    Your gentle fingers ye forever ply,     Life's nervous thread with care to twist,    Till sound the clanging shears, and fruitlessly     The tender web would then resist.    Since thou my thread of life hast kindly spun,     Thy hand, O Clotho, I now kiss!    Since thou hast spared that life whilst scarce begun,     Receive this nosegay, Lachesis!    Full often thorns upon the thread,     But oftener roses, thou hast strung;    For thorns and roses there outspread,     Clotho, to thee this lay be sung!    Oft did tempestuous passions rise,     And threat to break the thread by force;    Oft projects of gigantic size     Have checked its free, unfettered course.    Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss,     Too fine appeared the thread to me;    Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss,     Too firm its fabric seemed to be.    Clotho, for this and other lies,     Thy pardon I with tears implore;    Henceforth I'll take whatever prize     Sage Clotho gives, and asks no more.    But never let the shears cut off a rose —     Only the thorns, — yet as thou will'st!    Let, if thou will'st, the death-shears, sharply close,     If thou this single prayer fulfill'st!    Oh, goddess! when, enchained to Laura's breath,     My spirit from its shell breaks free,    Betraying when, upon the gates of death,     My youthful life hangs giddily,    Let to infinity the thread extend,     'Twill wander through the realms of bliss, —    Then, goddess, let thy cruel shears descend!     Then let them fall, O Lachesis!

THE PARALLEL

   Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;     I try to think in vain, to whom or how    Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind. —     I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!    The moon — she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,     By eating stolen bread her living gets, —    Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,     While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.    The moon — for this may Herod give her thanks! —     Reserves her best till night may have returned;    Our lady swallows up by day the francs     That she at night-time may have earned.    The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,     As surely as the month comes round;    With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween —     But she to need more time is found!    The moon to love her silver-horns is said,     But makes a sorry show;    She likes them on her husband's head, —     She's right to have it so

KLOPSTOCK AND WIELAND

(WHEN THEIR MINIATURES WERE HANGING SIDE BY SIDE.)    In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river,    The man upon the right I'll love forever,      For 'twas he first that wrote for me.    For all the world the left man wrote, full clearly,    And so we all should love him dearly;      Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!

THE MUSES' REVENGE

AN ANECDOTE OF HELICON    Once the nine all weeping came     To the god of song    "Oh, papa!" they there exclaim —     "Hear our tale of wrong!    "Young ink-lickers swarm about     Our dear Helicon;    There they fight, manoeuvre, shout,     Even to thy throne.    "On their steeds they galop hard     To the spring to drink,    Each one calls himself a bard —     Minstrels — only think!    "There they — how the thing to name!     Would our persons treat —    This, without a blush of shame,     We can ne'er repeat;    "One, in front of all, then cries,     'I the army lead!'    Both his fists he wildly plies,     Like a bear indeed!    "Others wakes he in a trice     With his whistlings rude;    But none follow, though he twice     Has those sounds renewed.    "He'll return, he threats, ere long,     And he'll come no doubt!    Father, friend to lyric song,     Please to show him out!"    Father Phoebus laughing hears     The complaint they've brought;    "Don't be frightened, pray, my dears,     We'll soon cut them short!    "One must hasten to hell-fire,     Go, Melpomene!    Let a fury borrow lyre,     Notes, and dress, of thee.    "Let her meet, in this array,     One of these vile crews,    As though she had lost her way,     Soon as night ensues.    "Then with kisses dark, I trust,     They'll the dear child greet,    Satisfying their wild lust     Just as it is meet!" —    Said and done! — Then one from hell     Soon was dressed aright.    Scarcely had the prey, they tell,     Caught the fellow's sight,    Than, as kites a pigeon follow,     They attacked her straight —    Part, not all, though, I can swallow     Of what folks relate.    If fair boys were 'mongst the band,     How came they to be —    This I cannot understand, —     In such company? * * * *   The goddess a miscarriage had, good lack!    And was delivered of an — Almanac!

THE HYPOCHONDRIACAL PLUTO.

A ROMANCE

BOOK I

   The sullen mayor who reigns in hell,     By mortals Pluto hight,    Who thrashes all his subjects well,    Both morn and eve, as stories tell,     And rules the realms of night,    All pleasure lost in cursing once,    All joy in flogging, for the nonce.    The sedentary life he led     Upon his brazen chair    Made his hindquarters very red,    While pricks, as from a nettle-bed,     He felt both here and there:    A burning sun, too, chanced to shine,    And boiled down all his blood to brine.    'Tis true he drank full many a draught     Of Phlegethon's black flood;    By cupping, leeches, doctor's craft,    And venesection, fore and aft,     They took from him much blood.    Full many a clyster was applied,    And purging, too, was also tried.    His doctor, versed in sciences,     With wig beneath his hat,    Argued and showed with wondrous ease,    From Celsus and Hippocrates,     When he in judgment sat, —    "Right worshipful the mayor of hell,    The liver's wrong, I see full well."    "He's but a booby," Pluto said,     "With all his trash and pills!    A man like me — pray where's his head?    A young man yet — his wits have fled!     While youth my veins yet fills!    Unless electuaries he'll bring,    Full in his face my club I'll fling!"    Or right or wrong, — 'twas a hard case     To weather such a trial;    (Poor men, who lose a king's good grace!)    He's straight saluted in the face     By every splint and phial.    He very wisely made no fuss;    This hint he learnt of Cerberus.    "Go! fetch the barber of the skies,     Apollo, to me soon!"    An airy courier straightway flies    Upon his beast, and onward hies,     And skims past poles and moon;    As he went off, the clock struck four,    At five his charger reached the door.    Just then Apollo happened — "Heigh-ho!     A sonnet to have made?"    Oh, dear me, no! — upon Miss Io    (Such is the tale I heard from Clio)     The midwife to have played.    The boy, as if stamped out of wax,    Might Zeus as father fairly tax.    He read the letter half asleep,     Then started in dismay:    "The road is long, and hell is deep,    Your rocks I know are rough and steep.     Yet like a king he'll pay!"    He dons his cap of mist and furs,    Then through the air the charger spurs.    With locks all frizzled a la mode,     And ruffles smooth and nice,    In gala dress, that brightly glowed    (A gift Aurora had bestowed),     With watch-chains of high price,    With toes turned out, and chapeau bas,    He stood before hell's mighty czar.

BOOK II

   The grumbler, in his usual tone,     Received him with a curse:    "To Pomerania straight begone!    Ugh! how he smells of eau de Cologne!     Why, brimstone isn't worse.    He'd best be off to heaven again,    Or he'll infect hell's wide domain."    The god of pills, in sore surprise,     A spring then backwards took:    "Is this his highness' usual guise?    'Tis in the brain, I see, that lies     The mischief — what a look!    See how his eyes in frenzy roll!    The case is bad, upon my soul!    "A journey to Elysium     The infectus would dissolve,    Making the saps less tough become,    As through the Capitolium     And stomach they revolve.    Provisionally be it so:    Let's start then — but incognito!"    "Ay, worthy sir, no doubt well meant!     If, in these regions hazy,    As with you folk, so charged with scent,    You dapper ones who heaven frequent,     'Twere proper to be lazy,    If hell a master needed not,    Why, then I'd follow on the spot!    "Ha! if the cat once turned her back,     Pray where would be the mice?    They'd sally forth from every crack,    My very mufti would attack,     Spoil all things in a trice!    Oddsbodikins! 'tis pretty cool!    I'll let him see I'm no such fool!    "A pleasant uproar happened erst,     When they assailed my tower!    No fault of mine 'twas, at the worst,    That from their desks and chains to burst     Philosophers had power.    What, has there e'er escaped a poet?    Help, heaven! what misery to know it!    "When days are long, folks talk more stuff!     Upon your seats, no doubt,    With all your cards and music rough,    And scribblings too, 'tis hard enough     The moments to eke out.    Idleness, like a flea will gnaw    On velvet cushions, — as on straw.    "My brother no attempt omits     To drive away ennui;    His lightning round about him flits,    The target with his storms he hits     (Those howls prove that to me),    Till Rhea's trembling shoulders ache,    And force me e'en for hell to quake.    "Were I grandfather Coelus, though,     You wouldn't soon escape!    Into my belly straight you'd go,    And in your swaddling-clothes cry 'oh!'     And through five windows gape!    First o'er my stream you'd have to come,    And then, perhaps, to Elysium!    "Your steed you mounted, I dare say,     In hopes to catch a goose;    If it is worth the trouble, pray    Tell what you've heard from me to-day,     At shaving time, to Zeus.    Just leave him then to swallow it;    I don't care what he thinks a bit;    "You'd better now go homeward straight!     Your servant! there's the door!    For all your pains — one moment wait!    I'll give you — liberal is the rate —     A piece of ruby-ore.    In heaven such things are rareties;    We use them for base purposes."

BOOK III

   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!