The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems

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.1

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 MESSIAH

   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? 2   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 Rieger3 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.4

        '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.5

   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.