The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems

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!

1

A pointless satire upon Klopstock and his Messias.

2

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.

3

A well-known general, who died in 1783.

4

See the play of The Robbers.

5

Written in consequence of the ill-treatment Schiller experienced at the hands of the Grand Duke Charles of Wirtemberg.

6

Written in the Suabian dialect.

7

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.

8

The Landlord on the Mountain.

9

The year.