Schiller’s Works Illustrated by Great German Artists, Vol. 1

Johann Georg Fischer

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Published by Liberty Fund, Inc.

Johann Georg Fischer, Schiller’s Works Illustrated by Great German Artists, Vol. 1 [1883]

Edition used:

Schiller’s Works, illustrated by the greatest German artists, ed. J.G. Fischer with Biographical Introduction by Hjalmar H. Boysen (Philadelphia: George Barrie, 1883). Vol. 1.

Editor: Johann Georg Fischer

Introduction: Hjalmar H. Boysen

A lavishly illustrated English edition of Schiller’s poems and plays.

Copyright:

The text is in the public domain.

Table of Contents

Poems.

Poems

POEMS OF THE First Period.

HECTOR’S FAREWELL.

ANDROMACHE.

HECTOR.

AMALIA.

A FUNERAL PHANTASY.

PHANTASY.

TO LAURA AT THE HARPSICHORD.

RAPTURE.

THE SECRET OF REMINISCENCE.

MELANCHOLY.

THE INFANTICIDE.

THE GREATNESS OF THE WORLD.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN.

THE BATTLE.

ROUSSEAU.

FRIENDSHIP. From the “Letters of Julius to Raphael;” an unpublished Romance.

GROUP FROM TARTARUS.

ELYSIUM.

THE FUGITIVE.

THE FLOWERS.

ODE TO SPRING.

TO MINNA.

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. A HYMN.

FORTUNE AND WISDOM.

MAN’S DIGNITY.

TO A MORALIST

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GROANER OF WÜRTEMBURG. A WAR SONG.

POEMS OF THE SECOND PERIOD.

HYMN TO JOY.

THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA.

THE CONFLICT.

RESIGNATION.

THE GODS OF GREECE.

THE CELEBRATED WOMAN. A LETTER FROM ONE HUSBAND TO ANOTHER.

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A YOUNG LADY.

THE ARTISTS.

POEMS OF THE THIRD PERIOD.

THE MEETING.

TO EMMA.

THE SECRET.

EXPECTATION.

EVENING. AFTER A PICTURE.

LONGING.

THE PILGRIM.

THE IDEALS.

THE MAIDEN’S LAMENT.

THE YOUTH AT THE BROOK.

THE FAVOR OF THE MOMENT.

MOUNTAIN SONG.

DITHYRAMB.

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

THE FOUR AGES OF THE WORLD.

Punch Song.

TO MY FRIENDS.

PUNCH SONG. (TO BE SUNG IN NORTHERN COUNTRIES.)

NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT.

THE SOLDIER’S SONG.

THE FEAST OF VICTORY.

THE LAMENT OF CERES.

THE ELEUSINIAN FESTIVAL.

THE RING OF POLYCRATES. A BALLAD.

THE CRANES OF IBYCUS. A BALLAD.

HERO AND LEANDER.

CASSANDRA.

THE HOSTAGE. A BALLAD.

THE DIVER. A BALLAD.

THE KNIGHT OF TOGGENBURG. A BALLAD.

THE FIGHT WITH THE DRAGON.

FRIDOLIN; OR, THE WALK TO THE IRON FOUNDRY.

THE COUNT OF HAPSBURG. A BALLAD.

THE GLOVE. A TALE.

THE VEILED STATUE AT SAIS.

THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

THE UNKNOWN MAIDEN.

THE IDEAL AND LIFE.

Parables and Riddles

THE WALK.

THE SONG OF THE BELL. Vivos Voco. Mortuos Plango. Fulgura Frango.

THE POWER OF SONG.

Praise of Woman.

HOPE.

THE GERMAN MUSE.

THE SOWER.

THE MERCHANT.

GERMAN FAITH.

THE KNIGHTS OF MALTA.

ODYSSEUS.

CARTHAGE.

COLUMBUS.

POMPEII AND HERCULANEUM.

THE ILIAD.

ZEUS TO HERCULES.

THE ANTIQUE TO THE NORTHERN WANDERER.

THE BARDS OF OLDEN TIME.

THE ANTIQUES AT PARIS.

THEKLA. A SPIRIT-VOICE.

THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

NÆNIA.

THE PLAYING CHILD.

THE SEXES.

THE POWER OF WOMAN.

The Dance.

FORTUNE.

GENIUS.

THE PHILOSOPHICAL EGOTIST.

THE WORDS OF FAITH.

THE WORDS OF ERROR.

PROVERBS OF CONFUCIUS.

LIGHT AND WARMTH.

BREADTH AND DEPTH.

THE GUIDES OF LIFE.

ARCHIMEDES AND THE STUDENT.

HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.

THE TWO PATHS OF VIRTUE.

HONORS.

ZENITH AND NADIR.

DEPARTURE FROM LIFE.

THE CHILD IN THE CRADLE.

THE IMMUTABLE.

THEOPHANIA.

THE HIGHEST.

IMMORTALITY.

Notive Tablets

THE BEST STATE-CONSTITUTION.

TO LAWGIVERS.

THE HONORABLE.

FALSE IMPULSE TO STUDY.

THE FOUNTAIN OF SECOND YOUTH.

THE CIRCLE OF NATURE.

THE GENIUS WITH THE INVERTED TORCH.

THE VIRTUE OF WOMAN.

THE FAIREST APPARITION.

THE FORUM OF WOMAN.

FEMALE JUDGMENT.

THE IDEAL OF WOMAN. TO AMANDA.

EXPECTATION AND FULFILMENT.

THE COMMON FATE.

HUMAN ACTION.

THE FATHER.

LOVE AND DESIRE.

GOODNESS AND GREATNESS.

THE IMPULSES.

NATURALISTS AND TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHERS.

GERMAN GENIUS.

TRIFLES.

GERMANY AND HER PRINCES.

TO PROSELYTISERS.

THE CONNECTING MEDIUM.

THE MOMENT.

GERMAN COMEDY.

BOOKSELLER’S ANNOUNCEMENT.

DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES.

GREEKISM.

THE SUNDAY CHILDREN.

THE PHILOSOPHERS.

G. G.

THE HOMERIDES.

THE MORAL POET.

THE DANAIDES.

THE SUBLIME SUBJECT.

THE ARTIFICE.

JEREMIADS.

KNOWLEDGE.

KANT AND HIS COMMENTATORS.

SHAKESPEAR’S GHOST. A PARODY.

THE RIVERS.

THE METAPHYSICIAN.

THE PHILOSOPHERS.

PEGASUS IN HARNESS.

THE PUPPET-SHOW OF LIFE.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND. ON HIS DEVOTING HIMSELF TO PHILOSOPHY.

THE POETRY OF LIFE. TO * * *

TO GOETHE. ON HIS PRODUCING VOLTAIRE’S “MAHOMET” ON THE STAGE.

NUPTIAL ODE. ADDRESSED IN THE ORIGINAL TO MDLLE. SLEVOIGT, ON HER MARRIAGE TO DR. STURM.

GRECIAN GENIUS. TO MEYER IN ITALY.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND. HERR VON MECHELN OF BASLE.

LINES IN THE FOLIO ALBUM OF A LEARNED FRIEND.

THE PRESENT.

WILLIAM TELL.

TO THE HEREDITARY PRINCE OF WEIMAR, ON HIS PROCEEDING TO PARIS. SUNG IN A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.

THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE New Century — TO —

FAREWELL TO THE READER.

Semele.

SEMELE: IN TWO SCENES.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE I.

SCENE II. The Hall as before.—Sudden brightness.

Edition: current; Page: [i]

Fr Pecht del.

published by george barrie

J. L. Raab sc.

Frederick Schiller

Edition: current; Page: [ii] Edition: current; Page: [iii] Edition: current; Page: [1]

SCHILLER’S WORKS

illustrated by the GREATEST GERMAN ARTISTS

edited by J. G. FISCHER with BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION by HJALMAR H. BOYESEN, Ph. D.

VOLUME I

PHILADELPHIA

George Barrie, Publisher

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COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY GEORGE BARRIE.

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Poems.

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Poems

POEMS OF THE First Period.

HECTOR’S FAREWELL.

ANDROMACHE.

ART thou, Hector, hence for ever going

Where Achilles, with fierce vengeance glowing

To Patroclus piles a hecatomb?

Who, alas! will teach thine Infant truly

Spears to hurl, the Gods to honor duly,

When thou’rt buried in dark Orcus’ womb?

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For thy clashing arms I vain shall listen,

In thy halls thy glaive will idly glisten,

Priam’s hero-race in dust will lie;

Thou wilt go, where day can enter never,

Where Cocytus wails ’mid deserts ever,

And thy Love in Lethe’s stream will die.

HECTOR.

Dearest wife, restrain thy tearful sadness!

For the fray my bosom pants with madness,

This stout arm must Pergamus defend;

For my household Gods all dangers braving,

Should I fall, my Fatherland in saving,

To the Stygian flood I’ll glad descend.

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Though the ardent hopes, the thoughts I cherish,

All in Lethe’s silent stream may perish,

Yet my Love shall never die!

Hark! I hear the foe the walls assailing!

Gird my sword around me,—cease thy wailing!

Hector’s Love in Lethe cannot die!

Figure 1

AMALIA.

ANGEL-FAIR, Walhalla’s charms displaying,

Fairer than all mortal youths was he;

Mild his look, as May-day sunbeams straying

Gently o’er the blue and glassy sea.

And his kisses!—what ecstatic feeling!

Like two flames that lovingly entwine,

Like the harp’s soft tones together stealing

Into one sweet harmony divine,—

Soul and soul embraced, commingled, blended,

Lips and cheeks with trembling passion burn’d,

Heav’n and Earth, in pristine chaos ended,

Round the blissful Lovers madly turn’d.

He is gone—and, ah! with bitter anguish

Vainly now I breathe my mournful sighs;

He is gone—in hopeless grief I languish,

Earthly joys I ne’er again can prize!

A FUNERAL PHANTASY.

LO! on high the moon, her lustre dead,

O’er the death-like grove uplifts her head,

Sighing flits the spectre through the gloom—

Misty clouds are shivering,

Pallid stars are quivering,

Looking down, like lamps within a tomb.

Spirit-like, all silent, pale, and wan,

Marshall’d in procession dark and sad,

To the sepulchre a crowd moves on,

In the grave-night’s dismal emblems clad.

Who is he, who, trembling on his crutch,

Walks with gloomy and averted eye,

And bow’d down by Destiny’s harsh touch,

Vents his sorrow in a mournful sigh

O’er the coffin borne in silence by?

Was it “Father!” from the youth’s lips came?

Soon a damp and fearful shudder flies

Through his grief-emaciated frame,

And his silv’ry hairs on end uprise.

All his fiery wounds now bleed anew!

Thro’ his soul, hell’s bitter torments run!

“Father!” ’twas that from the youth’s lips flew,

And the Father’s heart hath whisper’d, “Son!”

Ice-cold, ice-cold, in his shroud he lies,—

By thy dream, so sweet and golden erst,

Sweet and golden, Father, thou art curst!

Ice-cold, ice-cold, in his shroud he lies,

Who was once thy joy, thy Paradise!

Mild, as when, fann’d by Elysian gale,

Flora’s son over the verdant plain skips,

Girded with roses that fragrance exhale,

When from the arms of Aurora he slips,—

Onward he sped o’er the sweet-smelling field,

Mirror’d below in the silvery flood;

Rapturous flames in his kiss were conceal’d,

Chasing the maidens in amorous mood.

Boldly he sprang ’mid the stir of mankind,

As o’er the mountains a youthful roe springs;

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Heav’nward ascended his wish unconfin’d,

High as the eagle his daring flight wings.

Proud as the steeds that in passion their manes,

Foaming and champing, toss round in wild waves,

Rearing in majesty under the reins,

Stood he alike before monarchs and slaves.

Bright as a spring-day, his life’s joyous round

Fleeted in Hesperus’ glory away;

Sighs in the grape’s juice all golden he drown’d,

Sorrow he still’d in the dance light and gay.

Worlds were asleep in the promising boy,

Ha! when he once as a man shall be ripe,—

Father, rejoice—in thy promising boy,

Soon as the slumbering germ shall be ripe!

Not so, Father—hark! the churchyard gates

Groan, and lo, the iron hinges creak!—

See the dreaded tomb its prey awaits!—

Not so—let the tears course down thy cheek!

Tow’rd Perfection, lov’d one, hasten on,

In the sun’s bright path with joy proceed!

Quench thy noble thirst for bliss alone

In Walhalla’s peace, from sorrow freed!

Ye will meet—oh, thought of rapture full!—

Yonder, at the gate of Paradise!

Hark! the coffin sinks with echo dull;

As it re-ascends the death-rope sighs!

Then, with sorrow drunk, we madly roll’d,

Lips were silent, but the mute eye spoke—

Stay, oh, stay!—we grudg’d the tomb so cold;

But soon warmer tears in torrents broke.

Lo! on high the moon, her lustre dead,

O’er the deathlike grove uplifts her head,

Sighing flits the spectre through the gloom,

Misty clouds are shivering,

Pallid stars are quivering,

Looking down, like lamps within a tomb.

Dully o’er the coffin earth-flakes rise,—

All the wealth of earth for one look more!

Now the grave barr’d up for ever lies;

Duller, duller o’er the coffin earth-flakes rise

Never will the grave its prey restore!

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PHANTASY.

TO LAURA.

NAME, my Laura, name the whirl-compelling

Bodies to unite in one blest whole—

Name, my Laura, name the wondrous magic

By which soul rejoins its kindred soul!

See! it teaches yonder roving Planets

Round the sun to fly in endless race;

And as children play around their mother,

Checker’d circles round the orb to trace.

Every rolling star, by thirst tormented,

Drinks with joy its bright and golden rain—

Drinks refreshment from its fiery chalice,

As the limbs are nourish’d by the brain.

’Tis through Love that atom pairs with atom,

In a harmony eternal, sure;

And ’tis Love that links the spheres together—

Through her only, systems can endure.

Were she but effaced from Nature’s clockwork,

Into dust would fly the mighty world;

O’er thy systems thou wouldst weep, great Newton,

When with giant force to Chaos hurl’d!

Blot the goddess from the Spirit Order,

It would sink in death, and ne’er arise.

Were Love absent, spring would glad us never;

Were Love absent, none their God would prize!

What is that, which, when my Laura kisses,

Dyes my cheek with flames of purple hue,

Bids my bosom bound with swifter motion,

Like a fever wild my veins runs through?

Ev’ry nerve from out its barriers rises,

O’er its banks the blood begins to flow;

Body seeks to join itself to Body,

Spirits kindle in one blissful glow.

Powerful as in the dead creations

That eternal impulses obey,

O’er the web Arachne-like of Nature,—

Living Nature,—Love exerts her sway.

Laura, see how Joyousness embraces

E’en the overflow of sorrows wild!

How e’en rigid desperation kindles

On the loving breast of Hope so mild.

Sisterly and blissful rapture softens

Gloomy Melancholy’s fearful night,

And, delivered of its golden Children,

Lo, the eye pours forth its radiance bright!

Does not awful Sympathy rule over

E’en the realms that Evil calls its own?

For ’tis Hell our crimes are ever wooing,

While they bear a grudge ’gainst heaven alone!

Shame, Repentance, pair Eumenides-like,

Weave round Sin their fearful serpent-coils;

While around the eagle-wings of Greatness

Treach’rous danger winds its dreaded toils.

Ruin oft with Pride is wont to trifle,

Envy upon Fortune loves to cling;

On her brother, Death, with arms extended,

Lust, his sister, oft is wont to spring.

On the wings of Love the Future hastens

In the arms of ages past to lie;

And Saturnus, as he onward speeds him,

Long has sought his bride—Eternity!

Soon Saturnus will his bride discover,—

So the mighty Oracle hath said;

Blazing worlds will turn to marriage torches

When Eternity with Time shall wed!

Then a fairer, far more beauteous morning,

Laura, on our love shall also shine,

Long as their blest bridal-night enduring:—

So rejoice thee, Laura—Laura mine!

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TO LAURA AT THE HARPSICHORD.

WHEN o’er the chords thy fingers stray,

My spirit leaves its mortal clay,

A statue there I stand;

Thy spell controls e’en life and death,

As when the nerves a living breath

Receive by Love’s command!

More gently Zephyr sighs along

To listen to thy magic song:

The systems formed by heav’nly love

To sing for ever as they move,

Pause in their endless-whirling round

To catch the rapture-teeming sound;

’Tis for thy strains they worship thee,—

Thy look, enchantress, fetters me!

From yonder chords fast-thronging come

Soul-breathing notes with rapturous speed,

As when from out their heav’nly home

The new-born seraphim proceed;

The strains pour forth their magic might,

As glitt’ring suns burst through the night,

When, by Creation’s storm awoke,

From Chaos’ giant-arm they broke.

Now sweet, as when the silv’ry wave

Delights the pebbly beach to lave;

And now majestic as the sound

Of rolling thunder gath’ring round;

Now pealing more loudly, as when from yon height

Descends the mad mountain-stream, foaming and bright;

Now in a song of love

Dying away,

As thro’ the aspen grove

Soft zephyrs play;

Now heavier and more mournful seems the strain,

As when across the desert, death-like plain,

Whence whispers dread and yells despairing rise,

Cocytus’ sluggish, wailing current sighs.

Maiden fair, oh, answer me!

Are not spirits leagued with thee?

Speak they in the realms of bliss

Other language e’er than this?

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RAPTURE.

TO LAURA.

FROM earth I seem to wing my flight,

And sun myself in Heaven’s pure light,

When thy sweet gaze meets mine

I dream I quaff ethereal dew,

When mine own form I mirror’d view

In those blue eyes divine!

Blest notes from Paradise afar,

Or strains from some benignant star

Enchant my ravish’d ear;

My muse feels then the shepherd’s hour

When silv’ry tones of magic power

Escape those lips so dear!

Young loves around thee fan their wings—

Behind, the madden’d fir-tree springs,

As when by Orpheus fir’d;

The poles whirl round with swifter motion,

When in the dance, like waves o’er ocean,

Thy footsteps float untir’d!

Thy look, if it but beam with love,

Could make the lifeless marble move,

And hearts in rocks enshrine;

My visions to reality

Will turn, if, Laura, in thine eye

I read—that thou art mine!

THE SECRET OF REMINISCENCE.

TO LAURA.

WHAT unveils to me the yearning glow

Fix’d for ever to thy lips to grow?

What the longing wish thy breath to drink,—

In thy being blest, in death to sink

When thy look steals o’er me?

As when slaves without resistance yield

To the victor in the battle-field,

So my senses in the moment fly

O’er the bridge of life tumultuously

When thou stand’st before me!

Speak! why should they from their master roam?

Do my senses yonder seek their home?

Or do sever’d brethren meet again,

Casting off the body’s heavy chain,

Where thy foot hath lighted?

Were our beings once together twin’d?

Was it therefore that our bosoms pin’d?

Were we in the light of suns now dead,

In the days of rapture long since fled,

Into one united?

Aye! we were so! thou wert link’d with me,

In Æone that has ceas’d to be;

On the mournful page of vanish’d time,

By my muse were read these words sublime:

Nought thy love can sever!

And in being closely twin’d and fair,

I, too, wondering saw it written there,—

We were then a life, a Deity,—

And the world seem’d order’d then to lie

’Neath our sway for ever.

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And, to meet us, nectar-fountains still

Pour’d for ever forth their blissful rill;

Forcibly we broke the seal of Things,

And to Truth’s bright sunny hill our wings

Joyously were soaring.

Laura, weep!—this Deity hath flown,—

Thou and I his ruins are alone;

By a thirst unquenchable we’re driven

Our lost Being to embrace;—tow’rd Heaven

Turns our gaze imploring.

Therefore, Laura, is this yearning glow

Fix’d for ever to thy lips to grow,

And the longing wish thy breath to drink,

In thy Being blest, in death to sink

When thy look steals o’er me!

And as Slaves without resistance yield,

To the Victor in the battle-field,

Therefore do my ravish’d Senses fly

O’er the bridge of Life tumultuously,

When thou stand’st before me!

Therefore do they from their Master roam!

Therefore do my Senses seek their home!

Casting off the Body’s heavy chain,

Those long-sever’d brethren kiss again,

Hush’d is all their sighing!

And thou, too—when on me fell thine eye,

What disclos’d thy cheek’s deep-purple dye?

Tow’rd each other, like relations dear,

As an exile to his home draws near,

Were we not then flying?

MELANCHOLY.

TO LAURA.

LAURA,—in thy golden gaze

Burns the morning sunbeam’s glow,

In thy cheek the red blood plays,

And thy tears, that pearl-like flow,

Rapture as their Mother know—

He whom those fair drops bedew,

Who therein a God can view,

Ah, the youth who thus rewarded sighs,

Sees new suns begin to rise!

And thy Spirit, bright and clear,

As the glassy waves appear,

Turns to May the Autumn sad;

Deserts wild, inspiring fear,

In thy genial rays are glad.

Distant Future, gloomy, cold,

In thy star is turn’d to gold;

Smil’st thou at the Graces’ harmony?

I must weep those charms to see!

Have not Night’s all-dreaded Powers

Undermin’d Earth’s fastness long?

Yes! our proudly-soaring towers,

And our cities, stately, strong,

All on mould’ring bones repose;

From Decay their fragrant bloom

Drink thy flowers; thy current flows

From the hollow of a—tomb!

Laura, yonder floating planets see!

Let them of their Worlds discourse to thee!

’Neath their magic Circle’s sway,

Thousand springs have pass’d away,

Thousand thrones the skies have sought,

Thousand fearful fights been fought.

Wouldst thou find their trace again,

Seek it on the iron plain!

Earlier, later, ripe to pass

To the grave,—the wheels, alas,

Of the Planets clogg’d remain!

Thrice look round,—and lo! the sun’s bright rays

In the death-night’s Ocean quench their blaze;

Ask me how thy beams are fann’d to flame!

Dost thou boast thy sparkling eye,

Or thy cheek’s fresh purple dye,

That from crumbling Mould first came?

For the hues he lent to thee,

Maiden, Death with usury

Heavy interest soon will claim!

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Maiden, do not scorn that mighty one!

On the cheek a fairer, brighter dye

Is, alas! but Death’s more beauteous throne;

From behind that flow’ry tapestry

Marks his prey the Spoiler for his own.

Laura—in thy Worshipper confide!

’Tis tow’rd Death alone thine eyes now strain;

And thy beaming glances only drain

Life’s frail lamp so niggardly supplied.

“Yet my pulses,” boastest thou,

“Throb in joyous youthful play”—

Ah! the Tyrant’s creatures now

Are but hast’ning tow’rds Decay.

And this smile the blast of Death

Scatters, as the zephyr’s breath

Scatters rainbow-colored foam.

Vain thou seek’st to find its trace,

E’en from Nature’s spring-like grace,

E’en from Life, as from his home,

Sallies the Destroyer base!

Stripp’d of leaves I see thy lifeless roses,

Pale and dead thy mouth so sweet of yore,

And thy cheek, that dimples soft discloses,

By the wintry tempest furrow’d o’er.

Gloomy years will, gathering blacker, stronger,

Cloud the silver-spring of Infancy—

Then will Laura—Laura love no longer,

Then will Laura lovely cease to be!

Maiden! as an oak thy Bard still rears his head;

Blunt against my rock-like youthful might

Falls the death-spear’s shaft, its vigor fled;

And my glances,—burning as the light

Of yon Heaven,—my Soul more fiercely glowing

Than the light of yon eternal Heaven,

O’er its own World’s heaving Ocean driven,

Piling rocks and overthrowing;

Boldly through the world my thoughts are steering,

Nothing save their barriers fearing!

Glow’st thou, Laura?—Swells thy haughty breast?

Learn then, Maiden, that this drink so blest,

That this cup of god-like seeming,

Laura, is with Poison teeming!

Hapless they who ever trust

Sparks divine to forge from dust!

Ah! the boldest Harmony

’Mongst the notes but discord breeds,

Genius, glowing Spark from high,

On Life’s glimm’ring lamp but feeds.

Lur’d from Life’s bright throne away,

Ev’ry Gaoler marks him as his prey!

Ah! e’en now, with shameless passion fir’d,

’Gainst me all my Spirits have conspir’d!

Let—I feel it—two short springs fleet by,

Laura—and this tott’ring house of clay

Will with fearful ruin on me lie,

Quenching me in my self-kindled ray!—

Weep’st thou, Laura?—Be that tear denied

Which as Age’s penance is supplied!

Hence! away! thou tear, thou sinner mean!

Wouldst thou, Laura, that my strength should sink?—

That I trembling from that Sun should shrink

Who the stripling’s eagle-course hath seen?

That my bosom’s heav’nly flame so bright

’Neath a frozen heart’s cold touch should perish?—

That my Spirit should be reft of sight?—

Must I curse the Sins that most I cherish?

No! away! thou tear, thou sinner mean!

Break the flow’ret in its fairest bloom!

Quench, O Youth, with that deep look of gloom,

Quench with bitter tears my torch’s ray!

As when o’er the scene that most enthrals

On the tragic stage, the curtain falls

Though each shadow flies,—the crowds all-breathless stay!

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THE INFANTICIDE.

HARK!—the bells are tolling mournfully,

And the dial’s hand hath run its race.

In the name of God, so let it be!

Grave-attendants,—to the fatal place!

Take, O World, this last departing kiss!

Take, O World, these bitter tears away!

Yet thy poison had a taste of bliss!—

Bosom-poisoner, we are quit to-day!

Fare thee well, thou happiness of Earth,

Now to be exchang’d for crumbling mould!

Fare ye well, ye days of rosy birth,

That the maiden revell’d in of old!

Fare ye well, ye gold-embroider’d dreams,

Heaven-descended Phantasies so bright!

Ah, they perish’d in their morning beams,

Ne’er again to blossom to the light!

I was deck’d with rosy ribbons fair,

Clad in Innocence’s swan-like dress,

And my bright and loosely flowing hair

Rosebuds sweet then carelessly did press.

Woe, oh woe! though garments white still grace

Her who now is Hell’s sad sacrifice,

Yet, alas, those rosy ribbons’ place

Now the fillet black of Death supplies!

Weep for me, oh, ye who never fell!

Ye for whom the guileless lily blows,—

On whose gentle bosoms as they swell

Nature her heroic strength bestows!

Woe!—this heart has felt frail passion’s charms,

Feeling now my judgment-sword must be!

Woe!—encircl’d in the False One’s arms,

Slept my Virtue,—ah, too easily!

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Ah, forgetting me, that serpent heart

Makes Another now perchance its prey,—

Overflows, when I to Death depart,

At her toilet in some amorous play!—

Sports, it may be, with his Maiden’s hair,

Drinks the kiss that she responsive brings,

When upon the death-block spurting there,

From my body, high the life-blood springs!

Joseph! Joseph! many a weary mile

May Louisa’s death-song follow thee!

And the belfry’s hollow peal the while

On thy startled ear strike fearfully!

When Love’s soft and murmuring tones may swell

Tow’rd thee from some Maiden’s tender lips,

Sudden let them plant a Wound from Hell,

Where Joy’s rosy form its Being sips!

Traitor! heed’st thou not Louisa’s smart?—

Not, thou Cruel one, a Woman’s shame?—

Not the unborn Life beneath my heart?—

Not what e’en the tiger fierce would tame?

See! his sails now proudly leave this land,

Sadly after them is turn’d mine eye,

While around the Maids on Seine’s far strand,

Breathes he forth his false and treach’rous sigh!

And my baby,—wrapp’d in soft repose—

Calmly lay it on its mother’s breast;

In the beauty of the morning rose

Sweetly on me smil’d the infant blest.

Deadly-lovely was each feature fair

Of its blissful image tow’rd me bent;

While by Love and visions of Despair

Was its mother’s tortured bosom rent.

“Woman, where’s my Father?”—Thus it spoke

In its innocent mute thunder-tone;

“Woman, where’s thy Spouse?”—responsive broke

From my inmost heart, with heavy groan.

Him who now may other children kiss,

Orphan, thou, alas, wilt seek in vain!

Thou wilt curse the moment of our bliss,

When the Bastard’s name inflicts its stain.

And thy mother—in her heart is Hell!

Lonely sits she in wide Nature’s All,

Thirsting ever at the blissful well,

Which thy sight converts to bitter gall.

Ah! with ev’ry sound from thee arise

Madden’d feelings of departed joy,

And Death’s bitter arrow ’gainst me flies,

From the smiling glances of my Boy.

Hell surrounds me when thy form I miss;

Hell, whene’er mine eyes thy form behold!

And the Furies’ lash is now thy kiss,

That from his lips ravish’d me of old!

From the Grave his Oath still thunders back,

Ever does his Perjury kill on—

Here around me twined the Hydra black,

And the work of Murder soon was done!

Joseph! Joseph! many a weary mile

May the phantom dread thy steps pursue,

Catch thee in its ice-cold arms the while,

From thy dream of rapture wake thee, too!

May thine infant’s dying gaze so sad

Glare down from the softly glimm’ring star,

Meet thee in its bloody vesture clad,

Scourge thee back from Paradise afar!

See! there lay it lifeless at my feet,—

Coldly staring-with a mind confus’d

Saw I then its Life-blood’s current fleet,

And my own Life with that current ooz’d;—

Fearfully the messengers of doom

Knock e’en now,—more fearfully my heart!

Gladly haste I, in the chilly tomb

Evermore to quench my burning smart.

Joseph! thou may’st pardon’d be by Heaven,

Thou art pardon’d by the Sinner, too!

To the Earth my wrongs be henceforth given!

Rake, ye Flames, the Death-pile thro’ and thro’!

Joy! oh, Joy! His letters burn on high,

And a conquering flame his oath devours,

While his kisses upwards blazing fly!—

Yet was aught so dear in happier hours!

Sisters, trust your youthful roses ne’er,

Trust them ne’er to false Man’s treach’rous vow!

Beauty for my Virtue laid its snare,—

On the Place of Death I curse it now!

Tears?—From stranglers’ eyes can tears, then, gush?

Let my face the bandage quickly veil.

Hangman, canst not thou a lily crush?

Do not tremble, Hangman pale!

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THE GREATNESS OF THE WORLD.

THROUGH the world which the Spirit creative and kind

First form’d out of Chaos, I fly like the wind,

Until on the strand

Of its billows I land,

My anchor cast forth where the breeze blows no more,

And Creation’s last boundary stands on the shore.

I saw infant stars into Being arise,

For thousands of years to roll on through the skies;

I saw them in play

Seek their goal far away,—

For a moment my fugitive gaze wander’d on,

I look’d round me, and lo!—all those bright stars had flown!

Madly yearning to reach the dark Kingdom of Night,

I boldly steer on with the speed of the light;

All misty and drear

The dim Heavens appear,

While embryo systems and seas at their source

Are whirling around the Sun - Wanderer’s course.

When sudden a Pilgrim I see drawing near

Along the lone path,—“Stay! What seekest thou here?”

“My bark, tempest-tost,

“Seeks the world’s distant coast,

“I sail tow’rd the land where the breeze blows no more,

“And Creation’s last boundary stands on the shore.”

“Stay, thou sailest in vain! ’Tis Infinity yonder!”—

“Tis Infinity, too, where thou, Pilgrim, wouldst wander!

“Eagle thoughts that aspire,

“Let your proud pinions tire!

“For ’tis here that sweet Phantasy, bold to the last,

“Her anchor in hopeless dejection must cast!”

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ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN.

MOURNFUL groans, as when a Tempest lowers,

Echo from the dreary house of Woe;

Death-notes rise from yonder Minster’s towers!

Bearing out a youth, they slowly go;

Yes! a youth—unripe yet for the Bier,

Gather’d in the spring-time of his days,

Thrilling yet with pulses strong and clear,

With the flame that in his bright eye plays—

Yes! a Son—the Idol of his Mother,

(Oh, her mournful sigh shows that too well!)

Yes! my Bosom-friend,—alas, my Brother!—

Up! each Man, the sad Procession swell!

Do ye boast, ye Pines, so grey and old,

Storms to brave, with thunderbolts to sport?

And, ye Hills, that ye the Heavens uphold?

And, ye Heavens, that ye the Suns support?

Boasts the greybeard, who on haughty Deeds

As on billows, seeks Perfection’s height?

Boasts the Hero, whom his Prowess leads

Up to future Glory’s Temple bright?

If the gnawing worms the flow’ret blast,

Who can madly think he’ll ne’er decay?

Who above, below, can hope to last,

If the young man’s life thus fleets away?

Joyously his days of youth so glad

Danced along, in rosy garb beclad,

And the world, the world was then so sweet!

And how kindly, how enchantingly

Smiled the Future,—with what golden eye

Did Life’s Paradise his moments greet!

While the tear his Mother’s eye escap’d,

Under him the Realm of Shadows gap’d,

And the Fates his thread began to sever,—

Earth and Heaven then vanish’d from his sight,

From the Grave - Thought shrank he in affright—

Sweet the World is to the Dying ever!

Dumb and deaf ’tis in that narrow place,

Deep the Slumbers of the Buried One!

Brother! Ah, in ever-slack’ning race

All thy hopes their circuit cease to run!

Sunbeams oft thy native hill still lave,

But their glow thou never more canst feel;

O’er its flowers the Zephyr’s pinions wave,

O’er thine ear its murmur ne’er can steal;

Love will never tinge thine eye with gold,

Ne’er wilt thou embrace thy blooming bride,

Not e’en though our tears in torrents roll’d—

Death must now thine eye for ever hide!

Yet ’tis well!—for precious is thy Rest;

In that narrow house the Sleep is calm;

There, with Rapture, Sorrow leaves the breast,—

Man’s afflictions there no longer harm.

Slander now may wildly rave o’er thee,

And Temptation vomit Poison Fell,

O’er thee wrangle on the Pharisee,

Murd’rous bigots banish thee to Hell!

Rogues beneath Apostle-masks may leer,

And the Bastard Child of Justice play,

As it were with dice, with mankind here,

And so on, until the Judgment Day!

O’er thee Fortune still may juggle on,

For her minions blindly look around,—

Man now totter on his staggering throne,

And in dreary puddles now be found!

Blest art thou, within thy narrow cell!

To this stir of tragi-comedy,

To these Fortune-Waves that madly swell,

To this vain and childish Lottery,

To this busy crowd effecting naught,

To this rest with labour teeming o’er,

Brother!—to this Heaven with Devils fraught,

Now thine eyes have closed for evermore.

Fare thee well, oh, thou to memory dear,

By our blessings lull’d to slumbers sweet!

Sleep on calmly in thy prison drear,—

Sleep on calmly till again we meet!

Till the loud Almighty trumpet sounds,

Echoing through these corpse-encumber’d hills,—

Till God’s storm-wind, bursting through the bounds

Placed by Death, with Life those Corpses fills—

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Till, impregnate with Jehovah’s blast,

Graves bring forth, and at His menace dread,

In the smoke of Planets melting fast,

Once again the tombs give up their Dead!

Not in Worlds, as dreamt of by the Wise,

Not in Heavens, as sung in Poets’ song,

Not in e’en the People’s Paradise—

Yet we shall o’ertake thee, and ere long.

Is that true which cheer’d the Pilgrims’ gloom?

Is it true that Thoughts can yonder be?

True, that Virtue guides us o’er the tomb?

That ’tis more than empty Phantasy?

All these riddles are to thee unveil’d!

Truth thy Soul ecstatic now drinks up,

Truth in radiance thousandfold exhal’d

From the Mighty Father’s blissful cup.

Dark and silent Bearers draw, then, nigh!

To the Slayer serve the Feast the while!

Cease, ye Mourners, cease your wailing cry!

Dust on dust upon the Body pile!

Where’s the Man who God to tempt presumes?

Where the eye that thro’ the Gulf can see?

Holy, holy, holy art Thou, God of Tombs!

We, with awful trembling, worship Thee!

Dust may back to native dust be ground,

From its crumbling house the Spirit fly,

And the storm its ashes strew around,—

But its Love, its Love shall never die!

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THE BATTLE.

STORM-CLOUD like, overhead,

With a dull, heavy tread,

Moves the march through the wide plain so green;

And the field for the strife,

Where the stake is man’s life,

In its boundless expanse is now seen.

Tow’rd the ground every eye is uneasily cast,

And each warrior’s heart ’gainst his ribs beateth fast.

To the front now the Major with thundering pace

Gallops on past each pallid and death-lighted face—

Halt!

And the regiments obey that stern word of command,

While in silence unbroken the front takes its stand.

Glittering in the morning beam,

See ye on yon hill the gleam?

Is’t the banner of the foe?

Yes, their waving flag we know!

Wife and children of my love,

God protect ye from above!

Now merrily, merrily rise on the ear

The roll of the drum and the fife’s note so clear;

Oh! hark to the wildly harmonious tone,

How it thrills through the marrow and thrills through the bone!

God be with ye, comrades brave,—

We shall meet beyond the grave!

Soon the vivid lightning flashes,

Soon the rolling thunder crashes

From the fierce artillery;

Eyelids quiver,—loud are heard

Fearful sounds,—the signal word

Through each rank runs rapidly.

In God’s name, so let it be!—

Every breast now breathes more free.

Death is loose, the din grows louder,—

Sharper rings the musketry;

Driven by the deadly powder

Iron bullets fill the sky.

Almost touching each other the armies now stand,—

From platoon to platoon runs the word of command:

“Make ready!” with thundering roar;

And sudden the foremost on knee sinking low,

Their death-laden weapons discharge on the foe;

But many, alas! rise no more.

By the grapeshot resistless whole ranks are o’erthrown;

But as fast as the ranks in the front are mown down,

O’er their bodies the hinder ranks pour.

Devastation spreads around,

Whole battalions bite the ground.

The sun now sinks to rest,—hot burns the fight,

While o’er the armies broods the murky night.

God be with ye, comrades brave,—

We shall meet beyond the grave!

The life-blood in torrents spurts high as the head,

The living confusedly mix with the dead;

The foot as it moves stumbles over the slain.

While the conflict ’gins raging more wildly again.

“What, Frank! And thou, too?”—“Kiss my Charlotte for me!”

“Aye, Friend, that I will! . . . Good God! Comrades, see, see,

“How the grapeshot bursts full on our rear!

“. . . I will kiss her for thee! Now in peace slumber on,

“While I, left, alas! in the world all-alone,

“Seek the fast-falling balls without fear.”

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Now hither, and now thither bends the fight,

Still murkier o’er the armies broods the night.

God be with ye comrades brave—

We shall meet beyond the grave.

What means this sudden trampling sound?

The Adjutants are flying round,

Dragoons are rattling ’gainst the foe,

Whose thund’ring guns are lying low,

While they in all directions fly,—

Hurrah, my Comrades, Victory!

Their coward limbs in terror shrink,

And down their boasting banners sink!

Decided is the fearful fight,

The day gleams brightly through the night!

And hark, how triumphantly rise on the ear,

The roll of the drum and the fife’s note so clear!

Farewell, ye perish’d comrades brave—

Oh, we shall meet beyond the grave!

ROUSSEAU.

MONUMENT of our own Age’s shame,

On thy Country casting endless blame,

Rousseau’s Grave, how dear thou art to me!

Calm repose be to thy ashes blest!

In thy life thou vainly sought’st for rest,

But at length ’twas here obtain’d by thee!

When will ancient wounds be cover’d o’er?

Wise men died in heathen days of yore;

Now ’tis lighter—yet they die again.

Socrates was kill’d by Sophists vile,

Rousseau meets his death through Christians’ wile,—

Rousseau—who would fain make Christians men!

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FRIENDSHIP.
From the “Letters of Julius to Raphael;” an unpublished Romance.

TEMPERATE is the Being - Ruler, Friend!—

On those Thinkers mean let Shame attend

Who so anxiously seek Laws to solve!

Living-Worlds, and Regions of the Soul

On one Flywheel, tow’rd their limit roll;

Here my Newton saw that Wheel revolve!

Spheres,—the slaves of but one rein,—it tells

Round the mighty World’s heart, as it swells,

Labyrinthine paths to cause to rise—

Spirits, in entwining Systems laced,

Tow’rd the mighty Spirit-Sun to haste,

As the stream to join the ocean flies.

Was’t not this Machinery divine,

That compell’d our Bosoms to entwine

In the blest and endless bonds of Love?

Raphael, on thine Arm—oh, ecstasy!

Tow’rd that mighty Spirit-Sun, e’en I

On Perfection’s path would gladly rove.

Joy, oh, Joy! Thou now art found by me!

I, of millions, have embraced but thee,

And, of millions, mine art thou alone—

Let this World in Chaos still be lost,

Atoms in confusion wild be tost,

Into one our Hearts for aye have flown!

Must not I, from out thy flaming gaze,

Of my Rapture seek the answering rays?

’Tis in thee alone myself I view—

Fairer still appears the earth so fair,

Brighter in the Loved One’s features there

Heaven is mirror’d,—of more dazzling hue.

Sweeter from the Passions’ storm to rest,

Melancholy casts upon Love’s breast

All the burden of her tearful gloom;

Does not e’en tormenting Rapture seek,

In thine eyes that eloquently speak,

Eagerly to find a blissful tomb?

Stood I in Creation all alone,

Spirits I would dream into each stone,

And their forms with kisses then would greet,—

When my wailings echoed far and wide,

Would be happy, if the Rocks replied,

Fool, enough! to Sympathy so sweet.

Lifeless groups are we, if hate we prove,

Gods—if we embrace in kindly love!

While we languish for the Fetters blest—

Upwards through the thousand-varying scale

Of unnumber’d Souls that nought avail,

Does this godlike impulse raise the breast.

Arm in arm, tow’rd some still higher sphere,

From the Mongol to the Grecian seer,

Who is with the last of seraphs bound,

Roam we on, in dancing orbit bright,

Till in yonder Sea of endless light

Time and Measure evermore are drown’d!

Friendless was the Mighty Lord of Earth,

Felt a Want—so gave the Spirit birth,

Mirror blest where His own glories shine!—

Ne’er his Like has found that Being high,—

Nought e’er gushes—save Infinity—

From the Spirit-Region’s Cup Divine!

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GROUP FROM TARTARUS.

HARK! Like the sea in wrath the Heav’ns assailing,

Or like a brook through rocky basin wailing,

Comes from below, in groaning agony,

A heavy, vacant, torment-breathing sigh!

Their faces marks of bitter torture wear,

While from their lips burst curses of despair;

Their eyes are hollow, and full of woe.

And their looks with heartfelt anguish

Seek Cocytus’ stream that runs wailing below,

For the bridge o’er its waters they languish.

And they say to each other in accents of fear,

“Oh, when will the time of Fulfilment appear?”

High over them boundless Eternity quivers,

And the scythe of Saturnus all-ruthlessly shivers!

ELYSIUM.

THOSE groans of deep anguish no longer resound,

Each accent of sorrow, each sigh, is now drown’d

In Elysium’s banquets so bright;

In bliss never-ending, in rapturous song,

As when thro’ the meadows a brook sings along,

Elysium’s days take their flight.

A May-day enduring, a ne’er changing spring

All gently its youthful and balm-laden wing

Waves over the sweet smiling plain;

In visions ecstatic the days fleet apace,

The Spirit expands through the wide realms of space,

And Truth rends the Cov’ring in twain.

’Tis here that the bosom is swelling alone,

With rapture eternal and free from alloy;

The name of affliction is here e’er unknown,

And sorrow means nought but a more tranquil joy.

The pilgrim beneath these cool shades lays to rest

His feverish limbs by long wand’ring opprest,

His burden behind him forever he leaves;

The sickle escapes from the hand of the reaper,

And, lull’d by the harp’s strains seraphic, the sleeper

Beholds in his vision the harvest’s ripe sheaves

He whose banner war’s fierce thunder woke,

On whose ears the din of slaughter broke,

’Neath whose foot the mountain quak’d in fear,

Slumbers calmly by the streamlet’s side,

While its silv’ry waters onward glide,

And forgets his wildly-clanging spear.

Here all faithful lovers meet again,

Kiss each other on the verdant plain,

Scented by the balmy zephyr’s breath;

Love here finds once more his crown of gold

’Gins his endless marriage-feast to hold,

Safe for ever from the stroke of Death!

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THE FUGITIVE.

THE air is perfum’d with the morning’s fresh breeze,

From the bush peer the sunbeams all purple and bright,

While they gleam through the clefts of the dark-waving trees,

And the cloud-crested mountains are golden with light.

With joyful, melodious, ravishing strain,

The lark, as he wakens, salutes the glad sun,

Who glows in the arms of Aurora again,

And blissfully smiling, his race ’gins to run.

All hail, light of day!

Thy sweet gushing ray

Pours down its soft warmth over pasture and field;

With hues silver-tinged

The Meadows are fringed,

And numberless suns in the dewdrop reveal’d.

Young Nature invades

The whispering shades,

Displaying each ravishing charm;

The soft zephyr blows,

And kisses the rose,

The plain is sweet-scented with balm.

How high from yon city the smoke-clouds ascend!

Their neighing, and snorting, and bellowing blend

The horses and cattle;

The chariot-wheels rattle

As down to the valley they take their mad way;

And even the forest with life seems to move,

The eagle, and falcon, and hawk soar above,

And flutter their pinions in Heaven’s bright ray.

In search of repose

From my heart-rending woes,

Oh, where shall my sad spirit flee?

The earth’s smiling face,

With its sweet youthful grace,

A tomb must, alas, be for me!

Arise, then, thou sunlight of morning, and fling

O’er plain and o’er forest thy purple-dyed beams!

Thou twilight of evening, all noiselessly sing

In melody soft to the world as it dreams!

Ah, sunlight of morning, to me thou but flingest

Thy purple-dyed beams o’er the grave of the past!

Ah, twilight of evening, thy strains thou but singest

To one whose deep slumbers for ever must last!

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artist: edmund kanoldt.

THE FUGITIVE.

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THE FLOWERS.

YE offspring of the morning sun,

Ye flowers that deck the smiling plain,

Your lives, in joy and bliss begun,

In Nature’s love unchanged remain.

With hues of bright and godlike splendor

Sweet Flora graced your forms so tender,

And clothed ye in a garb of light;

Spring’s lovely children, weep for ever,

For living Souls she gave ye never,

And ye must dwell in endless night!

The nightingale and lark still sing

In your tranced ears the bliss of love;

The toying sylphs, on airy wing,

Around your fragrant bosoms rove.

Of yore, Dione’s daughter twining

In garlands sweet your cup so shining,

A pillow form’d where Love might rest!

Spring’s gentle children, mourn for ever,

The joys of Love she gave ye never,

Ne’er let ye know that feeling blest!

But when ye’re gather’d by my hand,

A token of my love to be,

Now that her mother’s harsh command

From Nanny’s sight has banish’d me,—

E’en from that passing touch ye borrow

Those heralds mute of pleasing sorrow,

Life, language, hearts, and souls divine;

And to your silent leaves ’tis given,

By him who mightiest is in Heaven,

His glorious Godhead to enshrine

ODE TO SPRING.

THOU’RT welcome, lovely stripling!

Thou Nature’s fond delight!

With thy basket fill’d with flowers,

Thou’rt welcome to my sight!

Huzza! once more we greet thee!

How fair and sweet thou art!

To usher in thy presence

We haste with joyful heart!

Remember’st thou my Maiden?

Thou never canst forget!

My Maiden lov’d me dearly,—

My Maiden loves me yet!

For my Maiden many a flow’ret

I begg’d of yore from thee—

Once more I make entreaty,

And thou?—thou giv’st them me!

Thou’rt welcome, lovely stripling!

Thou Nature’s fond delight!

With thy basket fill’d with flowers,

Thou’rt welcome to my sight!

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TO MINNA.

AM I dreaming? Is mine eye

Dimm’d by some deceiving ray?

Is’t my Minna passing by,

Turning her cold look away?

She, who vain of each fair charm,

Fans herself so haughtily,

Leaning on some fopling’s arm,—

Is’t my Minna?—’Tis not she!

On her light hat, feathers proud,

Once my gift, are waving yet;

While her breast-knots cry aloud,

Saying: “Minna, ne’er forget!”

Flowers still grace her breast, her brow,

Foster’d by my loving care;

Ah, that breast is faithless now,—

Yet those flowers still blossom there!

Go! Ador’d by empty wits,

Go! Without a thought of me!

Prey to venal hypocrites—

Scorn is all I feel for thee!

Go! for thee once throbb’d a heart

Fill’d with stainless purity,

Great enough to bear the smart

That it throbb’d for such as thee!

’Tis by beauty thou’rt betray’d—

By thy features, shameless one!

But their roses soon will fade,

Soon their transient charms be gone!

Swallows that in spring-time play,

Fly when north winds cold return;

Age will scare thy wooers gay,

Yet a friend thou now canst spurn!

Ah! methinks I hear thee sigh,

Wreck of what thou once hast been,

Looking back with streaming eye

To thy May-day’s flowery scene.

They who once thy kisses sought,

On the wings of rapture borne,

Make thy vanish’d youth their sport,

Laugh thy winter sad to scorn.

’Tis by beauty thou’rt betray’d—

By thy features, shameless one!

But their roses soon will fade,

Soon thy transient charms be gone!

How I then will scoff and jeer!—

Scoff! Great Heavens! oh, pardon me!

I will weep full many a tear—

Tears of anguish weep for thee!

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THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.
A HYMN.

SURE Love doth bless the Gods on high!

Frail man becomes a Deity

When love to him is given;

’Tis Love that makes the Heavens shine

With hues more radiant, more divine,

And turns dull Earth to Heaven!

In Pyrrha’s rear (so poets sang

In ages past and gone),

The world from rocky fragments sprang—

Mankind from lifeless stone.

Their soul was but a thing of night,

Like stone and rock their heart;

The flaming torch of Heav’n so bright

Its glow could ne’er impart.

Young Loves, all gently hov’ring round,

Their souls as yet had never bound

In soft and rosy chains;

No feeling Muse had sought to raise

Their bosoms with ennobling lays,

Or sweet, harmonious strains.

Around each other lovingly

No garlands then entwin’d;

The sorrowing Springs fled tow’rd the sky,

And left the Earth behind.

From out the sea Aurora rose

With none to hail her then;

The sun unhail’d, at daylight’s close,

In ocean sank again.

In forests wild, man went astray,

Misled by Luna’s cloudy ray,—

He bore an iron yoke;

He pin’d not for the stars on high,

With yearning for a Deity

No tears in torrents broke.

* * * * *

But see! from out the deep-blue Ocean

Fair Venus springs with gentle motion;

The graceful Naiad’s smiling band

Conveys her to the gladden’d strand.

A May-like, youthful, Magic power

Entwines, like morning’s twilight hour,

Around that form of godlike birth,

The charms of air, sea, heaven and earth.

The day’s sweet eye begins to bloom

Across the forest’s midnight gloom;

Narcissuses, their balm distilling,

The path her footstep treads are filling.

A song of Love sweet Philomel

Soon caroll’d through the grove;

The streamlet, as it murmuring fell,

Discours’d of nought but Love.

Pygmalion! Happy one! Behold!

Life’s glow pervades thy marble cold!

Oh, Love, thou conqueror all-divine,

Embrace each happy child of thine!

* * * * *

By Love are blest the Gods on high,—

Frail man becomes a Deity

When Love to him is given;

’Tis Love that makes the Heavens shine

With hues more radiant, more divine,

And turns dull Earth to Heaven!

* * * * *

The Gods their days forever spend

In banquets bright that have no end,—

In one voluptuous morning-dream,

And quaff the Nectar’s golden stream.

Enthron’d in awful majesty,

Kronion wields the bolt on high:

In abject fear Olympus rocks

When wrathfully he shakes his locks.

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To other Gods he leaves his throne,

And fills, disguis’d as Earth’s frail son,

The grove with mournful numbers;

The thunders rest beneath his feet,

And lull’d by Leda’s kisses sweet,

The Giant-Slayer slumbers.

Through the boundless realms of light

Phœbus’ golden reins so bright,

Guide his horses white as snow,

While his darts lay Nations low.

But when Love and Harmony

Fill his breast, how willingly

Ceases Phœbus then to heed

Rattling dart and snow-white steed!

See! Before Kronion’s spouse

Every great Immortal bows;

Proudly soar the peacock pair

As her chariot throne they bear,

While she decks with crown of might

Her ambrosial tresses bright.

Beauteous Princess, ah! with fear

Quakes, before thy splendor, Love,

Seeking, as he ventures near,

With his power thy breast to move!

Soon from her immortal throne

Heaven’s great Queen must fain descend,

And in prayer for Beauty’s zone,

To the Heart-Enchainer bend!

* * * * *

By Love are blest the Gods on high,

Frail man becomes a Deity

When Love to him is given;

’Tis Love that makes the Heavens shine

With hues more radiant, more divine,

And turns dull Earth to Heaven!

* * * * *

’Tis Love illumes the realms of Night,

For Orcus dark obeys his might,

And bows before his magic spell:

All-kindly looks the King of Hell

At Ceres’ daughter’s smile so bright,—

Yes—Love illumes the realms of Night!

In Hell were heard, with heavenly sound,

Holding in chains its warder bound,

Thy lays, O Thracian one!

A gentler doom dread Minos pass’d,

While down his cheeks the tears cours’d fast,

And e’en around Megæra’s face

The serpents twin’d in fond embrace,

The lashes’ work seemed done.

Driven by Orpheus’ lyre away,

The Vulture left his Giant-prey;

With gentler motion roll’d along

Dark Lethe and Cocytus’ River,

Enraptur’d, Thracian, by thy song,—

And Love its burden was for ever!

* * * * *

By Love are blest the Gods on high,

Frail man becomes a Deity

When Love to him is given;

’Tis Love that makes the Heavens shine

With hues more radiant, more divine,

And turns dull Earth to Heaven!

* * * * *

Wherever Nature’s sway extends,

The fragrant balm of Love descends,

His golden pinions quiver;

If ’twere not Venus’ eye that gleams

Upon me in the moon’s soft beams,

In sun-lit hill or river,—

If ’twere not Venus smiles on me

From yonder bright and starry sea,

Not stars, not sun, not moonbeams sweet

Could make my heart with rapture beat.

’Tis Love alone that smilingly

Peers forth from Nature’s blissful eye,

As from a mirror ever!

Love bids the silv’ry streamlet roll

More gently as it sighs along,

And breathes a living, feeling Soul

In Philomel’s sweet plaintive song;

’Tis Love alone that fills the air

With strains from Nature’s lute so fair.

Thou Wisdom with the glance of fire,

Thou mighty Goddess, now retire,

Love’s power thou now must feel!

To victor proud, to monarch high,

Thou ne’er hast knelt in slavery,—

To Love thou now must kneel!

Who taught thee boldly how to climb

The steep, but starry path sublime,

And reach the seats Immortal?

Who rent the mystic Veil in twain,

And showed thee the Elysian plain

Beyond Death’s gloomy portal?

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If Love had beckon’d not from high,

Had we gain’d Immortality?

If Love had not inflam’d each thought,

Had we the Master Spirit sought?

’Tis Love that guides the Soul alone

To Nature’s Father’s heavenly throne!

By Love are blest the Gods on high,

Frail man becomes a Deity

When Love to him is given;

’Tis Love that makes the Heavens shine

With hues more radiant, more divine,

And turns dull Earth to Heaven!

FORTUNE AND WISDOM.

ENRAGED against a quondam friend,

To Wisdom once proud Fortune said:

“I’ll give thee treasures without end,

“If thou wilt be my friend instead.

“My choicest gifts to him I gave,

“And ever blest him with my smile;

“And yet he ceases not to crave,

“And calls me niggard all the while.

“Come, Sister, let us friendship vow!

“So take the money, nothing loth:

“Why always labor at the plough?

“Here is enough, I’m sure, for both!”

Sage Wisdom laugh’d,—the prudent elf!—

And wip’d her brow, with moisture hot:

“There runs thy friend to hang himself,—

“Be reconcil’d—I need thee not!”

MAN’S DIGNITY.

I AM a man!—Let ev’ry 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 font, 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.

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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 ev’ry thing 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 hurl’d 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’ grave

Hast seen great Marius stand!”

Thus speaks the son of Rome with pride,

Still mighty in his fall;

He is a man, and nought beside,—

Before him tremble all.

His grandsons afterwards began

Their portions to o’erthrow,

And thought it well that ev’ry man

Should learn with grace to crow.

For shame, for shame,—once more for shame!

The wretched ones!—they’ve even

Squander’d the tokens of their fame,

The choicest gifts of Heaven.

God’s counterfeit has sinfully

Disgrac’d his form divine,

And in his vile humanity

Has wallow’d like the swine.

The face of earth each vainly treads,

Like gourds, that boys in sport

Have hollow’d out to human heads,

With skulls, whose brains are—nought

Like wine that by a chemist’s art

Is through retorts refin’d,

Their spirits to the deuce depart,

The phlegma’s left behind.

From ev’ry woman’s face they fly,

Its very aspect dread,—

And if they dar’d—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!

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artist: alexander wagner.

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GROANER OF WÜRTEMBURG.

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TO A MORALIST

WHY teach that Love is nought but

Trifling vain?—

Why cavil at our youthful joyous play?

Thou art benumb’d in Winter’s icy chain,

And yet canst view with scorn the golden May!

When erst thou didst assail the Nymph’s bright charms,

A Hero of the Carnival,—didst trip

In German Waltz,—held’st Heaven within thine arms,

And from the lips of Maidens balm didst sip,—

Ha, Seladon! if then Earth’s pond’rous ball

Had from its axis slipp’d with mighty groan,

Thine ears would not have heard the heavy fall,

In Love-knot twin’d with Julia into one!

Oh, look back now upon thy rosy days!

Learn that Philosophy degenerates,

E’en as the pulse with feebler motion plays;

Thy knowledge, man Immortal ne’er creates.

’Tis well when, through the ice of Sense refin’d

The fervent blood more fiercely can expand!

What ne’er can be accomplish’d by mankind,

Leave to the inmates of a better Land!

And yet in prison walls the Guide of Earth

Confines the Soul whose life in Heaven began;

He will not let me rise to Angel-worth,—

I fain would follow him, to be a Man!

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GROANER OF WÜRTEMBURG.
A WAR SONG.

NOW hearken, ye who take delight

In boasting of your worth!

To many a man, to many a knight,

Belov’d in peace and brave in fight;

The Swabian land gives birth.

Of Charles and Edward, Louis, Guy,

And Frederick, ye may boast;

Charles, Edward, Louis, Frederick, Guy,—

None with Sir Eberhard can vie—

Himself a mighty host!

And then young Ulerick, his son,

Ha! how he lov’d the fray!

Young Ulerick, the Count’s bold son,

When once the battle had begun,

No foot’s-breadth e’er gave way.

The Reutlingers, with gnashing teeth,

Saw our bright ranks reveal’d:

And, panting for the victor’s wreath,

They drew the sword from out the sheath,

And sought the battle-field.

He charged the foe,—but fruitlessly,—

Then, mail-clad, homeward sped;

Stern anger fill’d his father’s eye,

And made the youthful warrior fly,

And tears of anguish shed.

Now, rascals, quake!—This griev’d him sore,

And rankled in his brain;

And by his father’s beard he swore,

With many a craven townsman’s gore

To wash out this foul stain.

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Ere long the feud raged fierce and loud,—

Then hasten’d steed and man

To Döffingen in thronging crowd,

While joy inspir’d the youngster proud,—

And soon the strife began.

Our army’s signal-word that day

Was the disastrous fight;

It spurr’d us on like lightning’s ray,

And plunged us deep in bloody fray,

And in the spears’ black night.

The youthful Count his pond’rous mace

With lion’s rage swung round;

Destruction stalk’d before his face,

While groans and howlings fill’d the place,

And hundreds bit the ground.

Woe! Woe! A heavy sabre-stroke

Upon his neck descended;

The sight each warrior’s pity woke,—

In vain! In vain! No word he spoke—

His course on earth was ended.

Loud wept both friend and foeman then,

Check’d was the victor’s glow;

The Count cheer’d thus his Knights again—

“My Son is like all other men,—

“March, children, ’gainst the Foe!”

With greater fury whizz’d each lance,

Revenge inflam’d the blood;

O’er corpses mov’d the fearful dance—

The townsmen fled in random chance

O’er mountain, vale and flood.

Then back to camp, with trumpets’ bray,

We hied in joyful haste;

And wife and child, with roundelay,

With clanging cup and waltzes gay,

Our glorious triumph graced.

And our old Count,—what now does he?

His son lies dead before him;

Within his tent all woefully

He sits alone in agony,

And drops one hot tear o’er him.

And so, with true affection warm,

The Count our Lord we love;

Himself a mighty hero-swarm—

The thunders rest within his arm—

He shines like star above!

Farewell, then, ye who take delight

In boasting of your worth!

To many a man, to many a knight,

Belov’d in peace, and brave in fight,

The Swabian land gives birth!

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POEMS OF THE SECOND PERIOD.

HYMN TO JOY.

FILLED with rapture, to the portal

Of thy holy fane we come,

Joy, thou Goddess, fair, immortal,

Offspring of Elysium!

Fashion’s laws, indeed, may sever,

But thy magic joins again;

All mankind are brethren ever

’Neath thy mild and gentle reign.

CHORUS.

Welcome, all ye myriad creatures!

Brethren, take the kiss of love!

Yes, the starry realms above

Hide a father’s smiling features!

* * *

He, that noble prize possessing—

He that boasts a friend that’s true,

He whom woman’s love is blessing,

Let him join the chorus too!

Aye, and he who but one spirit

On this earth can call his own!—

He who no such bliss can merit,

Let him mourn his fate alone!

CHORUS.

All who nature’s tribes are swelling

Homage pay to Sympathy;

For she guides us up on high,

Where the Unknown has his dwelling.

* * *

From the breasts of kindly Nature

All of Joy imbibe the dew;

Good and bad alike, each creature

Would her roseate path pursue.

’Tis through her the wine-cup maddens

Love and friends to man she gives!

Bliss the meanest reptile gladdens,—

Near God’s throne the Cherub lives!

CHORUS.

Bow before him, all creation!

Mortals, own the God of love!

Seek him high the stars above,—

Yonder is his habitation!

* * *

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Joy, in Nature’s wide dominion,

Mightiest cause of all is found;

And ’tis Joy that moves the pinion,

When the wheel of time goes round;

From the bud she lures the flower—

Suns from out their orbs of light;

Distant spheres obey her power,

Far beyond all mortal sight.

CHORUS.

As through Heaven’s expanse so glorious,

In their orbits suns roll on,

Brethren, thus your proud race run,

Glad as warriors all-victorious!

Joy from Truth’s own glass of fire

Sweetly on the Searcher smiles;

Lest on Virtue’s steeps he tire,

Joy the tedious path beguiles.

High on Faith’s bright hill before us,

See her banner proudly wave!

Joy, too, swells the Angels’ chorus,—

Bursts the bondage of the grave!

CHORUS.

Mortals, meekly wait for Heaven!

Suffer on in patient love!

In the starry realms above,

Bright rewards by God are given.

* * *

To the Gods we ne’er can render

Praise for every good they grant;

Let us, with devotion tender,

Minister to Grief and Want.

Quench’d be hate and wrath for ever,

Pardon’d be our mortal foe—

May our tears upbraid him never,

No repentance bring him low!

CHORUS.

Sense of wrongs forget to treasure—

Brethren, live in perfect love!

In the starry realms above,

God will mete as we may measure.

* * *

Joy within the goblet flushes,

For the golden nectar, wine,

Ev’ry fierce emotion hushes,—

Fills the breast with fire divine.

Brethren, thus in rapture meeting,

Send ye round the brimming cup,—

Yonder kindly Spirit greeting,

While the foam to Heaven mounts up!

CHORUS.

He whom Seraphs worship ever,

Whom the stars praise as they roll,

Yes—to Him now drain the bowl—

Mortal eye can see Him never!

* * *

Courage, ne’er by sorrow broken!

Aid where tears of virtue flow;

Faith to keep each promise spoken!

Truth alike to friend and foe!

’Neath kings’ frowns a manly spirit!—

Brethren, noble is the prize—

Honor due to ev’ry merit!

Death to all the brood of lies!

CHORUS.

Draw the sacred circle closer!

By this bright wine plight your troth

To be faithful to your oath!

Swear it by the Star-Disposer!

* * *

Safety from the Tyrant’s power!

Mercy e’en to traitors base!

Hope in death’s last solemn hour!

Pardon when before His face!

Lo, the dead shall rise to Heaven!

Brethren hail the blest decree:

Ev’ry sin shall be forgiven,

Hell forever cease to be!

CHORUS.

When the golden bowl is broken,

Gentle sleep within the tomb!

Brethren, may a gracious doom

By the Judge of Man be spoken!

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THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA.

SHE comes, she comes—Iberia’s proud Armada—

The waves beneath the heavy burden sigh;

Laden with bigotry and chains, the invader,

Charged with a thousand thunders, now draws nigh;

And as she sweeps along in stately motion,

With trembling awe is fill’d the startled Ocean.

Each ship a floating citadel,

Men call her “The Invincible!”

Why should she boast that haughty name?

The fear she spreads allows her claim.

With silent and majestic step advancing,

Affrighted Neptune bears her on his breast;

From ev’ry port-hole fierce destruction glancing,

She comes, and lo! the tempest sinks to rest.

And now at length the proud fleet stands before thee,

Thrice-happy Island, Mistress of the Sea!

Mighty Britannia, danger hovers o’er thee,

Those countless galleons threaten slavery!

Woe to thy freedom-nurtur’d nation!

Yon cloud is big with desolation!

How came that priceless gem in thy possession,

Which raised thee high above each other State?

Thyself it was, who, struggling ’gainst oppression,

Earn’d for thy sons that statute wise and great—

The Magna Charta—’neath whose shelt’ring wings

Monarchs but subjects are, and subjects kings!

To rule the waves, thy ships have prov’d their right,

Defeating each brave foe in ocean-fight.

All this thou ow’st,—ye nations, blush to hear it!—

To thy good sword alone, and dauntless spirit!

See where the monster comes—unhappy one!

Alas, thy glorious race is well-nigh run!

Alarm and terror fill this earthly ball,

The hearts of all free men are beating madly,

And ev’ry virtuous soul is waiting sadly

The hour when thy great name is doom’d to fall.

God the Almighty look’d down from his throne,

And saw thy foe’s proud “Lion-Banner” flying,

And saw the yawning grave before thee lying,—

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“What!” He exclaim’d, “shall my lov’d Albion,

And all her race of heroes, now so free,

Pine in the galling bonds of slavery?

Shall she, whose name with dread all tyrants hear,

Be swept for ever from this hemisphere?”

“Never,” he cried, “shall Freedom’s Eden true,

That bulwark of all human rights, be shatter’d!”—

God the Almighty blew,

And to the winds of heaven the fleet was scatter’d!

THE CONFLICT.

NO longer will I fight this conflict weary,

The giant fight that Duty bids me wage;

Why, Virtue, ask a sacrifice so dreary,

If thou my bosom’s pangs canst not assuage?

I’ve sworn it,—yes! I solemnly have sworn it,

Upon my passions to impose a rein;

Behold thy garland!—yet, though long I’ve worn it,

Take it back now, and let me sin again!

Dissolv’d be ev’ry vow between us spoken—

She loves me!—What is now thy crown to me?

Happy the man who, wrapp’d in bliss unbroken,

His deep, deep fall can view so tranquilly!

She sees the worm my youthful bloom assailing,

She sees my days in sorrow fleeting on;

And my heroic efforts gently hailing,

Awards the prize she deems me to have won.

Fair soul! mistrust this virtue angel-seeming,

For on to crime thy pity hurries me.

In the unbounded realms where life is beaming,

Is there another, fairer prize than thee?

Or than that sin so dreaded by my spirit?—

Oh cruel, all-relentless tyranny!

The only prize my virtue e’er can merit

Must, in the moment, see that virtue die!

RESIGNATION.

YES! even I was in Arcadia born,

And in mine infant ears,

A vow of Rapture was by Nature sworn;

Yes! even I was in Arcadia born,

And yet my short Spring gave me only—tears!

Once blooms, and only once, Life’s youthful May;

For me its bloom hath gone.

The Silent God—O Brethren, weep to-day—

The Silent God hath quench’d my Torch’s ray,

And the vain dream hath flown.

Upon thy darksome bridge, Eternity,

I stand e’en now, dread thought!

Take, then, these Joy-Credentials back from me!

Unopen’d I return them now to thee,

Of Happiness, alas, know nought!

Before thy throne my mournful cries I vent,

Thou Judge, conceal’d from view!

To yonder Star a joyous Saying went:

With Judgment’s scales to rule us thou art sent,

And call’st thyself requited, too!

Here,—say they,—terrors on the Bad alight,

And joys to greet the Virtuous spring.

The bosom’s windings thou’lt expose to sight,

Riddle of Providence wilt solve aright,

And reckon with the Suffering!

Here to the Exile be a home outspread,

Here end the meek man’s thorny path of strife!

A god-like child, whose name was Truth, they said,

Known but to few, from whom the many fled,

Restrain’d the ardent bridle of my life.

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“It shall be thine another Life to live,—

Thy youth to me surrender!

To thee this surety only can I give”—

I took the surety in that Life to live;

And gave to her each youthful joy so tender.

“Give me the woman precious to thy heart,

Give up to me thy Laura!

Beyond the grave will usury pay the smart”—

I wept aloud, and from my bleeding heart

With resignation tore her.

“The obligation’s drawn upon the Dead!”

Thus laugh’d the World in scorn;

“The Lying One, in league with Despots dread,

For Truth, a Phantom palm’d on thee instead,

Thou’lt be no more, when once this Dream has gone!”

Shamelessly scoff’d the Mockers’ serpent-band:

“A Dream that but Prescription can admit

Dost dread? Where now thy God’s protecting hand

(The sick world’s Saviours with such cunning plann’d),

Borrow’d by Human need of Human wit?

“What Future is’t that graves to us reveal?

What the Eternity of thy discourse?

Honor’d because dark veils its form conceal,

The giant-shadows of the awe we feel,

View’d in the hollow mirror of Remorse!

“An Image false of shapes of living mould,

(Time’s very mummy, she!)

Whom only Hope’s sweet balm hath power to hold

Within the chambers of the grave so cold,—

Thy fever calls this Immortality!

“For empty hopes,—corruption gives the lie—

Didst thou exchange what thou hadst surely done?

Six thousand years sped Death in silence by,—

Has corpse from out the grave e’er mounted high,

That mention made of the Requiting One?”

I saw Time fly to reach thy distant shore,

I saw fair Nature lie

A shrivell’d corpse behind him evermore,—

No dead from out the grave then sought to soar

Yet in that Oath divine still trusted I.

My ev’ry joy to thee I’ve sacrific’d,

I throw me now before thy Judgment-throne!

The Many’s scorn with boldness I’ve despis’d,

Only thy gifts by me were ever priz’d,—

I ask my wages now, Requiting One!

“With equal love I love each child of mine!”

A Genius hid from sight exclaim’d.

“Two flowers,” he cried, “ye Mortals, mark the sign,—

Two flowers to greet the Searcher wise entwine,—

Hope and Enjoyment they are nam’d.

“Who of these flowers plucks one, let him ne’er yearn

To touch the other sister’s bloom.

Let him enjoy, who has no faith; eterne

As earth, this truth!—Abstain, who faith can learn!

The World’s long story is the world’s own doom.

“Hope thou hast felt,—thy wages, then, are paid;

Thy Faith ’twas form’d the rapture pledg’d to thee.

Thou might’st have of the Wise inquiry made,—

The minutes thou neglectest, as they fade,

Are given back by no Eternity!”

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THE GODS OF GREECE.

WHILST the smiling earth ye govern’d still,

And with Rapture’s soft and guiding hand

Let the happy Nations at your will,

Beauteous Beings from the Fable-land!

Whilst your blissful worship smil’d around,

Ah, how diff’rent was it in that day!

When the people still thy temples crown’d,

Venus Amathusia!

When the magic veil of Poesy

Still round Truth entwin’d its loving chain—

Through creation pour’d Life’s fulness free,

Things then felt, which ne’er can feel again.

Then to press her ’gainst the breast of Love,

They on Nature nobler power bestow’d,—

All, to eyes enlighten’d from above,

Of a God the traces show’d.

There, where now, as we’re by Sages told,

Whirls on high a soulless fiery ball,

Helios guided then his car of gold,

In his silent majesty, o’er all.

Oreads then these heights around us fill’d,

Then a Dryad dwelt in yonder tree,

From the Urn of loving Naiads rill’d

Silver streamlets foamingly.

Yonder Laurel once imploring wound,

Tantal’s daughter slumbers in this stone;

From yon rush rose Syrinx’ mournful sound,

From this thicket, Philomela’s moan.

Yonder brook Demeter’s tears receiv’d,

That she wept for her Persephone,

From this hill, of her lov’d friend bereav’d,

Cried Cythere, fruitlessly!

To Deucalion’s race from realms of air

Then the great Immortals still came down;

And to vanquish Pyrrha’s daughter fair,

Then a shepherd’s staff took Leto’s son.

Then ’tween Heroes, Deities and Men,

Was a beauteous bond by Eros twin’d,

And with Deities and Heroes then

Knelt in Cyprus’ Isle, mankind.

Gloomy sternness and denial sad

Ne’er were in your service blest descried;

Each heart throbb’d then with emotions glad,

For the Happy were with you allied.

Nothing then was Holy, save the Fair;

Of no rapture was the God asham’d,

When the modest Muse was blushing there,—

When their sway the Graces claim’d!

Palace-like, then smil’d your Temples all,

Ye were honor’d in the hero-sport

At the Isthmus’ crown-clad festival,

And the goal the thund’ring chariots sought.

Beauteous dances that a Spirit breath’d

Circled round your altars bright and fair;

Round your brows the crown of triumph wreath’d,

Garlands graced your fragrant hair.

Thyrsus-swingers’ loud Evoë then,

And the panther-team that shone afar,

Welcom’d Him who Rapture brought to men;

Fauns and Satyrs reel’d before his Car!

Round him sprang the Mænads’ raving crew,

While their dances show’d his wine’s great worth,

And the Host’s full cheeks of tawny hue

Pointed to the cup with mirth.

In those days, before the bed of Death

Stood no ghastly form. Then took away

From the lips a kiss the parting breath,

And a Genius quench’d his torch’s ray.

Even Orcus’ rigid judgment-scales

By a Mortal’s offspring once were held,

And the Thracian’s spirit-breathing wails

E’en the angry Furies quell’d.

Once again within Elysium’s grove

Met the happy Shade his joys so dear;

Lover faithful found his faithful Love,

And his path regain’d the charioteer;

Linus’ lute gave back each wonted strain,

Admet clasp’d Alcestis to his heart,

And Orestes found his friend again,

Philoctetes found his dart.

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artist: fritz roeber.

THE GODS OF GREECE.

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Nobler prizes then the wrestler crown’d,

Who the arduous path of Virtue press’d;

Glorious workers then of deeds renown’d

Clamber’d up to join the Spirits blest.

All the Band of Silent Gods the while

Bow’d to Him who summon’d back the Dead;

From Olympus’ height the twin-stars’ smile

O’er the waves the Pilot led.

Beauteous World, where art thou gone? Oh, thou,

Nature’s blooming youth, return once more!

Ah, but in Song’s fairy region now

Lives thy fabled trace so dear of yore!

Cold and perish’d, sorrow now the plains,

Not one Godhead greets my longing sight;

Ah, the Shadow only now remains

Of yon living Image bright!

All those lovely blossoms now are gone,

Scatter’d by the North-wind’s piercing breath;

To enrich, amongst the whole, but one,

All this God-like world was doom’d to death.

Sadly turn I to the stars on high—

Thou, Selene, canst not there be found!

Through the forest, through the waves I cry—

Ah, they echo back no sound!

Feeling not the joy she bids me share,

Ne’er entranced by her own majesty,

Knowing her own guiding spirit ne’er,

Ne’er made happy by my ecstasy,

Senseless even to her Maker’s praise,

Like the pendule-clock’s dead, hollow tone,

Nature Gravitation’s law obeys

Servilely,—her Godhead flown.

That to-morrow she herself may free,

She prepares her sepulchre to-day;

And on spindle balanced equally,

Up and down the Moons alternate play.

Idly homeward to the Poet-land

Go the Gods—a world they’d serve in vain,

That’s upheld by its own motive hand,

Casting off the guiding-rein.

Aye! they homeward go,—and they have flown,

All that’s bright and fair they’ve taken too,

Ev’ry color, ev’ry living tone,—

And a soulless world is all we view.

Borne off by the Time-flood’s current strong,

They on Pindus’ height have safety found:

All that is to live in endless song,

Must in Life-time first be drown’d!

THE CELEBRATED WOMAN.
A LETTER FROM ONE HUSBAND TO ANOTHER.

SHALL I lament thy lot? Dost curse thy marriage vows,

With tears of grief and rage combin’d?

And why? Because thy faithless Spouse

Seeks in another’s arms to find

What she no more obtains from thee?—

Friend, hearken to Another’s cares,

And bear thine own more easily!

It pains thee that a Second shares

Thy rights?—How truly enviable thy case!

My wife belongs to the whole human race.

E’en from the Belt to the Moselle,

To Apennine’s high walls as well,

Even in fashion’s native city,

She is exposed for sale in ev’ry shop,

And may be handled (more’s the pity!)

By ev’ry pedant, ev’ry silly fop

On board the packet, on the coach’s top,—

Beneath the cockney’s stare must patient be,

And, as each dirty critic may desire,

Must walk on flowers or coals of fire

To the Pantheon or the pillory.

A Leipzig fellow—may the rascal meet his due!—

As of a fortress, takes her topographic measure,

And parts for sale he offers to the public view,

Which none but I should know about, had I my pleasure!

Thy wife,—thanks to the canon law, ’tis true,—

The name of consort holds all-duly priz’d;

She knows its meaning and its practice too.

As Ninon’s husband I’m but recogniz’d.

Thou’rt grieved that at the Faro-table, in the Pit,

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When thou appear’st, each tongue exerts its wit?

Oh, happy man! How fortunate is he

Who can say that! Good brother, as for me,

A whey-cure purchased me, at length, the honor

At her left side to humbly wait upon her.

Me no one sees, and ev’ry look is thrown

Upon my haughty spouse alone.

The veil of night is scarcely rent,

When lo! the staircase swarms with blue and yellow coats,

With unpaid letters, packages and notes,

To “The Illustrious Lady” sent.

How sweet her sleep!—to wake her though’s my duty:

“Madam, the last Berlin and Jena News!”

Sudden her eyelids opes the sleeping Beauty;

The first thing that they meet are—the Reviews.

Her fair blue eye for me has not one look,

A trump’ry Paper’s all that it can brook.

Soon from the nursery comes a roaring cry,

And, asking for her little ones, she lays it by.

Her dressing-table now is set,

But half-looks only on her glass she flings;

A grumbling and impatient threat

To her affrighted Maid gives wings.

The Graces all have fled from her toilette,

And in the place of Cupids young and fair,

Furies upon her wait to dress her hair.

The sound of carriage-wheels has now begun,

And nimble lacqueys from behind dismount,

To crave an audience with the Famous One:

First for the scented Abbé, then the Count,

Or Englishman, who German scorns to know,

Grossing and Son, or Messrs. So and So.

A thing that in the corner meekly takes its place,—

A Husband call’d,—is star’d at in the face.

Here may the dullest fool, the poorest wight (And this thy rival surely would not do),

Express his admiration at her sight,—

Express it in my presence, too!

And I, for fear of being thought uncivil,

Must beg he’ll stop to dine—(the devil!)

At table, Friend, begins my misery,

Quickly each flask’s contents are dried!

With Burgundy, that Doctors strictly keep from me,

Her flatterers’ throats I needs must keep supplied.

The meat that I so hardly earn’d at first

Her hungry parasites’ lean-paunches lines;

This fatal immortality accurs’d

Has been the death of all my choicest wines—

The plague take every hand that dares to print!

What, think’st thou, are my thanks? A scornful hint,

A gesture or a rude and vulgar sneer,—

Dost guess the meaning? Oh, ’tis very clear?

That any woman, who is such a jewel,

Should be possess’d by such a clown, seems cruel!

The spring-time comes. O’er meadow and o’er plain

Nature now throws her carpet, many-hued;

The flowers are clothed in smiling green again—

Sweet sings the lark, with life teems ev’ry wood.

—To her no joy does spring impart,

The songstress of the feelings blest of love,

The witness of our sports—the beauteous grove,—

Appeal no longer to her heart.

The nightingales have never learned to read—

The lilies never to admire.

The joyous choruses all creatures lead,

In her—an Epigram inspire!

But no!—The season’s fine for travelling—

How very crowded Pyrmont now must be!

And all in Carlsbad’s praises, too, agree.

Presto, she’s there!—Amongst that honor’d ring,

Where lords and sages are combining,—

All kinds of folk, in fact, of note,

Lovingly pair’d, as if in Charon’s boat,

All at one board together dining;

Where, from a distance thither lur’d,

The bleeding virtues of their wounds are cur’d,

And others—for temptation praying are,

That they may ward it off with more éclat.

There, Friend,—Oh, bless thy happier lot in life!

Leaving me seven young Orphans,—goes my wife.

Oh, happy golden time of love’s young day!

How soon,—alas, how soon thou’rt flown away!

A Woman who no equal has, or had—

A very Goddess, in her graces glad,

With radiant spirit, with a mind clear-sighted,

And feelings soft, to pity open wide,—

I saw her thus, while each heart she delighted,

Like a fair May-day sporting by my side;

Her beauteous eyes appear’d to falter

The blissful words: I love thee well!

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artist: hoffman-zeitz.

THE CELEBRATED WOMAN.

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And so I led her to the altar;

My rapture then, oh, who could tell!

Of enviable years a blooming field

From out this mirror sweetly on me smil’d;

A perfect heaven was then to me reveal’d.

Soon round me sported many a lovely child;

Amongst them all, the fairest She;

The happiest, She, amid the throng;

And Mine by spirit-harmony,

By heart-alliance, firm and strong.

But now,—Oh, may he be accurs’d!—appear’d

A Great Man, aye, a Shining Spirit, too.

The Great Man did a deed!—and overthrew

The house of cards that I tow’rd heaven had rear’d.

What have I now?—What sad exchange is this?—

Awaken’d from my madd’ning dream of bliss,

What of this Angel now remains to me?

A spirit strong within a body weak,

Hermaphroditic, so to speak;

Alike unfit for love or mystery—

A child, who with a giant’s weapons rages,

A cross between baboons and sages!

One that has fled the fairer race,

To gain among the stronger a vain place,

Hurl’d headlong from a throne eternal,

Flying the mysteries by Charm controll’d—

Eras’d from Cytherea’s Book of Gold,

To gain a corner—in a Journal.

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A YOUNG LADY.

E’EN yet, the world, like some fair infant blest,

Radiant with sportive grace, around thee plays;

Still ’tis not as depicted in thy breast—

Not as within thy soul’s fair glass, its rays

Are mirror’d. The respectful fealty

That my heart’s nobleness hath won for thee,

The miracles thou workest ev’rywhere,

The charms thy being to this life first lent,—

To it, mere charms to reckon thou’rt content,

To us, they seem humanity so fair.

The witchery sweet of ne’er-polluted youth,

The talisman of innocence and truth—

Him I would see, who these to scorn can dare!

Thou revellest joyously in telling o’er

The blooming flowers that round thy path are strown,—

The glad, whom thou hast made so evermore,—

The souls that thou hast conquer’d for thine own.

In thy deceit so blissful be thou glad!

Ne’er let a waking disenchantment sad

Hurl thee despairing from thy dream’s proud flight!

Like the fair flow’rets that thy beds perfume,

Observe them, but ne’er touch them as they bloom,—

Plant them, but only for the distant sight.

Created only to enchant the eye,

In faded beauty at thy feet they’ll lie,

The nearer thee, the nearer their long night!

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THE ARTISTS.

WITH graceful mien, O Man, and green palm-bough,

Upon the waning Century standest thou,

In proud and noble manhood’s prime,

With unlock’d Senses, with a Spirit freed,

Of Firmness mild,—though silent, rich in deed,

The ripest son of Time,

Through meekness great, through precepts strong,

Through treasures rich, that time had long

Hid in thy bosom, and through Reason free,—

Master of Nature, who thy fetters loves,

And who thy strength in thousand conflicts proves,

And from the Desert soar’d in pride with thee!

Flush’d with the glow of Victory,

Never forget to prize the hand

That found the weeping Orphan child

Deserted on Life’s barren strand,

And left a prey to hazzard wild,—

That, ere thy Spirit-honor saw the day,

Thy youthful heart watch’d over silently,

And from thy tender bosom turn’d away

Each thought that might have stain’d its purity;

That kind One ne’er forget who, as in sport,

Thy youth to noble aspirations train’d,

And who to thee in easy riddles taught

The secret how each Virtue might be gain’d;

Who, to receive him back more perfect still,

E’en into strangers’ arms her favorite gave—

Oh, may’st thou never with degenerate will,

Humble thyself to be her abject slave!

In Industry, the Bee the palm may bear;

In Skill, the Worm a lesson may impart;

With Spirits blest thy Knowledge thou dost share,

But thou, O Man, alone hast Art!

Only through Beauty’s morning gate

Didst thou the land of Knowledge find.

To merit a more glorious fate,

In Graces trains itself the Mind.

What thrill’d thee through with trembling blest,

When erst the Muses swept the chord,

That Power created in thy breast,

Which to the mighty Spirit soar’d.

What first was seen by doting Reason’s ken,

When many a thousand years had pass’d away,

A Symbol of the Fair and Great e’en then.

Before the childlike Mind uncovered lay.

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artist: woldemar friedrich.

THE ARTISTS.

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Its blest form bade us honor Virtue’s cause,—

The honest Sense ’gainst Vice put forth its powers,

Before a Solon had devis’d the Laws

That slowly bring to light their languid flowers.

Before Eternity’s vast scheme

Was to the Thinker’s mind reveal’d,

Was’t not foreshadow’d in his dream,

Whose eyes explor’d yon starry field?

Urania,—the majestic dreaded One,

Who wears a Glory of Orions twin’d

Around her brow, and who is seen by none

Save purest Spirits, when, in splendor shrin’d,

She soars above the Stars in pride,

Ascending to her sunny throne,—

Her fiery chaplet lays aside,

And now, as Beauty, stands alone;

While, with the Graces’ girdle round her cast,

She seems a Child, by children understood;

For we shall recognize as truth at last,

What here as beauty only we have view’d.

When the Creator banish’d from his sight

Frail Man to dark Mortality’s abode,

And granted him a late return to Light,

Only by treading Reason’s arduous road,—

When each Immortal turn’d his face away,

She, the Compassionate, alone

Took up her dwelling in that house of clay,

With the deserted, banish’d One.

With drooping wing she hovers here

Around her darling, near the Senses’ land,

And on his prison wall so drear

Elysium paints with fond deceptive hand.

While soft Humanity still lay at rest,

Within her tender arms extended,

No flame was stirr’d by Bigot’s murderous zest,

No guiltless blood on high ascended.

The heart that she in gentle fetters binds,

Views Duty’s slavish escort scornfully!

Her path of Light, though fairer far it winds,

Sinks in the Sun-track of Morality.

Those who in her chaste service still remain,

No grovelling thought can tempt, no Fate affright;

The Spiritual Life, so free from stain,

Freedom’s sweet birthright, they receive again,

Under the mystic sway of holy Might.

The purest among millions, happy they

Whom to her service she has sanctified,

Whose mouths the Mighty One’s commands convey,

Within whose breasts she deigneth to abide;

Whom she ordain’d to feed her holy fire

Upon her altar’s ever-flaming pyre,—

Whose eyes alone her unveil’d Graces meet,

And whom she gathers round in union sweet

In the much-honor’d place be glad

Where noble Order bade ye climb,

For in the Spirit-world sublime,

Man’s loftiest rank ye’ve ever had!

Ere to the world Proportion ye reveal’d,

That ev’ry Being joyfully obeys,—

A boundless structure, in Night’s veil conceal’d,

Illum’d by nought but faint and languid rays,

A band of Phantoms, struggling ceaselessly,

Holding his mind in slavish fetters bound,

Unsociable and rude as he,

Assailing him on every side around,—

Thus seem’d to Man Creation in that day!

United to surrounding forms alone

By the blind chains the Passions had put on,

Whilst Nature’s beauteous Spirit fled away,

Unfelt, untasted, and unknown.

And, as it hover’d o’er with parting ray,

Ye seiz’d the shades so neighborly,

With silent hand, with feeling mind,

And taught how they might be combin’d

In one firm bond of Harmony.

The gaze, light-soaring, felt uplifted then,

When first the Cedar’s slender trunk it view’d,

And pleasingly the Ocean’s crystal flood

Reflected back the dancing form again.

Could ye mistake the look, with beauty fraught,

That Nature gave to help ye on your way?

The Image floating on the billows taught

The art the fleeting shadow to portray.

From her own Being torn apart,

Her Phantom, beauteous as a dream,

She plung’d into the silv’ry stream,

Surrendering to her spoiler’s art.

Creative power soon in your breast unfolded;

Too noble far, not idly to conceive,

The Shadow’s form in sand, in clay ye moulded,

And made it in the sketch its Being leave.

The longing thirst for Action then awoke,—

And from your breast the first Creation broke.

By Contemplation captive made,

Ensnar’d by your discerning eye,

The friendly Phantom’s soon betray’d.

The talisman that rous’d your ecstasy,

The laws of wonder-working might,

The stores by Beauty brought to light,

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Inventive Reason in soft union plann’d

To blend together ’neath your forming hand.

The Obelisk, the Pyramid ascended,

The Hermes stood, the Column sprang on high,

The reed pour’d forth the woodland melody,

Immortal Song on Victor’s deeds attended.

The fairest flowers that deck’d the Earth,

Into a nosegay with wise choice combin’d,—

Thus the first Art from Nature had its birth;

Into a garland then were nosegays twin’d,

And from the works that mortal hands had made,

A second, nobler Art was now display’d.

The Child of Beauty, self-sufficient now,

That issued from your hands to perfect day,

Loses the chaplet that adorn’d its brow,

Soon as Reality asserts its sway.

The Column, yielding to Proportion’s chains,

Must with its sisters join in friendly link,

The Hero in the Hero-band must sink,

The Muses’ harp peals forth its tuneful strains.

The wond’ring savages soon came

To view the new Creation’s plan:

“Behold!”—the joyous crowds exclaim,—

“Behold, all this is done by Man!”—

With jocund and more social aim,

The minstrel’s lyre their awe awoke,

Telling of Titans, and of Giant’s-frays,

And Lion-slayers, turning, as he spoke,

E’en into Heroes those who heard his lays.

For the first time the soul feels joy,

By raptures bless’d that calmer are,

That only greet it from afar,

That passions wild can ne’er destroy,

And that, when tasted, do not cloy.

And now the Spirit, free and fair,

Awoke from out its sensual sleep;

By you unchain’d, the Slave of Care

Into the arms of Joy could leap.

Each brutish barrier soon was set at nought,

Humanity first graced the cloudless brow,

And the majestic, noble stranger, thought,

From out the wond’ring brain sprang boldly now;

Man in his glory stood upright,

And show’d the stars his kingly face;

His speaking glance the Sun’s bright light

Bless’d in the realms sublime of space.

Upon the cheek now bloom’d the smile,

The voice’s soulful Harmony

Expanded into Song the while,

And Feeling swam in the moist eye;

And from the mouth, with Spirit teeming o’er,

Jest, sweetly link’d with Grace, began to pour.

Sunk in the instincts of the worm,

By nought but sensual lusts possess’d,

Ye recognis’d within his breast

Love-Spiritual’s noble germ;

And that this germ of Love so blest

Escap’d the senses’ abject load,

To the first pastoral song he ow’d.

Rais’d to the dignity of Thought,

Passions more calm to flow were taught

From the Bard’s mouth with melody.

The cheeks with dewy softness burn’d;

The longing that, though quench’d, still yearn’d,

Proclaim’d the Spirit-Harmony.

The Wisest’s wisdom, and the Strongest’s vigor,—

The Meekest’s meekness, and the Noblest’s grace,

By you were knit together in one Figure,

Wreathing a radiant Glory round the place.

Man at the Unknown’s sight must tremble,

Yet its refulgence needs must love;

That mighty Being to resemble,

Each glorious Hero madly strove;

The prototype of Beauty’s earliest strain

Ye made resound through Nature’s wide domain.

The Passions’ wild and headlong course,

The ever-varying plan of Fate,

Duty and Instinct’s twofold force,

With proving mind and guidance straight

Ye then conducted to their ends.

What Nature, as she moves along,

Far from each other ever rends,

Become upon the stage, in song,

Members of Order, firmly bound.

Awed by the Furies’ chorus dread,

Murder draws down upon its head

The doom of Death from their wild sound.

Long ere the wise to give a verdict dar’d,

An Iliad had Fate’s mysteries declar’d

To early Ages from afar;

While Providence in silence far’d

Into the world from Thespis’ car.

Yet into that world’s current so sublime

Your Symmetry was borne before its time.

When the dark hand of Destiny

Fail’d in your sight to part by force

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What it had fashion’d ’neath your eye,

In darkness Life made haste to die,

Ere it fulfill’d its beauteous course.

Then ye with bold and self-sufficient might

Led the arch further thro’ the Future’s night;

Then, too, ye plung’d, without a fear,

Into Avernus’ ocean black,

And found the vanish’d life so dear

Beyond the Urn, and brought it back.

A blooming Pollux-form appear’d now soon,

On Castor leaning, and enshrin’d in light—

The shadow that is seen upon the moon,

Ere she has fill’d her silv’ry circle bright!

Yet higher,—higher still above the Earth

Inventive Genius never ceas’d to rise:

Creations from creations had their birth,

And harmonies from harmonies.

What here alone enchants the ravish’d sight,

A nobler Beauty yonder must obey;

The graceful charms that in the Nymph unite,

In the divine Athenè melt away;

The strength with which the Wrestler is endow’d,

In the God’s beauty we no longer find:

The wonder of his time—Jove’s image proud—

In the Olympian temple is enshrin’d.

The world, transform’d by Industry’s bold hand,

The human heart, by newborn instincts mov’d,

That have in burning fights been fully prov’d,

Your circle of Creation now expand.

Advancing Man bears on his soaring pinions,

In gratitude, Art with him in his flight,

And out of Nature’s now-enrich’d dominions,

New worlds of beauty issue forth to light,

The barriers upon knowledge are o’erthrown;

The Spirit that, with pleasure soon-matur’d,

Has in your easy triumphs been inur’d

To hasten through an Artist-whole of graces,

Nature’s more distant columns duly places,

And overtakes her on her pathway lone.

He weighs her now with weights that human are,

Metes her with measures that she lent of old;

While in her beauty’s rites more practis’d far,

She now must let his eye her form behold.

With youthful and self-pleasing bliss,

He lends the spheres his harmony,

And, if he praise earth’s edifice,

’Tis for its wondrous symmetry.

In all that now around him breathes,

Proportion sweet is ever rife;

And Beauty’s golden girdle wreathes

With mildness round his path through life;

Perfection blest, triumphantly,

Before him in your works soars high;

Wherever boisterous Rapture swells,

Wherever silent Sorrow flees,

Where pensive Contemplation dwells,

Where he the tears of Anguish sees,

Where thousand terrors on him glare,

Harmonious streams are yet behind—

He sees the Graces sporting there,

With feelings silent and refin’d.

Gentle as Beauty’s lines together linking,

As the Appearances that round him play,

In tender outline in each other sinking,

The soft breath of his life thus fleets away.

His Spirit melts in the harmonious Sea,

That, rich in rapture, round his senses flows,

And the dissolving Thought all silently

To omnipresent Cytherea grows.

Joining in lofty union with the Fates,

On Graces and on Muses calm relying,

With freely-offer’d bosom he awaits

The shaft that soon against him will be flying

From the soft bow Necessity creates.

Fav’rites belov’d of blissful Harmony,

Welcome attendants on Life’s dreary road,

The noblest and the dearest far that she,

Who gave us Life, to bless that life bestow’d!

That unyok’d Man his duties bears in mind,

And loves the fetters that his motions bind,

That Chance with brazen sceptre rules him not,—

For this, Eternity is now your lot,

Your heart has won a bright reward for this.

That round the cup where Freedom flows,

Merrily sport the Gods of bliss,—

The beauteous dream its fragrance throws,—

For this, receive a loving kiss!

The Spirit, glorious and serene,

Who round Necessity the Graces trains,—

Who bids his æther and his starry plains

Upon us wait with pleasing mien,—

Who, ’mid his terrors, by his majesty gives joy,

And who is beauteous e’en when seeking to destroy,—

Him imitate, the Artist good!

As o’er the streamlet’s crystal flood

The banks with chequer’d dances hover,

The flowery mead, the sunset’s light,—

Thus gleams, life’s barren pathway over,

Poesy’s shadowy world so bright.

In bridal dress ye led us on

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Before the terrible Unknown,

Before inexorable Fate.

As in your urns the bones are laid,

With beauteous Magic veil ye shade

The chorus dread that cares create.

Thousands of years I hasten’d through

The boundless realm of vanish’d time;

How sad it seems when left by you—

But where ye linger, how sublime!

She who, with fleeting wing, of yore

From your creating hand arose in might,

Within your arms was found once more,

When, vanquish’d by Time’s silent flight,

Life’s blossoms faded from the cheek,

And from the limbs all vigor went,

And mournfully, with footstep weak,

Upon his staff the greybeard leant.

Then gave ye to the languishing,

Life’s waters from a new-born spring;

Twice was the youth of Time renew’d,

Twice, from the seeds that ye had strew’d.

When chas’d by fierce barbarian hordes away,

The last remaining votive brand ye tore

From Orient’s altars, now pollution’s prey,

And to these Western lands in safety bore.

The fugitive from yonder Eastern shore,

The youthful day, the West her dwelling made;

And on Hesperia’s plains sprang up once more

Ionia’s flowers, in pristine bloom array’d.

Over the Spirit fairer Nature shed,

With soft refulgence, a reflection bright,

And through the graceful Soul with stately tread

Advanced the mighty Deity of light.

Millions of chains were burst asunder then,

And to the Slave then human laws applied,

And mildly rose the younger race of men,

As brethren, gently wand’ring side by side.

With noble inward ecstasy,

The bliss imparted ye receive,

And in the veil of modesty,

With silent merit take your leave.

If on the paths of Thought, so freely given,

The Searcher now with daring fortune stands,

And, by triumphant Pæans onward driven,

Would seize upon the crown with dauntless hands—

If he with grovelling hireling’s pay

Thinks to dismiss his glorious guide—

Or, with the first slave’s-place array

Art near the throne his dream supplied—

Forgive him!—O’er your head to-day

Hovers Perfection’s crown in pride.

With you the earliest plant Spring had,

Soul-forming Nature first began;

With you, the harvest-chaplet glad,

Perfected Nature ends her plan.

The Art Creative, that all-modestly arose

From clay and stone, with silent triumph throws

Its arms around the Spirit’s vast domain.

What in the land of knowledge the Discoverer knows,

He knows, discovers, only for your gain!

The treasures that the Thinker has amass’d,

He will enjoy within your arms alone,

Soon as his knowledge, beauty-ripe at last,

To Art ennobl’d shall have grown,—

Soon as with you he scales a mountain-height,

And there, illumin’d by the setting sun,

The smiling valley bursts upon his sight.

The richer ye reward the eager gaze—

The higher, fairer orders that the mind

May traverse with its magic rays,

Or compass with enjoyment unconfin’d—

The wider thoughts and feelings open lie

To more luxuriant floods of Harmony,

To Beauty’s richer, more majestic stream,—

The fair members of the world’s vast scheme,

That, maim’d, disgrace on his Creation bring,

He sees the lofty forms then perfecting—

The fairer riddles come from out the night—

The richer is the world his arms enclose,

The broader stream the sea with which he flows—

The weaker, too, is Destiny’s blind might—

The nobler instincts does he prove—

The smaller he himself, the greater grows his love.

Thus is he led, in still and hidden race,

By Poetry, who strews his path with flowers,

Through ever-purer Forms, and purer Powers,

Through ever higher heights, and fairer grace.

At length, arriv’d at the ripe goal of Time,—

Yet one more inspiration all-sublime,

Poetic outburst of Man’s latest youth,

And—he will glide into the arms of Truth!

Herself, the gentle Cypria,

Illumin’d by her fiery crown,

Then stands before her full-grown Son

Unveil’d—as great Urania;

The sooner only by him caught,

The fairer he had fled away!

Thus stood, in wonder rapture-fraught,

Ulysses’ noble Son that day,

When the sage Mentor who his youth beguil’d,

Herself transfigur’d as Jove’s glorious Child!

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Man’s honor is confided to your hand,—

There let it well-protected be!

It sinks with you! with you it will expand!

Poesy’s sacred sorcery

Obeys a world-plan wise and good;

In silence let it swell the flood

Of mighty-rolling Harmony!

By her own time view’d with disdain,

Let solemn Truth in song remain,

And let the Muses’ band defend her!

In all the fulness of her splendor,

Let her survive in numbers glorious,

More dread, when veil’d her charms appear,

And vengeance take, with strains victorious,

On her tormentor’s ear!

The freest Mother’s Children free,

With steadfast countenance then rise

To highest Beauty’s radiancy,

And ev’ry other crown despise!

The Sisters who escap’d you here,

Within your Mother’s arms ye’ll meet;

What noble Spirits may revere,

Must be deserving and complete.

High over your own course of time

Exalt yourselves with pinion bold,

And dimly let your glass sublime

The coming century unfold!

On thousand roads advancing fast

Of ever-rich variety,

With fond embraces meet at last

Before the throne of Harmony!

As into seven mild rays we view

With softness break the glimmer white,

As rainbow-beams of sevenfold hue

Dissolve again in that soft light,

In clearness thousandfold thus throw

Your magic round the ravish’d gaze,—

Into one stream of light thus flow,—

One bond of truth that ne’er decays!

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POEMS OF THE THIRD PERIOD.

THE MEETING.

I SEE her still—by her fair train surrounded,

The fairest of them all, she took her place;

Afar I stood, by her bright charms confounded,

For, oh! they dazzl’d with their heavenly grace.

With awe my soul was fill’d—with bliss unbounded,

While gazing on her softly radiant face;

But soon, as if up-borne on wings of fire,

My fingers ’gan to sweep the sounding lyre.

The thoughts that rush’d across me in that hour,

The words I sang, I’d fain once more invoke;

Within, I felt a new-awaken’d power,

That each emotion of my bosom spoke.

My soul, long time enchain’d in sloth’s dull bower,

Through all its fetters now triumphant broke,

And brought to light unknown, harmonious numbers,

Which, in its deepest depths, had liv’d in slumbers.

And when the chords had ceas’d their gentle sighing,

And when my soul rejoin’d its mortal frame,

I look’d upon her face and saw love vieing,

In ev’ry feature, with her maiden shame.

And soon my ravish’d heart seem’d heavenward flying,

When her soft whisper o’er my senses came.

The blissful seraphs’ choral strains alone

Can glad mine ear again with that sweet tone.

Of that fond heart, which, pining silently,

Ne’er ventures to express its feelings lowly,

The real and modest worth is known to me—

’Gainst cruel fate I’ll guard its cause so holy.

Most blest of all, the meek one’s lot shall be—

Love’s flowers by Love’s own hand are gather’d solely—

The fairest prize to that fond heart is due,

That feels it, and that beats responsive too!

TO EMMA.

FAR away, where darkness reigneth,

All my dreams of bliss are flown;

Yet with love my gaze remaineth

Fix’d on one fair star alone.

But, alas! that star so bright

Sheds no lustre save by night.

If in slumbers ending never,

Gloomy Death had seal’d thine eyes,

Thou hadst liv’d in memory ever—

Thou hadst liv’d still in my sighs;

But, alas! in light thou livest—

To my love no answer givest!

Can the sweet hopes love once cherish’d—

Emma, can they transient prove?

What has pass’d away and perish’d—

Emma, say, can that be love?

That bright flame of heavenly birth—

Can it die like things of earth?

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THE SECRET.

SHE sought to breathe one word, but vainly—

Too many listeners were nigh;

And yet my timid glance read plainly

The language of her speaking eye.

Thy silent glades my footstep presses,

Thou fair and leaf-embosom’d grove!

Conceal within thy green recesses

From mortal eye our sacred love!

Afar with strange discordant noises,

The busy day is echoing;

And ’mid the hollow hum of voices,

I hear the heavy hammer ring.

’Tis thus that man, with toil ne’er-ending,

Extorts from Heaven his daily bread;

Yet oft unseen the Gods are sending

The gifts of fortune on his head!

Oh, let mankind discover never

How true love fills with bliss our hearts!

They would but crush our joy for ever,

For joy to them no glow imparts.

Thou ne’er wilt from the world obtain it—

’Tis never captur’d save as prey;

Thou needs must strain each nerve to gain it,

Ere Envy dark asserts her sway.

The hours of night and stillness loving,

It comes upon us silently—

Away with hasty footstep moving

Soon as it sees a treach’rous eye.

Thou gentle stream, soft circlets weaving,

A wat’ry barrier cast around,

And, with thy waves in anger heaving,

Guard from each foe this holy ground!

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EXPECTATION.

HEAR I the portal not flying?

Hear I the latchet not fall?

No, ’tis but the Zephyr sighing

Gently through the poplars tall.

Put on thy fairest dress, thou leafy grove,

To welcome her sweet fact its charms displaying!

Ye branches, weave a shady roof above,

When she, at eve’s soft hour, is hither straying!

And all ye balmy winds, that sportive rove,

Awake, and round her blushing cheeks ’gin playing,

Soon as her foot, all-gently moving on,

Its beauteous burden bears to Love’s own throne!

Hark to yon sound that seems parting

The bushes, and hastening near!—

No, ’tis but the bird upstarting

From the copse, in sudden fear!

Oh, quench thy torch, bright Day! And thou, pale Night,

With thy propitious silence o’er us hover!

Around us spread a veil of purple light!

Let mystic boughs our blissful meeting cover!

From listener’s ears, Love’s raptures take their flight,

They fly when Phœbus’ beams the world rule over,

For Hesperus alone, who silently

Casts down his rays, their confidant can be!

Hear I not soft whispers cleaving

The air as the echoes they wake?

No, ’tis but the cygnet weaving

Circlets in the silv’ry lake!

A flood of harmony mine ear assails,—

The fountain’s gush with murmur sweet is falling—

The west wind’s balmy kiss the flow’ret hails,—

And all creation smiles with joy enthraling;

The purple grape, the luscious peach that veils,

’Neath shelt’ring leaves, its charms, seem softly calling;

The incense-bearing Zephyrs, as they blow,

Drink from my burning cheeks their fiery glow!

Down through yon laurel-walk rushing.

Hear not I footsteps resound?

No, ’tis but the fruit all-blushing,

Falling ripen’d to the ground!

In gentle death now sinks day’s flaming eye,

And all his gorgeous hues are fast declining;

The flowers, that ’neath his fiery ardor sigh,

Open their cups, when twilight soft ’gins shining;

The moon her silver beams sheds silently,—

The world in shadows dim its form is shrining;

Each charm its circling girdle lays aside,

And Beauty stands disclos’d in modest pride!

Is’t not a white form advancing?

Gleams not its soft-rustling train?

No, ’tis but the yew-trees glancing

Yon dim columns back again!

With sweet but airy dreams like these to play.

No longer be content, thou bosom panting!

No shadowy bliss my heart’s mad thirst can stay—

She whom this arm would clasp, alas, is wanting!

Oh, guide her living, breathing charms this way!

Oh, let me press her hand, with joy enchanting!

The very shadow of her mantle’s seam—

But lo!—a form of life assumes my dream!

And as, from the Heavens descending,

Appears the sweet moment of bliss,

In silence her steps thither bending,

She waken’d her love with a kiss!

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artist: ferdinand rothbart.

EXPECTATION.

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EVENING.
AFTER A PICTURE.

OH! thou bright-beaming God, the plains are thirsting,

Thirsting for freshening dew, and man is pining;

Wearily move on thy horses—

Let, then, thy chariot descend!

Seest thou her who, from Ocean’s crystal billows,

Lovingly nods and smiles?—Thy heart must know her!

Joyously speed on thy horses,—

Tethys, the Goddess, ’tis nods!

Swiftly from out his flaming chariot leaping,

Into her arms he springs,—the reins takes Cupid,—

Quietly stand the horses,

Drinking the cooling flood.

Now, from the Heavens with gentle step descending,

Balmy Night appears, by sweet Love follow’d;

Mortals, rest ye and love ye,—

Phœbus, the loving one, rests!

LONGING.

COULD I from this valley dear,

Where the mist hangs heavily,

Soar to some more blissful sphere,

Ah! how happy should I be!

Distant hills enchant my sight,

Ever young and ever fair;

To those hills I’d take my flight

Had I wings to scale the air.

Harmonies mine ear assail,

Tones that breathe a heavenly calm;

And the gently-sighing gale

Greets me with its fragrant balm.

Peeping through the shady bowers,

Golden fruits their charms display,

And those sweetly-blooming flowers

Ne’er become cold winter’s prey.

In yon endless sunshine bright,

Oh! what bliss ’twould be to dwell!

How the breeze on yonder height

Must the heart with rapture swell!

Yet the stream that hems my path

Checks me with its angry frown,

While its waves, in rising wrath,

Weigh my weary spirit down.

See—a bark is drawing near,

But, alas, the pilot fails!

Enter boldly—wherefore fear?

Inspiration fills its sails,

Faith and courage make thine own,—

Gods ne’er lend a helping hand;

’Tis by magic power alone

Thou canst reach the magic land!

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THE PILGRIM.

YES! ’twas in life’s happy morning

That I first began to roam,

And, Youth’s transient pleasures scorning,

Left for aye my native home.

All the wealth by fate imparted

To the winds with joy I hurl’d;

Then with conscience single-hearted,

Grasp’d my staff, and sought the world,

By a mighty impulse driven—

By a voice of mystic strength—

“Go!” it cried, “to thee ’tis given

Happiness to reach at length.

“When thou seest a golden portal

Near thee lying, enter in;

There, each thing that earth made mortal,

Heavenly is, and free from sin.”

Evening came, and morn succeeded,

On I went unweariedly;

But the rest my bosom needed

Ever from me seem’d to fly.

In my path lay mountain ridges,

Streams to hem my progress roll’d;

Yet I spann’d their gulfs with bridges—

Cross’d each flood with courage bold.

Till at length I reach’d a torrent—

Eastward ran its waters clear;

Trusting fondly to the current,

In I plunged without a fear.

Soon into a mighty ocean

I was carried by the stream;

Vain now prov’d my self-devotion,—

All was but an empty dream!

Nought, alas, can lead me thither!—

Yon bright realms of Heaven so clear

Ne’er can send their brightness hither—

And the There is never Here!

THE IDEALS.

O, then, Faithless, wilt thou leave me,

With all thy magic phantasy,—

With all the thoughts that joy or grieve me,

Wilt thou with all for ever fly?

Can nought delay thine onward motion,

Thou golden time of life’s young dream?

In vain! Eternity’s wide ocean

Ceaselessly drowns thy rolling stream.

The glorious suns my youth enchanting

Have set in never-ending night;

Those blest Ideals now are wanting

That swell’d my heart with mad delight.

The offspring of my dream hath perish’d,

My faith in Being pass’d away;

The godlike hopes that once I cherish’d

Are now Reality’s sad prey.

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artist: f. a. kaulbach.

THE MAIDEN’S LAMENT.

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As once Pygmalion, fondly yearning,

Embrac’d the statue form’d by him,

Till the cold marble’s cheeks were burning,

And life diffus’d through ev’ry limb,—

So I, with youthful passion fired,

My longing arms round Nature threw,

Till, clinging to my breast inspired,

She ’gan to breathe, to kindle, too.

And all my fiery ardor proving,

Though mute, her tale she soon could tell,

Return’d each kiss I gave her loving,

The throbbings of my heart read well.

Then living seem’d each tree, each flower,

Then sweetly sang the waterfall,

And e’en the soulless in that hour

Shar’d in the heav’nly bliss of all.

For then a circling World was bursting

My bosom’s narrow prison-cell,

To enter into Being thirsting,

In deed, word, shape and sound as well.

This world, how wondrous great I deem’d it,

Ere yet its blossoms could unfold!

When open, oh, how little seem’d it!

That little, oh, how mean and cold!

How happy, winged by courage daring,

The youth Life’s mazy path first press’d—

No care his manly strength impairing,

And in his dream’s sweet vision blest!

The dimmest star in air’s dominion

Seem’d not too distant for his flight;

His young and ever-eager pinion

Soar’d far beyond all mortal sight.

Thus joyously tow’rd Heaven ascending,

Was aught for his bright hopes too far?

The airy guides his steps attending,

How danced they round Life’s radiant car!

Soft Love was there, her guerdon bearing,

And Fortune, with her crown of gold,

And Fame, her starry chaplet wearing,

And Truth, in majesty untold.

But while the goal was yet before them,

The faithless guides began to stray;

Impatience of their task came o’er them,

Then one by one they dropp’d away.

Light-footed Fortune first retreating,

Then Wisdom’s thirst remain’d unstill’d,

While heavy storms of doubt were beating

Upon the path Truth’s radiance fill’d.

I saw Fame’s sacred wreath adorning

The brows of an unworthy crew;

And, ah! how soon Love’s happy morning,

When spring had vanish’d vanish’d too!

More silent yet, and yet more weary,

Became the desert path I trod;

And even Hope a glimmer dreary

Scarce cast upon the gloomy road.

Of all that train, so bright with gladness,

Oh, who is faithful to the end?

Who now will seek to cheer my sadness,

And to the grave my steps attend?

Thou, Friendship, of all guides the fairest,

Who gently healest ev’ry wound;

Who all Life’s heavy burdens sharest,

Thou, whom I early sought and found!

Employment too, thy loving neighbor,

Who quells the bosom’s rising storms;

Who ne’er grows weary of her labor,

And ne’er destroys, though slow she forms;

Who, though but grains of sand she places

To swell Eternity sublime,

Yet minutes, days, aye! years effaces

From the dread reckoning kept by Time!

THE MAIDEN’S LAMENT.

THE clouds fast gather,

The forest-oaks roar,—

A maiden is sitting

Beside the green shore,—

The billows are breaking with might, with might,

And she sighs aloud in the darkling night,

Her eyelid heavy with weeping.

“My heart’s dead within me,

The world is a void;

To the wish, it gives nothing,

Each hope is destroy’d.

I have tasted the fulness of bliss below

I have liv’d, I have lov’d,—thy child, oh take now,

Thou Holy One, into thy keeping!”

“In vain is thy sorrow,

In vain thy tears fall,

For the Dead from their slumbers

They ne’er can recall;

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Yet if aught can pour comfort and balm in thy heart,

Now that love its sweet pleasures no more can impart,

Speak thy wish, and thou granted shall find it!”

“Though in vain is my sorrow,

Though in vain my tears fall,

Though the Dead from their slumbers

They ne’er can recall,

Yet no balm is so sweet to the desolate heart,

When love its soft pleasures no more can impart,

As the torments that love leaves behind it!”

THE YOUTH AT THE BROOK.

NEAR a brook a boy is sitting,

Twining many a garland gay;

But, alas! he sees them ever

Hurried by the stream away.

“Restless as those dancing waters,

My sad days are fleeting on;

Transient as those fragrant garlands,

Lo! my youth will soon be gone.

“Ask me not why I am sorrowing

In the spring-time of my years!

Joy and hope fill every creature

Soon as smiling Spring appears;

But the thousand voices hailing

Nature wak’ning from her sleep,

In my bosom waken only

Anguish bitter, torments deep.

“What avail to me the pleasures

Spring is able to convey?

There is only one I sigh for,

Yet, though near, ’tis far away.

Fain I’d seize the flattering vision,

Fain I’d clasp it to my breast;

But, alas! it ever flies me,

And my heart remains oppress’d.

“Leave thy castle proud behind thee,

Hither, maiden, wend thy way;

And I’ll fill thy lap with flowers,

Offspring of all-bounteous May.

Hark! the streamlet softly murmurs,

Joyous carols fill the air;

E’en a cottage is a palace

To a happy, loving pair!”

THE FAVOR OF THE MOMENT.

SO, at length, once more we meet

In the Muses’ glad domain!

Let us twine a garland sweet,

Fit to grace their brows again!

To what God shall we now bring

Earliest tribute of our lays?

Let us first His glory sing,

Who with bliss our toil repays.

What avails it that a Soul

Ceres breathes into the shrine?

That great Bacchus brims the bowl

With the red blood of the vine?

If that spark which set on fire

Mortal hearths, comes not from high,

Joy will ne’er the soul inspire,

And the heart will vainly sigh.

From the clouds must fortune fall,

From the lap of Deities;

And the mightiest Lord of all

Is the moment as it flies.

’Mongst the things that have their birth

’Neath eternal Nature’s sway,

Nought is god-like here on earth,

Save the thought’s all-piercing ray,

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Slowly stone and stone unite,

As the circling seasons roll;

But our work will see the light

Soon as fashion’d by the soul.

As the sunlight’s radiant glow

Weaves a golden tapestry—

As upon her gorgeous bow

Iris quivers in the sky,

So each gift that joys the heart

Fleeteth as a gleam of light;

Soon for aye it must depart

To the darksome tomb of night.

MOUNTAIN SONG.

YON bridge o’er the giddy abyss will conduct,

From life unto death ’tis the portal;

But figures gigantic the lone way obstruct,

And threaten to crush thee, frail mortal!

And, wouldst thou not waken the avalanche dread,

The terrible path thou must noiselessly tread.

High over the brink of the chasm profound

An arch is in triumph suspended;

’Twas rais’d not by science of man from the ground,

His thoughts to such height ne’er ascended,

Below, late and early, the fierce torrent boils—

Assails it in fury, but fruitlessly toils.

A dark and mysterious gate opens wide,

Beyond seem the shadow-realms dreaded;

But sudden a region of bliss is described,

Where autumn and spring-time are wedded;

Oh, would I could fly to that vale of repose

From the labors of life, and its ne’er-ending woes!

Four streams to the plain with wild roar issue forth,

Their source remains hidden for ever;

They flow to the East, to the West, South, and North,

The world’s four great highways they sever.

And fast as their mother with groans gives them birth,

They fly away swiftly and vanish from earth.

Two peaks, far above the weak gaze of mankind,

From Ether’s blue vault seem advancing;

Upon them, in vapor all-golden enshrin’d,

The clouds, Heaven’s daughters, are dancing.

Their course all alone they unceasing pursue,

The eye of no mortal their progress can view.

The Queen, on a throne that no time can e’er change,

In glory and brightness is sitting;—

She weareth a chaplet of diamonds strange

To grace her fair forehead befitting;

The sun shoots his arrows of light at her ever—

They gild her, ’tis true, but their warmth they

give never!

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DITHYRAMB.

NEVER,—believe me,—

See we the Deities—

Never alone.

No sooner does Bacchus the Jovial greet me,

Than Love, smiling urchin, comes bounding to meet me,

Phœbus the radiant—he, too, is one!

See them advancing,

Crowding the portal!

Soon in my dwelling

Stands each immortal!

Say, ye Divine Ones,

How I, a frail creature,

Due homage can pay?

Bright immortality send down from Heaven!

Yet what requital by me can be given?

Oh, to Olympus guide upward my way!

Bliss dwelleth only

In Jupiter’s Palace;

Brimming with nectar,

Oh, give me the chalice!

Give him the chalice!

Brim for the Poet,

Hebe, the bowl!

Moisten his eyes with the dew we quaff ever,

Let Styx, the dark torrent, be seen by him never,

Let visions celestial brighten his soul!

The heavenly fountain

Sparkles and bubbles,

Gladd’ning the bosom,

And banishing troubles!

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

WILT thou not the lambkins guard?

Oh, how soft and meek they look,

Feeding on the grassy sward,

Sporting round the silv’ry brook!

“Mother, mother, let me go

On yon heights to chase the roe!”

Wilt thou not the flock compel

With the horn’s inspiring notes?

Sweet the echo of yon bell,

As across the wood it floats!

“Mother, mother, let me go

On yon heights to hunt the roe!”

Wilt thou not the flow’rets bind,

Smiling gently in their bed?

For no garden thou wilt find

On yon heights so wild and dread.

“Leave the flow’rets,—let them blow!

Mother, mother, let me go!”

And the youth then sought the chase,

Onward press’d with headlong speed

To the mountain’s gloomiest place,—

Nought his progress could impede;

And before him, like the wind,

Swiftly flies the trembling hind.

Up the naked precipice

Clambers she, with footstep light;

O’er the chasm’s dark abyss

Leaps with spring of daring might;

But behind, unweari’dly,

With his death-blow follows he.

Now upon the rugged top

Stands she,—on the loftiest height,

Where the cliffs abruptly stop,

And the path is lost to sight.

There she views the steeps below,—

Close behind, her mortal foe.

She, with silent woeful gaze,

Seeks the cruel boy to move;

But, alas! in vain she prays—

To the string he fits the groove.

When from out the clefts, behold!

Steps the Mountain Genius old.

With his hand the Deity

Shields the beast that trembling sighs;

“Must thou, even up to me,

Death and anguish send?” he cries,—

“Earth has room for all to dwell,—

Why pursue my lov’d gazelle?”

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artist: ferdinand keller.

THE ALPINE HUNTER.

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THE FOUR AGES OF THE WORLD.

THE goblet is sparkling with purpleting’d wine,

Bright glistens the eye of each guest,

When into the hall comes the Minstrel divine,

To the good he now brings what is best;

For when from Elysium is absent the lyre,

No joy can the banquets of nectar inspire.

He is blest by the Gods with an intellect clear,

That mirrors the world as it glides;

He has seen all that ever has taken place here,

And all that the future still hides.

He sat in the God’s secret councils of old,

And heard the command for each thing to unfold.

He opens in splendor, with gladness and mirth,

That life which was hid from our eyes;

Adorns as a temple the dwelling of earth,

That the Muse has bestow’d as his prize.

No roof is so humble, no hut is so low,

But he with Divinities bids it o’erflow.

And as the inventive descendant of Zeus,

On the unadorn’d round of the shield,

With knowledge divine could, reflected, produce

Earth, sea, and the stars’ shining field,—

So he, on the moments, as onward they roll,

The image can stamp of the infinite Whole.

From the earliest age of the world he has come,

When nations rejoic’d in their prime;

A wanderer glad, he has still found a home

With every race through all time.

Four ages of man in his lifetime have died,

And the place they once held by the Fifth is suppli’d.

Saturnus first govern’d, with fatherly smile,

Each day then resembl’d the last;

Then flourish’d the Shepherds, a race without guile—

Their bliss by no care was o’ercast.

They lov’d,—and no other employment they had,

And Earth gave her treasures with willingness glad.

Then Labor came next, and the conflict began

With monsters and beasts fam’d in song;

And heroes upstarted, as rulers of man,

And the weak sought the aid of the strong.

And strife o’er the field of Scamander now reign’d,

But Beauty the God of the world still remain’d.

At length from the conflict bright Victory sprang,

And gentleness blossom’d from might;

In heavenly chorus the Muses then sang,

And figures divine saw the light;—

The Age that acknowledg’d sweet Phantasy’s sway

Can never return, it has fleeted away.

The Gods from their seats in the Heavens were hurl’d,

And their pillars of glory o’erthrown;

And the Son of the Virgin appear’d in the world

For the sins of mankind to atone.

The fugitive lusts of the sense were suppress’d,

And man now first grappled with Thought in his breast.

Each vain and voluptuous charm vanish’d now,

Wherein the young world took delight;

The monk and the nun made of penance a vow,

And the tourney was sought by the knight.

Though the aspect of life was now dreary and wild,

Yet Love remain’d ever both lovely and mild.

An altar of holiness, free from all stain,

The Muses in silence uprear’d;

And all that was noble and worthy, again

In woman’s chaste bosom appear’d;

The bright flame of song was soon kindl’d anew

By the minstrel’s soft lays, and his love, pure and true.

And so, in a gentle and ne’er-changing band,

Let woman and minstrel unite;

They weave and they fashion, with hand join’d to hand,

The girdle of Beauty and Right.

When love blends with music, in unison sweet,

The lustre of life’s youthful days ne’er can fleet.

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Punch Song.

Four elements join’d in

Harmonious strife,

Shadow the world forth,

And typify life.

Into the goblet

The lemon’s juice pour;

Acid is ever

Life’s innermost core.

Now, with the sugar’s

All-softening juice,

The strength of the acid

So burning reduce.

The bright sparkling water

Now pour in the bowl;

Water, all-gently,

Encircles the whole.

Let drops of the spirit

To join them now flow;

Life to the living

Nought else can bestow.

Drain it off quickly

Before it exhales;

Save when ’tis glowing,

The draught nought avails.

TO MY FRIENDS.

YES, my friends!—that happier times have been

Than the present, none can contravene;

That a race once liv’d of nobler worth;

And if ancient chronicles were dumb,

Countless stones in witness forth would come

From the deepest entrails of the earth.

But this highly-favor’d race has gone,

Gone forever to the realms of night.

We, we live! The moments are our own,

And the living judge the right.

Brighter zones, my friends, no doubt excel

This, the land wherein we’re doom’d to dwell,

As the hardy travellers proclaim;

But if Nature has denied us much,

Art is yet responsive to our touch,

And our hearts can kindle at her flame.

If the laurel will not flourish here—

If the myrtle is cold winter’s prey,

Yet the vine, to crown us, year by year,

Still puts forth his foliage gay.

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Of a busier life ’tis well to speak,

Where four worlds their wealth to barter seek,

On the world’s great market, Thames’ broad stream;

Ships in thousands go there and depart—

There are seen the costliest works of art,

And the earth-god, Mammon, reigns supreme:

But the sun his image only graves

On the silent streamlet’s level plain,

Not upon the torrent’s muddy waves,

Swollen by the heavy rain.

Far more bless’d than we, in northern States,

Dwells the beggar at the Angel-gates,

For he sees the peerless city—Rome!

Beauty’s glorious charms around him lie,

And a second Heaven up tow’rd the sky

Mounts St. Peter’s proud and wondrous dome.

But, with all the charms that splendor grants,

Rome is but the tomb of ages past;

Life but smiles upon the blooming plants

That the seasons round her cast.

Greater actions elsewhere may be rife

Than with us, in our contracted life—

But beneath the sun there’s nought that’s new;

Yet we see the great of ev’ry age

Pass before us on the world’s wide stage

Thoughtfully and calmly in review:

All in life repeats itself for ever,

Young for aye is phantasy alone;

What has happen’d nowhere,—happen’d never,—

That has never older grown!

PUNCH SONG. (TO BE SUNG IN NORTHERN COUNTRIES.)

ON the mountain’s breezy summit,

Where the Southern sunbeams shine,

Aided by their warming vigor,

Nature yields the golden wine.

How the wondrous mother formeth,

None have ever read aright;

Hid for ever is her working,

And inscrutable her might.

Sparkling as a son of Phœbus,

As the fiery source of light,

From the vat it bubbling springeth,

Purple, and as crystal bright;

And rejoiceth all the senses,

And in ev’ry sorrowing breast

Poureth Hope’s refreshing balsam,

And on life bestows new zest.

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But their slanting rays all feebly

On our zone the sunbeams shoot;

They can only tinge the foliage,

But they ripen ne’er the fruit.

Yet the North insists on living,

And what lives, will merry be;

So, although the grape is wanting,

We invent wine cleverly.

Pale the drink we now are off’ring

On the household altar here;

But what living Nature maketh,

Sparkling is and ever clear.

Let us, from the brimming goblet,

Drain the troubled flood with mirth;

Art is but a gift of Heaven,

Borrow’d from the glow of earth.

Even strength’s dominions boundless

’Neath her rule obedient lie;

From the old the new she fashions

With creative energy.

She the element’s close union

Severs with her sovereign nod;

With the flame upon the altar,

Emulates the great Sun-God.

For the distant, happy islands

Now the vessel sallies forth,

And the Southern fruits, all-golden,

Pours upon the eager North.

As a type, then,—as an image,

Be to us this fiery juice,

Of the wonders that frail mortals

Can with steadfast will produce!

NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT.

SEE, he sitteth on his mat,

Sitteth there upright,

With the grace with which he sat

While he saw the light.

Where is now the sturdy gripe,—

Where the breath sedate,

That so lately whiff’d the pipe

Tow’rd the Spirit Great?

Where the bright and falcon eye,

That the reindeer’s tread

On the waving grass could spy,

Thick with dew-drops spread?

Where the limbs that used to dart

Swifter through the snow

Than the twenty-member’d hart,

Than the mountain roe?

Where the arm that sturdily

Bent the deadly bow?

See, its life hath fleeted by,—

See, it hangeth low!

Happy he!—He now has gone

Where no snow is found:

Where with maize the fields are sown,

Self-sprung from the ground;

Where with birds each bush is fill’d,

Where with game the wood;

Where the fish, with joy unstill’d,

Wanton in the flood.

With the spirits blest he feeds,—

Leaves us here in gloom;

We can only praise his deeds,

And his corpse entomb.

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artist: w. camphausen.

THE SOLDIER’S SONG.

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Farewell gifts, then, hither bring,

Sound the death-note sad!

Bury with him ev’rything

That can make him glad!

’Neath his head the hatchet hide

That he boldly swung;

And the bear’s fat haunch beside,

For the road is long;

And the knife, well sharpenèd,

That, with slashes three,

Scalp and skin from foeman’s head

Tore off skilfully.

And to paint his body, place

Dyes within his hand;

Let him shine with ruddy grace

In the Spirit-Land!

THE SOLDIER’S SONG.

WAKE 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 prov’d 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.

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.

The cares of this life, he casts them away,

Untroubl’d 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.

The skies o’er him shower his lot fill’d 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.

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.

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.

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!

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THE FEAST OF VICTORY.

PRIAM’S castle-walls had sunk,

Troy in dust and ashes lay,

And each Greek, with triumph drunk,

Richly laden with his prey,

Sat upon his ship’s high prow,

On the Hellespontic strand,

Starting on his journey now,

Bound for Greece, his own fair land.

Raise the glad exulting shout!

Tow’rd the land that gave them birth

Turn they now the ships about,

As they seek their native earth.

And in rows, all mournfully,

Sat the Trojan women there,—

Beat their breasts in agony,

Pallid, with dishevell’d hair.

In the feast of joy so glad

Mingl’d they the song of woe,

Weeping o’er their fortunes sad,

In their country’s overthrow.

“Land belov’d, oh, fare thee well!

By our foreign masters led,

Far from home we’re doom’d to dwell—

Ah, how happy are the dead!”

Soon the blood by Calchas spilt

On the altar heav’nward smokes;

Pallas, by whom towns are built

And destroy’d, the priest invokes;

Neptune, too, who all the earth

With his billowy girdle laves,—

Zeus, who gives to Terror birth,

Who the dreaded Ægis waves.

Now the weary fight is done,

Ne’er again to be renew’d;

Time’s wide circuit now is run,

And the mighty town subdued!

Atreus’ son, the army’s head,

Told the people’s numbers o’er,

Whom he, as their captain, led

To Scamander’s vale of yore.

Sorrow’s black and heavy clouds

Pass’d across the monarch’s brow:

Of those vast and valiant crowds,

Oh, how few were left him now!

Joyful songs let each one raise,

Who will see his home again,

In whose veins the life-blood plays,

For, alas! not all remain!

“All who homeward wend their way,

Will not there find peace of mind;

On their household altars, they

Murder foul perchance may find.

Many fall by false friend’s stroke,

Who in fight immortal prov’d:”—

So Ulysses warning spoke,

By Athenè’s spirit mov’d.

Happy he, whose faithful spouse

Guards his home with honor true!

Woman ofttimes breaks her vows,

Ever loves she what is new.

And Atrides glories there

In the prize he won in fight,

And around her body fair

Twines his arms with fond delight.

Evil works must punish’d be,

Vengeance follows after crime,

For Kronīon’s just decree

Rules the heav’nly courts sublime.

Evil must in evil end;

Zeus will on the impious band

Woe for broken guest-rights send,

Weighing with impartial hand.

“It may well the glad befit,”

Cried Oïleus’ valiant son,

“To extol the Gods who sit

On Olympus’ lofty throne!

Fortune all her gifts supplies,

Blindly, and no justice knows,

For Patroclus buried lies,

And Thersites homeward goes!

Since she blindly throws away

Each lot in her wheel contain’d,

Let him shout with joy to-day

Who the prize of life has gain’d.

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“Aye, the wars the best devour!

Brother, we will think of thee,

In the fight a very tower,

When we join in revelry!

When the Grecian ships were fir’d,

By thine arm was safety brought;

Yet the man by craft inspir’d

Won the spoils thy valor sought.

Peace be to thine ashes blest!

Thou wert vanquish’d not in fight:

Anger ’tis destroys the best,—

Ajax fell by Ajax’s might!”

Neoptolemus pour’d, then,

To his sire renown’d the wine—

“’Mongst the lots of earthly men,

Mighty father, prize I thine!

Of the goods that life supplies,

Greatest far of all is fame;

Though to dust the body flies,

Yet still lives a noble name.

Valiant one, thy glory’s ray

Will immortal be in song;

For, though life may pass away,

To all time the dead belong!”

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“Since the voice of minstrelsy

Speaks not of the vanquish’d man,

I will Hector’s witness be,”—

Tydeus’ noble son began:

“Fighting bravely in defence

Of his household-gods he fell.—

Great the victor’s glory thence,

He in purpose did excel!

Battling for his altars dear,

Sank that rock, no more to rise;

E’en the foeman will revere

One whose honor’d name ne’er dies.”

Nestor, joyous reveller old,

Who three generations saw,

Now the leaf-crown’d cup of gold

Gave to weeping Hecuba.

“Drain the goblet’s draught so cool,

And forget each painful smart!

Bacchus’ gifts are wonderful,—

Balsam for a broken heart.

Drain the goblet’s draught so cool,

And forget each painful smart!

Bacchus’ gifts are wonderful,—

Balsam for a broken heart.”

“E’en to Niobe, whom Heaven

Lov’d in wrath to persecute,

Respite from her pangs was given,

Tasting of the corn’s ripe fruit.

Whilst the thirsty lip we lave

In the foaming, living spring,

Buried deep in Lethe’s wave

Lies all grief, all sorrowing!

Whilst the thirsty lip we lave

In the foaming, living spring,

Swallow’d up in Lethe’s wave

Is all grief, all sorrowing!”

And the Prophetess inspir’d

By her God, upstarted now,—

Tow’rd the smoke of homesteads fir’d,

Looking from the lofty prow.

“Smoke is each thing here below;

Ev’ry worldly greatness dies,

As the vapory columns go,—

None are fix’d but Deities!

Cares behind the horseman sit—

Round about the vessel play;

Lest the morrow hinder it,

Let us, therefore, live to-day.”

THE LAMENT OF CERES.

IS’T the beauteous spring I see?

Has the earth grown young again?

Sun-lit hills glow verdantly,

Bursting through their icy chain.

From the streamlet’s mirror blue

Smiles the now unclouded sky,

Zephyr’s wings wave milder, too,—

Youthful blossoms ope their eye.

In the grove, sweet songs resound,

Speaks the Oread as of yore;

Once again thy flowers are found,

But thy daughter comes no more.

Ah, how long ’tis since I went

First in search o’er earth’s wide face!

Titan! All thy rays I sent

Seeking for the lov’d one’s trace;

Of that form so dear, no ray

Hath as yet brought news to me,

And the all-discerning day

Cannot yet the lost one see.

Hast thou, Zeus, her from me torn?

Or to Oreus’ gloomy streams,

Is she down by Pluto borne,

Smitten by her charms’ bright beams?

Who will to yon dreary strand

Be the herald of my woe?

Ever leaves the bark the land,

Yet but shadows in it go.

To each bless’d eye evermore

Clos’d the night-like fields remain;

Styx no living form e’er bore,

Since his stream first wash’d the plain

Thousand paths lead downward there,

None lead up again to light;—

And her tears no witness e’er

Brings to her sad mother’s sight.

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artist: edmund kanoldt.

THE LAMENT OF CERES.

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Mothers who, from Pyrrha sprung,

From a mortal race descend,

May, the tomb’s fierce flames among,

On their children lov’d attend;

Denizens of Heaven alone

Draw not near the gloomy strand,—

Parcæ! save Immortals, none

E’er are spar’d by your harsh hand.

Plunge me in the night of nights,

From the halls of heaven afar!

Honor not the Goddess’ rights—

They the mother’s torments are!

Where she, with her consort stern,

Joyless reigns, there went I down,—

With the silent shades, in turn,

Silent stood before her throne.

Ah! her eye weigh’d down with tears,

Seeks in vain the light so fair,

Wanders tow’rd far distant spheres,

On her mother falling ne’er!

Till she wakes to ecstasy,

Till with joy each bosom throbs,

And, arous’d to sympathy,

Even rugged Orcus sobs.

Fruitless wish! Lamenting vain!

In its smooth track peacefully

Ever rolls day’s steady wain,

Ever fix’d is Jove’s decree.

He has turn’d his blissful head

From the gloomy realms away;

She to me is ever dead,

Now that she is Night’s sad prey,—

Till the waves, that darkly swell,

With Aurora’s colors glow;

Till across the depths of Hell

Iris draws her beauteous bow.

Is nought left me now to prove,

Nought that as pledge may stand,

That the absent still may love?

Not a trace of that dear hand?

Can no loving bond, then, spread

O’er a mother and her child?

Of the living and the dead

Can there be no union mild?

No, she is not wholly flown!

We’re not wholly sever’d now!

For to speak one tongue alone

The eternal Gods allow.

When Spring’s children sink in death,

When the leaf and flower decay,

Smitten by the North wind’s breath,

Sadly stands the naked spray:

Then I take what best can live

From Vertumnus’ teeming horn,

Off’ring it to Styx, to give

In return the golden corn,—

Into earth, then, mournfully

Drop it on my daughter’s heart,

That it may a language be

Of my love, my bitter smart.

When the Hours’ unchanging dance

Brings with joy the Spring again,

Waken’d by the sun’s bright glance,

Will the dead fresh life obtain.

Germs that perish to the sight

In the chilly womb of earth,

In the color-realm so bright

Free themselves again with mirth.

When the stalk shoots high in air,

Shyly lurks the root in night;

Equal in their fost’ring care

Are both Styx’ and Æther’s might.

Half they rule the living’s sphere,

Half the region of the dead;

Ah, to me they’re heralds dear,

Sweet tones from Cocytus dread!

Though herself be ever dumb

In the terrible abyss,

From the Spring’s young blossoms come

To mine ear these words of bliss,—

That, e’en far from daylight blest,

Where the sorrowing shadows go,

Lovingly may throb the breast,

Tenderly the heart may glow!

Oh, be glad, then, evermore,

Smiling meadows’ children true!

For your chalice shall run o’er

With the nectar’s purest dew.

I will steep your forms in beams

And with Iris’ fairest light

Tinge your foliage, till it gleams

Like Aurora’s features bright.

In the Spring-time’s radiance blest,

In the Autumn’s garland dead,

There may read each tender breast

Of my griefs—my joys, now fled!

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THE ELEUSINIAN FESTIVAL.

WREATHE in a garland the corn’s golden ear!

With it, the Cyǎne blue intertwine!

Rapture must render each glance bright and clear,

For the great Queen is approaching her shrine,—

She who compels lawless passions to cease,

Who to link man with his fellow has come,

And into firm habitations of peace

Chang’d the rude tents’ ever-wandering home.

Shyly in the mountain-cleft

Was the Troglodyte conceal’d;

And the roving Nomad left,

Desert lying, each broad field.

With the javelin, with the bow

Strode the hunter through the land;

To the hapless stranger, woe,

Billow-cast on that wild strand!

When, in her sad wanderings lost,

Seeking traces of her child,

Ceres hail’d the dreary coast,

Ah, no verdant plain then smil’d!

That she here with trust may stay,

None vouchsafes a sheltering roof;

Not a temple’s columns gay

Give of godlike worship proof.

Fruit of no propitious ear

Bids her to the pure feast fly;

On the ghastly altars here

Human bones alone e’er dry.

Far as she might onward rove,

Misery found she still in all,

And within her soul of love,

Sorrow’d she o’er man’s deep fall.

“Is it thus I find the man

To whom we our Image lend,

Whose fair limbs of noble span

Upward tow’rd the Heavens ascend?

Laid we not before his feet

Earth’s unbounded godlike womb!

Yet upon his kingly seat

Wanders he without a home?

“Does no God compassion feel?

Will none of the blissful race,

With an arm of miracle,

Raise him from his deep disgrace?

In the heights where rapture reigns

Pangs of others ne’er can move;

Yet man’s anguish and man’s pains

My tormented heart must prove.

“So that a man a man may be,

Let him make an endless bond

With the kind earth trustingly,

Who is ever good and fond—

To revere the law of time,

And the moon’s melodious song,

Who, with silent step sublime,

Move their sacred course along.”

And she softly parts the cloud

That conceals her from the sight;

Sudden, in the savage crowd,

Stands she, as a Goddess bright,

There she finds the concourse rude

In their glad feast revelling,

And the chalice fill’d with blood

As a sacrifice they bring.

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But she turns her face away,

Horror-struck, and speaks the while:

“Bloody tiger-feasts ne’er may

Of a God the lips defile.

He needs victims free from stain,

Fruits matur’d by Autumn’s sun;

With the pure gifts of the plain

Honor’d is the Holy One!”

And she takes the heavy shaft

From the hunter’s cruel hand;

With the murd’rous weapon’s haft

Furrowing the light-strown sand,—

Takes from out her garland’s crown,

Fill’d with life, one single grain,—

Sinks it in the furrow down,

And the germ soon swells amain.

And the green stalks gracefully

Shoot, ere long, the ground above,

And, as far as eye can see,

Waves it like a golden grove.

With her smile the earth she cheers,

Binds the earliest sheaves so fair,

As her hearth the landmark rears,—

And the Goddess breathes this prayer:

“Father Zeus, who reign’st o’er all

That in Æther’s mansions dwell,

Let a sign from thee now fall

That thou lov’st this off’ring well!

And from the unhappy crowd

That, as yet, has ne’er known thee,

Take away the eye’s dark cloud,

Showing them their Deity!”

Zeus, upon his lofty throne,

Hearkens to his sister’s prayer;

From the blue heights thund’ring down,

Hurls his forkèd lightning there.

Crackling, it begins to blaze,

From the altar whirling bounds,—

And his swift-wing’d eagle plays

High above in circling rounds.

Soon at the feet of their mistress are kneeling,

Fill’d with emotion, the rapturous throng:

Into humanity’s earliest feeling

Melt their rude spirits, untutor’d and strong.

Each bloody weapon behind them they leave,

Rays on their senses beclouded soon shine,

And from the mouth of the Queen they receive,

Gladly and meekly, instruction divine.

All the Deities advance

Downwards from their heav’nly seats;

Themis’ self ’tis leads the dance,

And, with staff of justice, metes

Unto ev’ry one his rights,—

Landmarks, too, ’tis hers to fix;

And in witness she invites

All the hidden powers of Styx.

And the Forge-God, too, is there,

The inventive Son of Zeus;

Fashioner of vessels fair

Skill’d in clay and brass’s use.

’Tis from him the art man knows

Tongs and bellows how to wield;

’Neath his hammer’s heavy blows

Was the ploughshare first reveal’d.

With projecting, weighty spear,

Front of all, Minerva stands,

Lifts her voice so strong and clear,

And the Godlike host commands.

Steadfast walls ’tis hers to found,

Shield and screen for ev’ry one,

That the scatter’d world around

Bind in loving unison.

The Immortals’ steps she guides

O’er the trackless plains so vast,

And where’er her foot abides

Is the Boundary God held fast;

And her measuring chain is led

Round the mountain’s border green,—

E’en the raging torrent’s bed

In the holy ring is seen.

All the Nymphs and Oreads too

Who, the mountain pathways o’er,

Swift foot Artemis pursue,

All, to swell the concourse, pour,

Brandishing the hunting-spear,—

Set to work,—glad shouts uprise,—

’Neath their axes’ blows so clear

Crashing down the pine-wood flies.

E’en the sedge-crown’d God ascends

From his verdant spring to light,

And his raft’s direction bends

At the Goddess’ word of might,—

While the Hours, all-gently bound,

Nimbly to their duty fly;

Rugged trunks are fashion’d round

By her skill’d hand gracefully.

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E’en the Sea-God thither fares;—

Sudden, with his trident’s blow,

He the granite columns tears

From earth’s entrails far below;—

In his mighty hands, on high,

Waves he them, like some light ball,

And, with nimble Hermes by,

Raises up the rampart-wall.

But from out the golden strings

Lures Apollo harmony,

Measur’d time’s sweet murmurings,

And the might of melody.

The Camenæ swell the strain

With their song of ninefold tone:

Captive bound in music’s chain,

Softly stone unites to stone.

Cybělē, with skilful hand,

Open throws the wide-wing’d door;

Locks and bolts by her are plann’d,

Sure to last for evermore.

Soon complete the wondrous halls

By the Gods’ own hands are made,

And the temple’s glowing walls

Stand in festal pomp array’d.

With a crown of myrtle twin’d,

Now the Goddess-Queen comes there,

And she leads the fairest hind

To the shepherdess most fair.

Venus, with her beauteous boy,

That first pair herself attires;

All the Gods bring gifts of joy,

Blessing their love’s sacred fires.

Guided by the Deities,

Soon the new-born townsmen pour

Usher’d in with harmonies,

Through the friendly open door.

Holding now the rites divine,

Ceres at Zeus’ altar stands,—

Blessing those around the shrine,

Thus she speaks, with folded hands:—

“Freedom’s love the beast inflames,

And the God rules free in air,

While the law of Nature tames

Each wild lust that lingers there.

Yet, when thus together thrown,

Man with man must fain unite;

And by his own worth alone

Can he freedom gain, and might.”

Wreathe in a garland the corn’s golden ear!

With it, the Cyǎne blue intertwine!

Rapture must render each glance bright and clear,

For the great Queen is approaching her shrine,—

She who our homesteads so blissful has given,

She who has man to his fellow-man bound.

Let our glad numbers extol, then, to Heaven

Her who the Earth’s kindly mother is found!

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THE RING OF POLYCRATES.
A BALLAD.

UPON his battlements he stood,

And downward gaz’d, in joyous mood,

On Samos’ Isle, that own’d 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 ceas’d to be.”

While to these words the King gave vent,

A herald, from Miletus sent,

Appear’d before the Tyrant there:

“Lord, let thy incense rise to-day,

And with the laurel’s branches gay

Thou well may’st crown thy festive hair!

“Thy foe has sunk beneath the spear,—

I’m sent to bring 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, besmear’d with gore.

The King with horror stepp’d 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!”

And 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 skill’d in arms,

Now threaten thee with war’s alarms;

E’en now they are approaching here.”

And, ere the word has ’scap’d his lips,

A stir is seen among the ships,

And thousand voices “Victory!” cry:

“We are deliver’d 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 unmix’d 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-lov’d 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!”

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Then speaks the other, mov’d 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

Appear’d 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 open’d by the cook,

Who suddenly, with wond’ring 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 turn’d away:

“I cannot here, then, longer stay,—

My friend thou canst no longer be!

The Gods have will’d that thou shouldst die:

Lest I, too, perish, I must fly”—

He spoke,—and sail’d 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-lov’d Ibycus drew nigh.

On him Apollo had bestow’d

The gift of song and strains inspir’d;

So, with light staff he took his road

From Rhegium, by the Godhead fir’d.

Acrocorinth, on mountain high,

Now bursts upon the wanderer’s eye,

And he begins, with pious dread,

Poseidon’s grove of firs to tread.

Nought 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 grey.

“Thou friendly band, all hail to thee!

Who ledst 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 shelt’ring place;

Propitious tow’rd us be the host

Who from the stranger wards disgrace!”

And on he hastes, in joyous mood,

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;

Inur’d the gentle lyre to play,

It ne’er has strung the deadly bow.

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artist: p. grotjohann.

THE RING OF POLYCRATES.

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On Gods and men for aid he cries,—

No saviour to his prayer replies;

However far his voice he sends,

Nought 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 defac’d by many a wound,

His host in Corinth soon could tell

The features that he lov’d so well.

“And is it thus I find thee now,

Who hop’d the pine’s victorious crown

To place upon the singer’s brow,

Illumin’d 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 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,

Allur’d 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.

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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-pack’d benches sit they there,—

The stage the weight can scarcely bear.

Like ocean-billows’ hollow roar,

The teeming crowds of living man

Tow’rd 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 ev’ry island of the sea,

And from the stage they hear ascend

The Chorus’s dread melody,

Who, sad and solemn, as of old,

With footstep measur’d and control’d,

Advancing from the far back-ground,

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 conceal’d,

Within their fleshless hands 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-madd’ning power,

The Furies’ strains resound through air;

The list’ner’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,

Wing’d 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 footstep measur’d and control’d,

They vanish in the far back-ground.

Between deceit and truth each breast,

Now doubting hangs, by awe possess’d,

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?”

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And louder still become the cries,

And soon this thought foreboding flies

Through ev’ry heart, with speed of light—

“Observe in this the Furies’ might!

The poet’s manes are now appeas’d:

The murderer seeks his own arrest!

Let him who spoke the word be seiz’d,

And him to whom it was address’d!”

That word he had no sooner spoke,

Than he its sound would fain revoke;

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.

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HERO AND LEANDER.

SEEST thou yonder castles grey,

Glitt’ring in the sun’s bright ray,

That arise on either side,

Where the Hellespont impels

Through the rocky Dardanelles

Ceaselessly his angry tide?

Hear’st thou yonder billows roar,

As against the cliffs they break?

Asia they from Europe tore—

Love alone they ne’er could shake.

Hero and Leander’s hearts

With his fierce but pleasing smarts

Cupid’s might immortal mov’d.

Hero rivall’d Hebe’s grace,

While Leander, in the chase,

O’er the mountains boldly rov’d.

But, ere long, parental wrath

Sever’d the united pair,

And the fruit by love brought forth

Hung in mournful peril there.

See, on Sestos’ rocky tower

’Gainst whose base with ceaseless power

Hellespont’s wild waters foam,

Sits the maid, in sorrow lost,

Looking tow’rd Abydos’ coast,

Where the lov’d one has his home.

Ah, to that far distant strand

Bridge there was not to convey,—

Not a bark was near at hand,

Yet true love soon found the way.

In the labyrinthine maze

Love a certain clue can raise,

E’en the foolish makes he wise,—

Makes the savage monster bow,—

To the adamantine plough

Yokes the steers with flaming eyes.

Styx, whose waters nine-times flow,

Cannot bar his daring course;

For from Pluto’s house of woe

Orpheus’ bride he tore by force.

Even through the boiling tide

He Leander’s mind supplied

With deep longing’s glowing spark.

When grew pale the glitt’ring day,

Took the swimmer bold his way

O’er the Pontine ocean dark;

Cleft the waves with mighty power,

Striving for yon strand so dear,

Where, uprais’d on lofty tower,

Shone the torch’s radiance clear.

Circled in her loving arms,

Soon the glad Leander warms

From the weary journey past,

And receives the godlike prize

That in her embraces lies

As his bright reward at last;

Till Aurora once again

Wakes him from his vision blest,

He must tempt the briny main,

Driven from love’s gentle breast.

Thirty suns had sped like this

In the joys of stolen bliss

Swiftly o’er the happy pair,

As a bridal night of love,

Worthy e’en the Gods above,

Ever young and ever fair.

Rapture true he ne’er can know,

Who with daring hand has never

Pluck’d the Heavenly fruits that grow

On the brink of Hell’s dark river.

Hesper and Aurora bright

Each, in turns, put forth their light,

Yet the happy ones saw not

How the leaves began to fall,—

How from Northern icy hall

Winter fierce approach’d the spot.

Joyfully they saw each day

More and more its span reduce;

For the night’s now-lengthen’d sway,

In their madness, bless’d they Zeus.

Nicely-balanc’d, day and night,

Held the scales of Heaven aright,—

From the tower, with pensive eye,

Gaz’d the gentle maid alone

On the coursers of the sun,

Hastening downwards through the sky.

Still and calm the ocean lay,

Like a pure, unsullied glass,—

Not a zephyr sought, in play,

O’er the crystal flood to pass.

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artist: ferdinand keller.

HERO AND LEANDER.

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Dolphin-shoals, in joyous motion

Through the clear and silv’ry ocean,

Wanton’d its cool waves among;

And, in darkly-vestur’d train,

From the bosom of the main

Tethys’ varied band upsprung.

None but they e’er saw reveal’d

Those fond lovers’ blest delight:

But their silent lips were seal’d

Evermore by Hecate’s might.

Gladly on the smiling sea

Gaz’d she, and caressingly

To the element exclaim’d:

“Lovely God, canst thou deceive?

Ne’er the traitor I’ll believe,

Who thee false and faithless nam’d.

Treach’rous is the human race,

Cruel is my father’s heart;

Thou art mild and full of grace,

And art mov’d by love’s soft smart.

“In these desert walls of stone

I had mourn’d in grief alone,

Pin’d in sorrow without end,

If thou, on thy crested ridge,

Aided by no bark, no bridge,

Hadst not hither borne my friend.

Dreaded though thy depths may be,

Fierce the fury of thy wave,

Love can ever soften thee.

Thou art vanquish’d by the brave.

“For the mighty dart of Love

E’en the Ocean God could move,

When the golden ram of yore,

Helle, cloth’d in beauty bright,

With her brother in her flight,

Over thy deep billows bore—

Sudden, vanquish’d by her charms,

Starting from the whirlpool black,

Thou didst bear her in thine arms

To thy realms from off his back.

“As a Goddess,—happy lot!—

In the deep and wat’ry grot,

Evermore she now resides;

Hapless lovers’ cares dispels,

All thy raging passions quells,

Into port the sailor guides.

Beauteous Helle, Goddess fair,

Blessed one, to thee I pray:

Safely trusting to thy care,

Hither bring my love to-day!”

Dark the waters soon became,

And she wav’d the torch’s flame

From the lofty balcony,

That the wanderer belov’d,

As across the deep he rov’d,

Might the trusty signal see.

Howling blast approach’d from far,

Gloomier still the billows curl’d,

Quench’d was ev’ry glimm’ring star,

And the storm its might unfurl’d.

Over Pontus’ boundless plain

Night now spreads, while heavy rain

Pours in torrents from each cloud;

Lightning quivers through the air,

While from out its rocky lair

Bursts the tempest fierce and loud.

In the waters as they yell,

Fearful chasms are expos’d;

Gaping, like the jaws of Hell

Are the ocean-depths disclos’d.

“Woe, oh, woe!” she weeping cries;

“Mighty Zeus, regard my sighs!

Ah, how rash the boon I crav’d!

If the Gods gave ear to me,

If within the treach’rous sea,

He the raging storm has brav’d!

Ev’ry bird that loves the tide

Homeward swiftly wings its way

Ev’ry ship, in tempest tried,

Refuge seeks in shelt’ring bay.

“Doubtless, ah! the dauntless one

Has his daring task begun,

Urg’d by the great Deity;

When departing, he his troth

Pledg’d with Love’s most sacred oath;

Death alone can set him free.

He, alas, this very hour,

Wrestles with the tempest’s gloom;

And the madden’d billows’ power

Bears him downwards to their tomb.

“Pontus false!—thy seeming calm

Serv’d suspicion to disarm;

Thou wert like a spotless glass;

Basely smooth thy waters lay,

That they might my love betray

Into thy false realms to pass.

In thy middle current now,

Where no hopes of refuge lie,

On the hapless victim thou

Let’st thy fearful terrors fly!”

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Fiercer grows the tempest’s might,

Leaping up to mountain-height

Swells the sea,—the billows roar

’Gainst the cliffs with fury mad;

E’en the ship with oak beclad

Breaks to pieces on the shore.

And the wind puts out the blaze

That had serv’d to light the track;

Terror round the landing plays,

Terror in the waters black.

Venus she implores to chain

The tempestuous hurricane,

And the angry waves to bind;

And a steer with golden horn

Vows the maid, by anguish torn,

As a victim to each wind.

Ev’ry Goddess of the deep,

Ev’ry heavenly Deity,

She implores to lull to sleep

With smooth oil the raging sea.

“To my mournful cry attend!

Blest Leucothěa, ascend

Hither from thy sea-green bower!

Thou who ofttimes com’st to save

When the fury of the wave

Threats the sailor to devour!

O’er him cast thy sacred veil,

Which, with its mysterious charm,

E’en when floods his life assail,

Guards its wearer from all harm!”

And the wild winds cease to blow;

Brightly through the Heavens now go

Eos’ coursers, mounting high;

Gently in its wonted bed

Flows the ocean, smoothly spread;

Ah, ’tis he who, even now,

Keeps in death his solemn vow!

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CASSANDRA.

MIRTH the halls of Troy was filling,

Ere its lofty Ramparts fell;

From the golden lute so thrilling

Hymns of joy were heard to swell.

From the sad and tearful slaughter

All had laid their arms aside,

For Pelides Priam’s daughter

Claim’d then as his own fair bride.

Laurel branches with them bearing,

Troop on troop in bright array

To the temples were repairing,

Owning Thymbrius’ sovereign sway.

Through the streets, with frantic measure,

Danc’d the bacchanal mad round,

And, amid the radiant pleasure,

Only one sad breast was found.

Joyless in the midst of gladness,

None to heed her, none to love,

Roam’d Cassandra, plung’d in sadness,

To Apollo’s laurel grove.

To its dark and deep recesses

Swift the sorrowing priestess hied,

And from off her flowing tresses

Tore the sacred band, and cried:

“All around with joy is beaming,

Ev’ry heart is happy now,

And my sire is fondly dreaming,

Wreath’d with flowers my sister’s brow.

I alone am doom’d to wailing,

That sweet vision flies from me;

In my mind, these walls assailing,

Fierce destruction I can see.

“Though a torch I see all-glowing,

Yet ’tis not in Hymen’s hand;

Smoke across the skies is blowing,

Yet ’tis from no votive brand.

Yonder see I feasts entrancing,

But, in my prophetic soul,

Hear I now the God advancing,

Who will steep in tears the bowl!

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“And they blame my lamentation,

And they laugh my grief to scorn;

To the haunts of desolation

I must bear my woes forlorn.

All who happy are now shun me,

And my tears with laughter see;

Heavy lies thy hand upon me,

Cruel Pythian Deity!

“Thy divine decrees foretelling,

Wherefore hast thou thrown me here,

Where the ever-blind are dwelling,

With a mind, alas, too clear?

Wherefore hast thou power thus given,

What must needs occur to know?

Wrought must be the will of Heaven—

Onward comes the hour of woe!

“When impending fate strikes terror,

Why remove the covering?

Life we have alone in error,

Knowledge with it death must bring.

Take away this prescience tearful,

Take this sight of woe from me:

Of thy truths, alas! how fearful

’Tis the mouth-piece frail to be!

“Veil my mind once more in slumbers,

Let me heedlessly rejoice;

Never have I sung glad numbers

Since I’ve been thy chosen voice.

Knowledge of the future giving,

Thou hast stol’n the present day,

Stol’n the moment’s joyous living,—

Take thy false gift, then, away!

“Ne’er with bridal train around me,

Have I wreath’d my radiant brow,

Since to serve thy fane I bound me,

Bound me with a solemn vow.

Evermore in grief I languish—

All my youth in tears was spent;

And, with thoughts of bitter anguish

My too-feeling heart is rent.

“Joyously my friends are playing,

All around are blest and glad,

In the paths of pleasure straying,—

My poor heart alone is sad.

Spring in vain unfolds each treasure,

Filling all the earth with bliss;

Who in life can e’er take pleasure,

When is seen its dark abyss?

“With her heart in vision burning,

Truly blest is Polyxene,

As a bride to clasp him yearning,

Him, the noblest, best Hellene?

And her breast with rapture swelling,

All its bliss can scarcely know;

E’en the Gods in heavenly dwelling

Envying not, when dreaming so.

“He to whom my heart is plighted

Stood before my ravish’d eye,

And his look, by passion lighted,

Tow’rd me turn’d imploringly.

With the lov’d one, oh, how gladly

Homeward would I take my flight

But a Stygian shadow sadly

Steps between us ev’ry night.

“Cruel Proserpine is sending

All her spectres pale to me;

Ever on my steps attending

Those dread shadowy forms I see.

Though I seek, in mirth and laughter

Refuge from that ghastly train,

Still I see them hast’ning after,—

Ne’er shall I know joy again.

“And I see the death-steel glancing,

And the eye of murder glare;

On, with hasty strides advancing,

Terror haunts me everywhere.

Vain I seek alleviation;—

Knowing, seeing, suff’ring all,

I must wait the consummation,

In a foreign land must fall.”

While her solemn words are ringing,

Hark! a dull and wailing tone

From the temple’s gate upspringing,—

Dead lies Thetis’ mighty son!

Eris shakes her snake-locks hated,

Swiftly flies each Deity,

And o’er Ilion’s walls ill-fated

Thunder-Clouds loom heavily!

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THE HOSTAGE. A BALLAD.

TO the tyrant Dionys Mœros once hied,

A dagger his mantle contain’d;

They seize him, and soon he is chain’d.

“What sought’st thou to do with the dirk by thy side?”—

And Mœros with gloomy fury replied:

“The town from the Tyrant to free!”

“The cross thy reward then shall be.”

“I am,” said the other, “prepar’d to die,

Nor seek for permission to live;

Yet, prithee, this one favor give:

A respite I ask till three days have gone by,

While the marriage-knot of my sister I tie;

I’ll leave thee my friend as my bail,—

Thou canst kill him instead, if I fail.”

The monarch then smil’d with a malicefraught sneer

And after a pause answer’d he:

“Three days I will give unto thee;

But know! if the end of that time shall appear,

And thou shalt not then have surrender’d thee here,

Thy friend in thy place must then bleed,

And thou, in return, shalt be freed.”

And he went to his friend, and he said: “The king vows

That I on the cross must atone

For the impious thing I have done;

And yet he a respite of three days allows,

Till I my sister have join’d to her spouse;

As bail to the king then remain,

Till I’m back here to loose thee again!”

In silence embrac’d him his friend dear and true,

Resign’d to the Sovereign’s power;

The other went off the same hour:

And ere the third morning had dawn’d on the view,

His sister he join’d to her spouse, and then flew

With anxious concern tow’rd his home,

That true to his time he might come.

Soon the rain in torrents begins to pour,

The springs down the mountain’s side race,

The brook and the stream swell apace,

And he comes with his pilgrim’s staff to the shore,

When the whirlpool tears down the bridge with wild roar,

And the waves, with a thundering crash,

To atoms the vaulted arch dash.

And he wanders along the bank in despair,

But far as he casts round his eyes,

And far as re-echo his cries,

No friendly bark pushing off he sees there,

By whose aid to the wish’d for land to repair,

None coming its pilot to be,—

And the torrent now swells to a sea.

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Then he sinks on the shore, and he weeps, and he prays

With hands rais’d on high unto Zeus:

“The torrent’s wild force, oh reduce!

The hours haste on, and the mid-day rays

Of the sun now fall, and if quench’d is their blaze

Before at the town I can be,

My friend must then perish for me.”

Yet the stream into greater fury now wakes,

And billows on billows dash high,

And hours on hours fleet by.

Then driven by anguish, courage he takes,

And leaps in the flood as it madly breaks,

And the torrent he cleaves with strong limb,

And a God has compassion on him.

And he gains the shore, and then onwards he speeds,

And the God who has sav’d him he blesses;

When out of the wood’s dark recesses

A band of robbers sudden proceeds,

And menaces death, and his progress impedes,

Obstructing the wanderer’s course,

And wielding the club with wild force.

“What would ye?” all pallid with terror cries he,

“Save my life, I have no other thing,

And that I must give to the king!”

And the club from the next he tears hastily:

“For the sake of my friend, here’s mercy for thee!”

And three, with invincible might,

He slays, and the rest take to flight.

And the sun pours down his hot beams on the land,

And, worn by the toil he had pass’d,

His knees sink beneath him at last.

“Oh! am I then sav’d from the spoiler’s fierce hand,

And brought safe o’er the flood to the holy strand,

That I here my last moments may see,

While the friend that I love dies for me?”

And hark! close at hand, with a purling sound,

Comes a gush, and as silver it glistens;

And he pauses, and anxiously listens:

And lo! from the cliffs, with a rapid bound,

A murmuring fountain leaps down to the ground,

And stooping to earth in glad mood,

He leaves his hot limbs in the flood.

And thro’ the green foliage shines now the sun,

And the giant-like shade of each tree

On the glittering mead pictures he;

And he sees two travelers moving on,—

With hurried footstep seeks past them to run,

When thus he o’erhears their discourse:

“Ere this he is nail’d to the cross!”

And anguish gives wings to his hastening feet,

That, goaded by care, seem to fly;

Soon Syracuse bursts on his eye,

And its battlements glow in the sunset sweet,

And its glances ere long Philostratus meet,

The steward of his household so true,—

But he shudders his master to view.

“Back! Back! to rescue thy friend ’tis too late;

Thyself, then, to save, hasten thou:

For he suffers death even now.

From hour to hour, with confidence great,

For thy return he ceas’d not to wait;

His courage and faith were not torn

By the Tyrant’s contemptuous scorn.”

“And if ’tis too late, and I cannot, then, now

Arrive to receive his last breath,

I’ll hasten to join him in death.

Ne’er the bloodthirsty Tyrant to boast I’ll allow

That the friend to the friend has broken his vow;

When two victims have bitten the dust,

In Love and in Faith let him trust!”

And the sun sinks to rest, and he reaches the gate,

And the cross he sees rais’d from the ground!

While the wondering crowd stand around.

They are hoisting his friend on the rope to his fate,

When through the dense concourse he pushes him straight;

“Now, Hangman!” he cries, “strangle me!

For the one whom he bail’d,—I am he!”

Astonishment seizes on all that stand by,

While fondly embrace the glad twain,

And weep with mix’d rapture and pain;

And a tear is seen glist’ning in every eye,—

To the king with the wondrous story they fly,

And he, mov’d by a merciful thought,

To the foot of the throne has them brought.

And on them in wonderment long gazes he,

Then speaks: “Ye the victory have won,

And conquer’d my heart for your own.

That faith is no empty vision, I see,

So suffer me, too, your companion to be;

And let my entreaty be heard,

To form in your friendship the third!”

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artist: woldemar friedrich.

THE HOSTAGE.

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THE DIVER. A BALLAD.

“WHAT knight or what vassal will be so bold

As to plunge in the gulf below?

See! I hurl in its depths a goblet of gold,

Already the waters over it flow.

The man who can bring back the goblet to me,

May keep it henceforward—his own it shall be.”

Thus speaks the King, and he hurls from the height

Of the cliffs that, rugged and steep,

Hang over the boundless sea, with strong might,

The goblet afar in the bellowing deep.

“And who’ll be so daring, I ask it once more,

As to plunge in these billows that wildly roar?”

And the vassals and knights of high degree

Hear his words, but silent remain.

They cast their eyes on the raging sea,

And none will attempt the goblet to gain.

And a third time the question is ask’d by the King:

“Is there none that will dare in the gulf now to spring?”

Yet all as before in silence stand,

When a page, with a modest pride,

Steps out of the timorous squirely band,

And his girdle and mantle soon throws aside,

And all the knights, and the ladies too,

The noble stripling with wonderment view.

And when he draws nigh to the rocky brow,

And looks in the gulf so black,

The waters that she had swallow’d but now,

The howling Charybdis is giving back;

And, with the distant thunder’s dull sound,

From her gloomy womb they all-foaming rebound.

And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes,

As when water and fire first blend;

To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths,

And wave presses hard upon wave without end.

And the ocean will never exhausted be,

As if striving to bring forth another sea.

But at length the wild tumult seems pacified,

And blackly amid the white swell

A gaping chasm its jaws opens wide,

As if leading down to the depths of Hell:

And the howling billows were seen by each eye

Down the whirling funnel all madly to fly.

Then quickly, before the breakers rebound,

The stripling commends him to Heaven,

And—a scream of horror is heard around,—

And now by the whirlpool away he is driven,

And secretly over the swimmer brave

Close the jaws, and he vanishes ’neath the dark wave.

O’er the watery gulf, dread silence now lies,

But the deep sends up a dull yell,

And from mouth to mouth with trembling it flies:

“Courageous stripling, oh, fare thee well!”

And duller and duller the howls recommence,

While they pause in anxious and fearful suspense.

“If even thy crown in the gulf thou shouldst fling,

And shouldst say, ‘He who brings it to me

Shall wear it henceforward, and be the king,’

Thou couldst tempt me not e’en with that precious fee;

What under the howling deep is conceal’d

To no happy living soul is reveal’d.”

Full many a ship, by the whirlpool held fast,

Shoots straightway beneath the mad wave,

And, dash’d to pieces, the hull and the mast

Emerge from the all-devouring grave,—

And the roaring approaches still nearer and nearer,

Like the howl of the tempest, still clearer and clearer.

And it boils and it roars, and it hisses and seethes,

As when water and fire first blend;

To the sky spurts the foam in steam-laden wreaths,

And wave presses hard upon wave without end.

And, with the distant thunder’s dull sound

From the ocean-womb they all-bellowing bound.

And lo! from the darkly flowing tide

Comes a vision white as a swan,

And an arm and a glistening neck are descried,

With might and with active zeal steering on;

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And ’tis he, and behold! his left hand on high

Waves the goblet, while beaming with joy is his eye.

Then breathes he deeply, then breathes he long,

And blesses the light of the day;

While gladly exclaim to each other the throng,

“He lives! he is here! he is not the sea’s prey!

From the tomb, from the eddying waters’ control,

The brave one has rescued his living soul!”

And he comes, and they joyously round him stand;

At the feet of the monarch he falls,—

The goblet he, kneeling, puts in his hand,

And the King to his beauteous daughter calls,

Who fills it with sparkling wine to the brim;

The youth turns to the monarch, and speaks thus to him:—

“Long life to the King! Let all those be glad

Who breathe in the light of the sky!

For below all is fearful, of moment sad;

Let not man to tempt the immortals e’er try,

Let him never desire the thing to see

That with terror and night they veil graciously.

“I was torn below with the speed of light,

When out of a cavern of rock

Rush’d tow’rds me a spring of furious might;

I was seiz’d by the twofold torrent’s wild shock,

And like a top, with a whirl and a bound,

Despite all resistance, was whirl’d around.

“Then God pointed out,—for to Him I cried

In that terrible moment of need,—

A craggy reef in the gulf’s dark side;

I seiz’d it in haste, and from death was then freed.

And there, on sharp corals, was hanging the cup,—

The fathomless pit had else swallow’d it up.

“For under me lay it, still mountain-deep,

In a darkness of purple-ting’d dye,

And though to the ear all might seem then asleep

With shuddering awe ’twas seen by the eye

How the salamanders’ and dragons’ dread forms

Fill’d those terrible jaws of hell with their swarms.

“There crowded, in union fearful and black,

In a horrible mass entwin’d,

The rock-fish, the ray with the thorny back,

And the hammer-fish’s mis-shapen kind,

And the shark, the hyena dread of the sea,

With his angry teeth, grinn’d fiercely on me.

“There hung I, by fulness of terror possess’d,

Where all human aid was unknown,

Amongst phantoms, the only sensitive breast,

In that fearful solitude all alone,

Where the voice of mankind could not reach to mine ear,

’Mid the monsters foul of that wilderness drear.

“Thus shudd’ring methought—when a Something crawl’d near,

And a hundred limbs it out-flung,

And at me it snapp’d;—in my mortal fear,

I left hold of the coral to which I had clung;

Then the whirlpool seiz’d on me with madden’d roar,

Yet ’twas well, for it brought me to light once more.”

The story in wonderment hears the King,

And he says, “The cup is thine own,

And I purpose also to give thee this ring,

Adorn’d with a costly, a priceless stone,

If thou’lt try once again, and bring word to me

What thou saw’st in the nethermost depths of the sea.”

His daughter hears this with emotions soft,

And with flattering accent prays she:

“That fearful sport, father, attempt not too oft!

What none other would dare, he hath ventur’d for thee:

If thy heart’s wild longings thou canst not tame,

Let the knights, if they can, put the squire to shame.”

The King then seizes the goblet in haste,

In the gulf he hurls it with might:

“When the goblet once more in my hands thou hast plac’d,

Thou shalt rank at my court as the noblest knight,

And her as a bride thou shalt clasp e’en to-day,

Who for thee with tender compassion doth pray.”

Then a force, as from Heaven, descends on him there,

And lightning gleams in his eye,

And blushes he sees on her features so fair,

And he sees her turn pale, and swooning lie;

Then eager the precious guerdon to win,

For life or for death, lo! he plunges him in!

The breakers they hear, and the breakers return,

Proclaim’d by a thundering sound;

They bend o’er the gulf with glances that yearn,

And the waters are pouring in fast around;

Though upwards and downwards they rush and they rave,

The youth is brought back by no kindly wave.

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artist: carl gehrts.

THE DIVER.

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THE KNIGHT OF TOGGENBURG. A BALLAD.

“I CAN love thee well, believe me,

As a sister true;

Other love, Sir Knight, would grieve me,

Sore my heart would rue.

Calmly would I see thee going,

Calmly, too, appear;

For those tears in silence flowing

Find no answer here.”

Thus she speaks,—he hears her sadly,—

How his heartstrings bleed!—

In his arms he clasps her madly,

Then he mounts his steed.

From the Switzer land collects he

All his warriors brave;—

Cross on breast, their course directs he

To the Holy Grave.

In triumphant march advancing,

Onward moves the host,

While their morion plumes are dancing

Where the foes are most.

Mortal terror strikes the Paynim

At the chieftain’s name;

But the knight’s sad thoughts enchain him

Grief consumes his frame.

Twelve long months, with courage daring,

Peace he strives to find;

Then at last, of rest despairing,

Leaves the host behind;

Sees a ship, whose sails are swelling,

Lie on Joppa’s strand!

Ships him homeward for her dwelling,

In his own lov’d land.

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Now behold the pilgrim weary

At her castle gate!

But alas! these accents dreary

Seal his mournful fate:—

“She thou seek’st, her troth hath plighted

To all-gracious Heaven;

To her God she was united

Yesterday at even!”

To his father’s home for ever

Bids he now adieu;

Sees no more his arms and beaver,

Nor his steed so true.

Then descends he, sadly, slowly,—

None suspect the sight,—

For a garb of penance lowly

Wears the noble knight.

Soon he now, the tempest braving,

Builds a humble shed,

Where, o’er lime-trees darkly waving,

Peeps the convent’s head.

From the orb of day’s first gleaming,

Till his race has run,

Hope in ev’ry feature beaming,

There he sits alone.

Tow’rd the convent straining ever

His unwearied eyes,—

From her casement looking never

Till it open flies,

Till the lov’d one, soft advancing,

Shows her gentle face,

O’er the vale her sweet eye glancing,

Full of angel-grace.

Then he seeks his bed of rushes,

Still’d all grief and pain,

Slumbering calm, till morning’s blushes

Waken life again.

Days and years fleet on, yet never

Breathes he plaint or sighs,

On her casement gazing ever,

Till it open flies,

Till the lov’d one, soft advancing,

Shows her gentle face,

O’er the vale her sweet eye glancing,

Full of angel-grace.

But, at length, the morn returning

Finds him dead and chill,—

Pale and wan, his gaze, with yearning,

Seeks her casement still!

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THE FIGHT WITH THE DRAGON.

WHY run the crowd? What means the throng

That rushes fast the streets along?

Can Rhodes a prey to flames, then, be?

In crowds they gather hastily,

And, on his steed, a noble knight

Amid the rabble, meets my sight;

Behind him—prodigy unknown!—

A monster fierce they’re drawing on;

A dragon seems it by its shape,

With wide and crocodile-like jaw,

And on the knight and dragon gape,

In turns, the people, fill’d with awe.

And thousand voices shout with glee:—

“The fiery dragon come and see,

Who hind and flock tore limb from limb!—

The hero see, who vanquish’d him!

Full many a one before him went,

To dare the fearful combat bent,

But none return’d home from the fight;

Honor ye, then, the noble knight!”

And tow’rd the convent move they all,

While met in hasty council there

The brave knights of the Hospital,

St. John the Baptist’s Order, were.

Up to the noble Master sped

The youth, with firm but modest tread;

The people follow’d with wild shout,

And stood the landing-place about,

While thus outspoke that Daring One:—

“My knightly duty I have done.

The dragon that laid waste the land

Has fallen ’neath my conquering hand.

The way is to the wanderer free,

The shepherd o’er the plains may rove;

Across the mountains joyfully

The pilgrim to the shrine may move.”

But sternly look’d the prince, and said:

“The hero’s part thou well hast play’d;

By courage is the true knight known,—

A dauntless spirit thou hast shown.

Yet speak! What duty first should he

Regard, who would Christ’s champion be,

Who wears the emblem of the Cross?”—

And all turn’d pale at his discourse.

Yet he replied, with noble grace,

While blushingly he bent him low:

“That he deserves so proud a place

Obedience best of all can show.”

“My son,” the Master answering spoke,

“Thy daring act this duty broke.

The conflict that the law forbade

Thou hast with impious mind essay’d.”—

“Lord, judge when all to thee is known,”

The other spake, in steadfast tone,—

“For I the law’s commands and will

Purpos’d with honor to fulfil.

I went not out with heedless thought,

Hoping the monster dread to find;

To conquer in the fight I sought

By cunning, and a prudent mind.

“Five of our noble Order, then

(Our faith could boast no better men),

Had by their daring lost their life,

When thou forbadest us the strife.

And yet my heart I felt a prey

To gloom, and panted for the fray;

Ay, even in the stilly night,

In vision gasp’d I in the fight;

And when the glimm’ring morning came,

And of fresh troubles knowledge gave,

A raging grief consum’d my frame,

And I resolv’d the thing to brave,

“And to myself I thus began:

‘What is’t adorns the youth, the man?

What actions of the heroes bold,

Of whom in ancient song we’re told,

Blind heathendom rais’d up on high

To god-like fame and dignity?

The world, by deeds known far and wide,

From monsters fierce they purified;

The lion in the fight they met,

And wrestled with the Minotaur,

Unhappy victims free to set,

And were not sparing of their gore.

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“ ‘Are none but Saracens to feel

The prowess of the Christian steel?

False idols only shall he brave?

His mission is the world to save;

To free it, by his sturdy arm,

From ev’ry hurt, from ev’ry harm;

Yet wisdom must his courage bend,

And cunning must with strength contend.

Thus spake I oft, and went alone

The monster’s traces to espy;

When on my mind a bright light shone,—

‘I have it!’ was my joyful cry.

“To thee I went, and thus I spake:

‘My homeward journey I would take.’

Thou, lord, didst grant my prayer to me,—

Then safely travers’d I the sea;

And, when I reach’d my native strand,

I caus’d a skilful artist’s hand

To make a dragon’s image, true

To his that now so well I knew.

On feet of measure short was plac’d

Its lengthy body’s heavy load;

A scaly coat of mail embrac’d

The back, on which it fiercely show’d.

“Its stretching neck appear’d to swell,

And, ghastly as a gate of hell,

Its fearful jaws were open wide,

As if to seize the prey it tried;

And in its black mouth, rang’d about,

Its teeth in prickly rows stood out;

Its tongue was like a sharp-edg’d sword,

And lightning from its small eyes pour’d:

A serpent’s tail of many a fold

Ended its body’s monstrous span,

And round itself with fierceness roll’d,

So as to clasp both steed and man.

“I form’d the whole to nature true,

In skin of grey and hideous hue;

Part dragon it appear’d, part snake,

Engender’d in the poisonous lake.

And, when the figure was complete,

A pair of dogs I chose me, fleet,

Of mighty strength, of nimble pace,

Inur’d the savage boar to chase;

The dragon, then, I made them bait,

Inflaming them to fury dread,

With their sharp teeth to seize it straight,

And with my voice their motions led.

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artist: w. camphausen.

THE FIGHT WITH THE DRAGON.

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“And, where the belly’s tender skin

Allow’d the tooth to enter in,

I taught them how to seize it there,

And, with their fangs, the part to tear.

I mounted, then, my Arab steed,

The offspring of a noble breed;

My hand a dart on high held forth,

And, when I had inflam’d his wrath,

I stuck my sharp spurs in his side,

And urg’d him on as quick as thought,

And hurl’d my dart in circles wide,

As if to pierce the beast I sought.

“And though my steed rear’d high in pain,

And champ’d and foam’d beneath the rein,

And though the dogs howl’d fearfully,

Till they were calm’d ne’er rested I.

This plan I ceaselessly pursu’d,

Till thrice the moon had been renew’d;

And when they had been duly taught,

In swift ships here I had them brought;

And since my foot these shores has press’d,

Flown has three morning’s narrow span;

I scarce allow’d my limbs to rest

Ere I the mighty task began.

“For hotly was my bosom stirr’d

When of the land’s fresh grief I heard;

Shepherds of late had been his prey,

When in the marsh they went astray.

I form’d my plans then hastily,—

My heart was all that counsel’d me.

My squires instructing to proceed,

I sprang upon my well-train’d steed,

And, follow’d by my noble pair

Of dogs, by secret pathways rode,

Where not an eye could witness bear,

To find the monster’s fell abode.

“Thou, lord, must know the chapel well,

Pitch’d on a rocky pinnacle,

That overlooks the distant isle;

A daring mind ’twas rais’d the pile.

Though humble, mean, and small it shows,

Its walls a miracle enclose,—

The Virgin and her Infant Son,

Vow’d by the three Kings of Cologne.

By three times thirty steps is led

The pilgrim to the giddy height;

Yet, when he gains it with bold tread,

He’s quicken’d by his Saviour’s sight.

“Deep in the rock to which it clings,

A cavern dark its arms outflings,

Moist with the neighboring moorland’s dew,

Where heaven’s bright rays can ne’er pierce through.

There dwelt the monster, there he lay,

His spoil awaiting, night and day;

Like the hell-dragon, thus he kept

Watch near the shrine, and never slept;

And if a hapless pilgrim chanc’d

To enter on that fatal way,

From out his ambush quick advanc’d

The foe, and seiz’d him as his prey.

“I mounted now the rocky height,

Ere I commenc’d the fearful fight;

There knelt I to the Infant Lord,

And pardon for my sins implor’d.

Then in the holy fane I plac’d

My shining armor round my waist,

My right hand grasp’d my javelin,—

The fight then went I to begin;

Instructions gave my squires among,

Commanding them to tarry there;

Then on my steed I nimbly sprung,

And gave my spirit to God’s care.

“Soon as I reach’d the level plain,

My dogs found out the scent amain;

My frighten’d horse soon rear’d on high,—

His fear I could not pacify,

For, coil’d up in a circle, lo!

There lay the fierce and hideous foe,

Sunning himself upon the ground.

Straight at him rush’d each nimble hound;

Yet thence they turn’d, dismay’d and fast,

When he his gaping jaws op’d wide,

Vomited forth his poisonous blast,

And like the howling jackal cried.

“But soon their courage I restor’d;

They seiz’d with rage the foe abhorr’d,

While I against the beast’s loins threw

My spear with sturdy arm and true:

But, powerless as a bulrush frail,

It bounded from his coat of mail;

And ere I could repeat the throw,

My horse reel’d wildly to and fro

Before his basilisk-like look,

And at his poison-teeming breath,—

Sprang backward, and with terror shook,

While I seem’d doom’d to certain death.

“Then from my steed I nimbly sprung,

My sharp-edg’d sword with vigor swung;

Yet all in vain my strokes I plied,—

I could not pierce his rock-like hide.

His tail with fury lashing round,

Sudden he bore me to the ground

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His jaws then opening fearfully,

With angry teeth he struck at me;

But now my dogs, with wrath new-born,

Rush’d on his belly with fierce bite,

So that, by dreadful anguish torn,

He howling stood before my sight.

“And ere he from their teeth was free,

I rais’d myself up hastily,

The weak place of the foe explor’d,

And in his entrails plung’d my sword,

Sinking it even to the hilt;

Black-gushing forth, his blood was spilt.

Down sank he, burying in his fall

Me with his body’s giant ball,

So that my senses quickly fled;

And when I woke with strength renew’d,

The dragon in his blood lay dead,

While, round me group’d, my squires all stood.”

The joyous shouts, so long suppress’d,

Now burst from ev’ry hearer’s breast,

Soon as the knight these words had spoken;

And ten times ’gainst the high vault broken,

The sound of mingl’d voices rang

Re-echoing back with hollow clang.

The Order’s sons demand in haste,

That with a crown his brow be grac’d,

And gratefully in triumph now

The mob the youth would bear along—

When lo! the Master knit his brow,

And call’d for silence ’mongst the throng.

And said, “The dragon that this land

Laid waste, thou slew’st with daring hand;

Although the people’s idol thou,

The Order’s foe I deem thee now.

Thy breast has to a fiend more base

Than e’en this dragon given place.

The serpent that the heart most stings,

And hatred and destruction brings,

That spirit is, which stubborn lies,

And impiously casts off the rein,

Despising order’s sacred ties;

’Tis that destroys the world amain.

“The Mameluke makes of courage boast,

Obedience decks the Christian most;

For where our great and blessed Lord

As a mere servant walk’d abroad,

The Fathers, on that holy ground,

This famous Order chose to found,

That arduous duty to fulfil

To overcome one’s own self-will!

’Twas idle glory mov’d thee there:

So take thee hence from out my sight!

For who the Lord’s yoke cannot bear,

To wear his cross can have no right.”

A furious shout now raise the crowd,

The place is fill’d with outcries loud;

The Brethren all for pardon cry;

The youth in silence droops his eye—

Mutely his garment from him throws,

Kisses the Master’s hand, and—goes.

But he pursues him with his gaze,

Recalls him lovingly, and says:

“Let me embrace thee now, my son!

The harder fight is gain’d by thee.

Take, then, this cross—the guerdon won

By self-subdu’d humility.”

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FRIDOLIN; OR, THE WALK TO THE IRON FOUNDRY.

A GENTLE page was Fridolin,

And he his mistress dear,

Savern’s fair Countess, honor’d in

All truth and godly fear.

She was so meek, and, ah! so good!

Yet each wish of her wayward mood,

He would have studied to fulfil,

To please his God, with earnest will.

From the first hour when daylight shone

Till rang the vesper-chime,

He liv’d but for her will alone,

And deem’d e’èn that scarce time.

And if she said, “Less anxious be!”

His eye then glisten’d tearfully,

Thinking that he in duty fail’d,

And so before no toil he quail’d.

And so, before her serving train,

The Countess lov’d to raise him;

While her fair mouth, in endless strain,

Was ever wont to praise him.

She never held him as her slave,

Her heart a child’s-rights to him gave;

Her clear eye hung in fond delight

Upon his well-form’d features bright.

Soon in the huntsman Robert’s breast

Was poisonous anger fir’d;

His black soul, long by lust possess’d,

With malice was inspir’d;

He sought the Count, whom, quick in deed,

A traitor might with ease mislead,

As once from hunting home they rode,

And in his heart suspicion sow’d.

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“Happy art thou, great Count, in truth,”

Thus cunningly he spoke;

“For ne’er mistrust’s envenom’d tooth

Thy golden slumbers broke;

A noble wife thy love rewards,

And modesty her person guards.

The Tempter will be able ne’er

Her true fidelity to snare.”

A gloomy scowl the Count’s eye fill’d:

“What’s this thou say’st to me?

Shall I on woman’s virtue build,

Inconstant as the sea?

The flatterer’s mouth with ease may lure;

My trust is plac’d on ground more sure.

No one, methinks, dare ever burn

To tempt the wife of Count Savern.”

The other spoke: “Thou sayest it well;

The fool deserves thy scorn

Who ventures on such thoughts to dwell,

A mere retainer born,—

Who to the lady he obeys

Fears not his wishes’ lust to raise.”—

“What!” tremblingly the Count began,

“Dost speak, then, of a living man?”—

“Is, then, the thing, to all reveal’d,

Hid from my master’s view?

Yet, since with care from thee conceal’d,

I’d fain conceal it too.”—

“Speak quickly, villain! speak or die!”

Exclaim’d the other fearfully.

“Who dares to look on Cunigond?”

“ ’Tis the fair page that is so fond.”

“He’s not ill-shap’d in form, I wot,”

He craftily went on;

The Count meanwhile felt cold and hot,

By turns in ev’ry bone.

“Is’t possible thou seest not, sir,

How he has eyes for none but her?—

At table ne’er attends to thee,

But sighs behind her ceaselessly?

“Behold the rhymes that from him came

His passion to confess”—

“Confess!”—“And for an answering flame,—

The impious knave!—to press.

My gracious lady, soft and meek,

Through pity, doubtless, fear’d to speak;

That it has ’scap’d me, sore I rue;

What, lord, canst thou to help it do?”

Into the neighboring wood then rode

The Count, inflam’d with wrath,

Where, in his iron-foundry, glow’d

The ore, and bubbl’d forth.

The workmen here, with busy hand,

The fire both late and early fann’d.

The sparks fly out, the bellows ply,

As if the rock to liquefy.

The fire and water’s might twofold

Are here united found;

The mill-wheel, by the flood seiz’d hold,

Is whirling round and round;

The works are clatt’ring night and day,

With measur’d stroke the hammers play,

And, yielding to the mighty blows,

The very iron plastic grows.

Then to two workmen beckons he,

And speaks thus in his ire:

“The first who’s hither sent by me

Thus of ye to inquire:

‘Have ye obey’d my lord’s word well?’

Him cast ye into yonder hell,

That into ashes he may fly,

And ne’er again torment mine eye!”

Th’ inhuman pair were overjoy’d,

With devilish glee possess’d:

For as the iron, feeling void,

Their heart was in their breast.

And brisker with the bellows’ blast,

The foundry’s womb now heat they fast,

And with a murderous mind prepare

To offer up the victim there.

Then Robert to his comrade spake,

With false hypocrisy:

“Up, comrade, up! no tarrying make!

Our lord has need of thee.”

The lord to Fridolin then said:

“The pathway tow’rd the foundry tread,

And of the workmen there inquire,

If they have done their lord’s desire.”

The other answer’d, “Be it so!”

But o’er him came this thought,

When he was all-prepar’d to go,

“Will she command me aught?”

So to the Countess straight he went:

“I’m to the iron-foundry sent;

Then say, can I do aught for thee?

For thou ’tis who commandest me.”

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artist: ernst roeber.

THE WALK TO THE IRON FOUNDRY.

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To this the Lady of Savern

Replied in gentle tone:

“To hear the holy mass I yearn,

For sick now lies my son;

So go, my child, and when thou’rt there,

Utter for me a humble prayer,

And of thy sins think ruefully,

That grace may also fall on me.”

And in this welcome duty glad,

He quickly left the place;

But ere the village bounds he had

Attain’d with rapid pace,

The sound of bells struck on his ear,

From the high belfry ringing clear,

And ev’ry sinner, mercy-sent,

Inviting to the sacrament.

“Never from praising God refrain

Where’er by thee He’s found!”

He spoke, and stepp’d into the fane,

But there he heard no sound;

For ’twas the harvest time, and now

Glow’d in the fields the reaper’s brow;

No choristers were gather’d there,

The duties of the mass to share.

The matter paus’d he not to weigh,

But took the sexton’s part;

“That thing,” he said, “makes no delay

Which heav’nward guides the heart.”

Upon the priest, with helping hand.

He plac’d the stole and sacred band,

The vessels he prepar’d beside,

That for the mass were sanctified.

And when his duties here were o’er,

Holding the mass-book, he,

Minist’ring to the priest, before

The altar bow’d his knee,

And knelt him left, and knelt him right,

While not a look escap’d his sight,

And when the holy Sanctus came,

The bell rang thrice he at the name.

And when the priest, bow’d humbly too,

In hand uplifted high,

Facing the altar, show’d to view

The Present Deity,

The sacristan proclaim’d it well,

Sounding the clearly-tinkling bell,

While all knelt down, and beat the breast,

And with a cross the Host confess’d.

The rites thus serv’d he, leaving none,

With quick and ready wit;

Each thing that in God’s house is done,

He also practis’d it.

Unweariedly he labor’d thus,

Till the Vobiscum Dominus,

When tow’rd the people turn’d the priest,

Bless’d them,—and so the service ceas’d.

Then he dispos’d each thing again,

In fair and due array;

First purified the holy fane,

And then he went his way,

And gladly, with a mind at rest,

On to the iron-foundry press’d,

Saying the while, complete to be,

Twelve paternosters silently.

And when he saw the furnace smoke,

And saw the workmen stand,

“Have ye, ye fellows,” thus he spoke,

“Obey’d the Count’s command?”

Grinning they ope the orifice,

And point into the fell abyss:

“He’s car’d for—all is at an end!

The Count his servants will commend.”

The answer to his lord he brought,

Returning hastily,

Who, when his form his notice caught,

Could scarcely trust his eye:

“Unhappy one! whence comest thou?”—

“Back from the foundry”—“Strange, I vow!

Hast in thy journey, then, delay’d?”—

“’Twas only, lord, till I had pray’d.

“For when I from thy presence went

(Oh, pardon me!), to-day,

As duty bid, my steps I bent

To her whom I obey.

She told me, lord, the mass to hear,

I gladly to her wish gave ear,

And told four rosaries at the shrine,

For her salvation and for thine.”

In wonder deep the Count now fell.

And, shudd’ring, thus spake he:

“And, at the foundry, quickly tell,

What answer gave they thee?”

“Obscure the words they answer’d in,—

Showing the furnace with a grin:

‘He’s car’d for—all is at an end!

The Count his servants will commend.’ ”

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“And Robert?” interrupted he,

While deadly pale he stood,—

“Did he not, then, fall in with thee!

I sent him to the wood.”—

“Lord, neither in the wood nor field

Was trace of Robert’s foot reveal’d.”—

“Then,” cried the Count, with awe-struck mien,

“Great God in heav’n his judge hath been!”

With kindness he before ne’er prov’d,

He led him by the hand

Up to the Countess,—deeply mov’d,—

Who nought could understand.

“This child, let him be dear to thee,

No angel is so pure as he!

Though we may have been counsel’d ill,

God and his hosts watch o’er him still.”

THE COUNT OF HAPSBURG. A BALLAD.

AT Aix-la-Chapelle, in imperial array,

In its halls renown’d in old story,

At the coronation banquet so gay

King Rudolf was sitting in glory.

The meats were serv’d up by the Palsgrave of Rhine,

The Bohemian pour’d out the bright sparkling wine,

And all the Electors, the seven,

Stood waiting around the world-governing One,

As the chorus of stars encircle the sun,

That honor might duly be given.

And the people the lofty balcony round

In a throng exulting were filling;

While loudly were blending the trumpets’ glad sound,

And the multitude’s voices so thrilling;

For the monarchless period, with horror rife,

Has ended now after long baneful strife,

And the earth had a lord to possess her.

No longer rul’d blindly the iron-bound spear,

And the weak and the peaceful no longer need fear

Being crush’d by the cruel oppressor.

And the emperor speaks with a smile in his eye,

While the golden goblet he seizes:

“With this banquet in glory none other can vie,

And my regal heart well it pleases;

Yet the minstrel, the bringer of joy, is not here,

Whose melodious strains to my heart are so dear,

And whose words heav’nly wisdom inspire;

Since the days of my youth it hath been my delight,

And that which I ever have lov’d as a knight,

As a monarch I also require.”

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artist: alexander wagner.

THE COUNT OF HAPSBURG.

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And behold! ’mongst the princes who stand round the throne

Steps the bard, in his robe long and streaming,

While, bleach’d by the years that have over him flown,

His silver locks brightly are gleaming;

“Sweet harmony sleeps in the golden strings,

The minstrel of true love reward ever sings,

And adores what to virtue has tended—

What the bosom may wish, what the senses hold dear;

But say, what is worthy the Emperor’s ear

At this, of all feasts the most splendid?”

“No restraint would I place on the minstrel’s own choice,”

Speaks the monarch, a smile on each feature;

“He obeys the swift hour’s imperious voice,

Of a far greater lord is the creature.

For, as through the air the storm-wind on-speeds,—

One knows not from whence its wild roaring proceeds—

As the spring from hid sources up-leaping,

So the lay of the bard from the inner heart breaks—

While the might of sensations unknown it awakes,

That within us were wondrously sleeping.”

Then the bard swept the chords with a finger of might,

Evoking their magical sighing:

“To the chase once rode forth a valorous knight,

In pursuit of the antelope flying.

His hunting-spear bearing, there came in his train

His squire; and when o’er a wide-spreading plain

On his stately steed he was riding,

He heard in the distance a bell tinkling clear,

And a priest, with the Host, he saw soon drawing near,

While before him the sexton was striding.

“And low to the earth the Count then inclin’d,

Bar’d his head in humble submission,

To honor, with trusting and Christian-like mind,

What had sav’d the whole world from perdition.

But a brook o’er the plain was pursuing its course,

That, swell’d by the mountain stream’s headlong force,

Barr’d the wanderer’s steps with its current;

So the priest on one side the blest sacrament put,

And his sandal with nimbleness drew from his foot,

That he safely might pass through the torrent.

“ ‘What wouldst thou?’ the Count to him thus began,

His wond’ring look tow’rd him turning:

‘My journey is, lord, to a dying man,

Who for heavenly diet is yearning;

But when to the bridge o’er the brook I came nigh,

In the whirl of the stream, as it madly rush’d by

With furious might, ’twas uprooted.

And so, that the sick the salvation may find

That he pants for, I haste with resolute mind

To wade through the waters barefooted.’

“Then the Count made him mount on his stately steed,

And the reins to his hands he confided,

That he duly might comfort the sick in his need,

And that each holy rite be provided.

And himself, on the back of the steed of his squire,

Went after the chase to his heart’s full desire,

While the priest on his journey was speeding;

And the following morning, with thankful look,

To the Count once again his charger he took,

Its bridle with modesty leading.

“ ‘God forbid that in chase or in battle,’ then cried

The Count with humility lowly,

‘The steed I henceforward should dare to bestride

That hath borne my Creator so holy!

And if, as a guerdon, he may not be thine,

He devoted shall be to the service divine,

Proclaiming His infinite merit,

From whom I each honor and earthly good

Have receiv’d in fee, and my body and blood,

And my breath, and my life, and my spirit.’

“ ‘Then may God, the sure rock, whom no time can e’er move,

And who lists to the weak’s supplication,

For the honor thou pay’st Him, permit thee to prove

Honor here, and hereafter salvation!

Thou’rt a powerful Count, and thy knightly command

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Hath blazon’d thy fame thro’ the Switzer’s broad land;

Thou art blest with six daughters admir’d;

May they each in thy house introduce a bright crown,

Filling ages unborn with their glorious renown’—

Thus exclaim’d he in accents inspir’d.”

And the Emperor sat there all-thoughtfully,

While the dream of the past stood before him;

And when on the minstrel he turn’d his eye,

His words’ hidden meaning stole o’er him;

For seeing the traits of the priest there reveal’d,

In the folds of his purple-dyed robe he conceal’d

His tears as they swiftly cours’d down.

And all on the Emperor wond’ringly gaz’d,

And the blest dispensations of Providence prais’d,

For the Count and the Cæsar were one.

THE GLOVE. A TALE.

BEFORE his lion-court,

Impatient for the sport,

King Francis sat one day:

The peers of his realm sat around,

And in balcony high from the ground

Sat the ladies in beauteous array.

And when with his finger he beckon’d,

The gate open’d wide in a second,—

And in, with deliberate tread,

Enters a lion dread,

And looks around

Yet utters no sound;

Then long he yawns

And shakes his mane,

And, stretching each limb,

Down lies he again.

Again signs the king,—

The next gate open flies,

And, lo! with wild spring,

A tiger out hies.

When the lion he sees, loudly roars he about,

And a terrible circle his tail traces out.

Protruding his tongue, past the lion he walks,

And, snarling with rage, round him warily stalks:

Then, growling anew,

On one side lies down too.

Again signs the king,—

And two gates open fly,

And, lo! with one spring,

Two leopards out hie.

On the tiger they rush, for the fight nothing loth,

But he with his paws seizes hold of them both.

And the lion, with roaring, gets up,—then all’s still;

The fierce beasts stalk around, madly thirsting to kill.

From the balcony rais’d high above

A fair hand lets fall now a glove

Into the lists, where ’tis seen

The lion and the tiger between.

To the knight, Sir Delorges, in tone of jest,

Then speaks young Cunigund fair;

“Sir Knight, if the love that thou feel’st in thy breast

Is as warm as thou’rt wont at each moment to swear,

Pick up, I pray thee, the glove that lies there!”

And the knight, in a moment, with dauntless tread,

Jumps into the lists, nor seeks to linger,

And from out the midst of those monsters dread

Picks up the glove with a daring finger.

And the knights and ladies of high degree

With wonder and horror the action see.

While he quietly brings in his hand the glove.

The praise of his courage each mouth employs;

Meanwhile, with a tender look of love,

The promise to him of coming joys,

Fair Cunigund welcomes him back to his place.

But he threw the glove point-blank in her face:

“Lady, no thanks from thee I’ll receive!”

And that selfsame hour he took his leave.

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artist: eugen klimsch.

THE GLOVE.

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THE VEILED STATUE AT SAIS.

A YOUTH, impell’d by burning thirst for knowledge

To roam to Saïs, in fair Egypt’s land,

The priesthood’s secret learning to explore,

Had pass’d thro’ many a grade with eager haste,

And still was hurrying on with fond impatience.

Scarce could the Hierophant impose a rein

Upon his headlong efforts. “What avails

A part without a whole?” the youth exclaim’d;

“Can there be here a lesser or a greater?

The truth thou speak’st of, like mere earthly dross,

Is’t but a sum that can be held by man

In larger or in smaller quantity?

Surely ’tis changeless, indivisible;

Deprive a harmony of but one note,

Deprive the rainbow of one single color,

And all that will remain is nought, so long

As that one color, that one note, is wanting.”

While thus they converse held, they chanc’d to stand

Within the precincts of a lonely temple,

Where a veil’d statue of gigantic size

The youth’s attention caught. In wonderment

He turn’d him tow’rd his guide, and ask’d him, saying,

“What form is that conceal’d beneath yon veil?”

“Truth!” was the answer. “What!” the young man cried,

“When I am striving after Truth alone,

Seek’st thou to hide that very Truth from me?”

“The Godhead’s self alone can answer thee,”

Replied the Hierophant. “ ‘Let no rash mortal

Disturb this veil,’ said he, ‘till rais’d by me;

For he who dares with sacrilegious hand

To move the sacred mystic covering,

He’—said the Godhead—” “Well?”—

“ ‘will see the Truth.’ ”

“Strangely oracular, indeed! And thou

Hast never ventur’d, then, to raise the veil?”

“I? Truly not! I never even felt

The least desire.”—“Is’t possible? If I

Were sever’d from the Truth by nothing else

Than this thin gauze—” “And a divine decree,”

His guide broke in. “Far heavier than thou think’st

Is this thin gauze, my son. Light to thy hand

It may be—but most weighty to thy conscience.”

The youth now sought his home, absorb’d in thought;

His burning wish to solve the mystery

Banish’d all sleep; upon his couch he lay,

Tossing his fev’rish limbs. When midnight came,

He rose, and tow’rd the temple timidly,

Led by a mighty impulse, bent his way.

The walls he scal’d, and soon one active spring

Landed the daring boy beneath the dome.

Behold him now, in utter solitude,

Welcom’d by nought save fearful, deathlike silence,—

A silence which the echo of his steps

Alone disturbs, as through the vaults he paces.

Piercing an opening in the cupola,

The moon cast down her pale and silv’ry beams,

And, awful as a present deity,

Glitt’ring amid the darkness of the pile,

In its long veil conceal’d, the statue stands.

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With hesitating step, he now draws near—

His impious hand would fain remove the veil—

Sudden a burning chill assails his bones,

And then an unseen arm repulses him.

“Unhappy one, what would’st thou do?” Thus cries

A faithful voice within his trembling breast.

“Wouldst thou profanely violate the All-Holy?”—

“’Tis true the oracle declar’d, ‘Let none

Venture to raise the veil till rais’d by me.’

But did the oracle itself not add,

That he who did so would behold the Truth?

Whate’er is hid behind, I’ll raise the veil.”

And then he shouted: “Yes! I will behold it!”

“Behold it!”

Repeats in mocking tone the distant echo.

He speaks, and, with the word, lifts up the veil.

Would you inquire what form there met his eye?

I know not,—but when day appear’d, the priests

Found him extended senseless, pale as death,

Before the pedestal of Isis’ statue.

What had been seen and heard by him, when there,

He never would disclose, but from that hour

His happiness in life had fled forever,

And his deep sorrow soon conducted him

To an untimely grave. “Woe to that man,”

He, warning, said to ev’ry questioner,

“Woe to that man who wins the Truth by guilt,

For Truth so gain’d will ne’er reward its owner.”

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artist: joseph watter.

THE UNKNOWN MAIDEN.

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THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

“TAKE the world!” Zeus exclaim’d from his throne in the skies

To the children of man—“take the world I now give;

It shall ever remain as your heirloom and prize.

So divide it as brothers, and happily live.”

Then all who had hands sought their share to obtain,

The young and the aged made haste to appear;

The husbandman seiz’d on the fruits of the plain,

The youth thro’ the forest pursu’d the fleet deer.

The merchant took all that his warehouse could hold,

The abbot selected the last year’s best wine,

The king barr’d the bridges,—the highway’s control’d,

And said: “Now remember, the tithes shall be mine!”

But when the division long settled had been,

The poet drew nigh from a far distant land;

But alas! not a remnant was now to be seen,

Each thing on the earth own’d a master’s command.

“Alas! shall then I, of thy sons the most true,

Shall I, ’mongst them all, be forgotten alone?”

Thus loudly he cried in his anguish, and threw

Himself in despair before Jupiter’s throne.

“If thou in the region of dreams didst delay,

Complain not of me,” the Immortal replied;

“When the world was apportion’d, where then wert thou, pray?”

“I was,” said the poet, “I was—by thy side!

“Mine eye was then fix’d on thy features so bright,

Mine ear was entranc’d by thy harmony’s power;

Oh, pardon the spirit that, aw’d by thy light,

All things of the earth could forget in that hour!”

“What to do?” Zeus exclaim’d,—“for the world has been given;

The harvest, the market, the chase, are not free;

But if thou with me wilt abide in my heaven,

Whenever thou com’st, ’twill be open to thee!”

THE UNKNOWN MAIDEN.

IN a deep vale, ’mongst simple swains,

Appear’d with each returning spring,

Soon as the lark began his strains,

A maid, of beauty ravishing.

That vale was not her native-place,

And where she came from none could tell;

Yet of her steps was left no trace

Soon as the maiden said farewell.

Each heart was glad when she was seen,

With nobler aspirations fir’d;

And yet her grace, her lofty mien

With silent awe each breast inspir’d.

She with her brought both flowers and fruit,

But ripen’d in far distant plains,

Where warmer far the sunbeams shoot,

Where a more bounteous nature reigns.

Her gifts among them all she shar’d,—

To some gave fruit, gave flowers to some;

The youth, the old man silver-hair’d,

Alike rewarded sought their home.

To her was welcome every guest;

Yet if approach’d a loving pair,

To them she ever gave her best,

The flowers her store contain’d most fair.

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THE IDEAL AND LIFE.

VER CLEAR and smooth, and crystal-bright

Flows existence, zephyr-light,

In Olympus, where the blest recline.

Moons revolve, and ages pass away;

Changelessly ’mid ever-rife decay

Bloom the roses of their youth divine.

Man has but a sad choice left him now,

Sensual bliss and soul-repose-between;

But, upon the great Celestial’s brow,

Wedded is their lustre seen.

Wouldst thou here be like a deity,

In the realm of death be free,

Never seek to pluck its garden’s fruit!

On its beauty thou may’st feast thine eye;

Soon wild longing’s impulses will fly,

And enjoyment’s transient bliss pollute.

E’en the Styx, that nine times flows around,

Ceres’ child’s return could not delay,

But she grasp’d the apple,—and was bound

Evermore by Orcus’ sway.

Bodies only yonder powers can bind

By whom gloomy fate is twin’d;

But, set free from each restraint of time,

Blissful Nature’s playmate, Form, so bright,

Roams for ever o’er the plains of light,

’Mongst the Deities, herself sublime.

Wouldst thou on her pinions soar on high,

Far away each earthly sorrow throw!

To the ideal realm for refuge fly

From this narrow life below!

Free from earthly stain, and ever young,

Blest Perfection’s rays among,

There humanity’s fair form is view’d,

As life’s silent phantoms brightly gleam

While they wander near the Stygian stream,

Or, as in the heav’nly fields they stood,

Ere the great Immortal went its way

Down to the sarcophagus so drear.

If in life the conflict-scales still sway

Doubtfully, the triumph’s here.

Not to free the weary limbs from strife,

Not to give the faint new life,

Blooms the fragrant wreath of victory;

Tho’ thy nerves may rest, yet, fierce and strong,

In its stream life bears thee still along,

In its whirling dance Time hurries thee.

But should courage’ daring wing not brook

Sad confinement’s painful sense to bear,

Then the soaring Aim with joy may look

Down from Beauty’s hill so fair.

If ’tis good to govern and defend,

Wrestlers bravely to contend

On the path of fortune or renown,—

Then let boldness wreak itself in force,

And the chariots on the dust-strown course

Blend together, as they thunder down.

Courage only here the prize can find

Of the victor in the Hippodrome,—

’Tis the strong alone who Fate can bind

When the weak are overcome.

But although, when rocks its bed enclose,

Wildly foaming on it flows,

Softly, smoothly runs life’s gentle stream

Over Beauty’s silent shadow-land,

While, upon its silvery waters’ strand,

Hesper and Aurora paint each beam.

Melted into soft and mutual love,

Blended in the happy bond of grace,

Fiery impulses here cease to move,

And the foe has fled the place.

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If to animate what erst was dead,

If with matter now to wed,

Active genius kindles into flame,

Let then industry strain ev’ry nerve,

Let the thought’s courageous wrestling serve

E’en the hostile element to tame.

Truth’s deep-buried spring can only flow

To the steadfast will, that wearies ne’er;

Only to the chisel’s heavy blow

Yields the brittle marble e’er.

Piercing even into Beauty’s sphere,

In the dust still lingers here

Gravitation, with the world it sways;

Not from out the mass, with labor wrung,

Light and graceful, as from nothing sprung,

Stands the image to the ravish’d gaze.

Mute is ev’ry struggle, ev’ry doubt,

In the certain glow of victory;

While each witness hence is driven out

Of frail man’s necessity.

When thou seest the mighty precept plac’d

In Humanity’s sad waste,

Or when to the Holy, guilt draws nigh,

Then thy virtue well may pallid be

In the rays of truth,—despondingly

From the Ideal shamefaced action fly.

Nought created e’er surmounted this,

Not a bark, no bridge’s span can bear

Safely o’er that terrible abyss,

And no anchor catches there.

But, by fleeing from the sense confin’d

To the freedom of the mind,

Ev’ry dream of fear thou’lt find thence flown,

And the endless depth itself will fill;

If thou tak’st the Godhead in thy will,

’Twill soar upwards from its earthly throne.

Servile minds alone, that scorn its sway,

Are subdu’d by precept’s rigid rod;

With the man’s resistance dies away

E’en the glory of the God.

When thou art weigh’d down by human care,

When the son of Priam there

Strives against the snakes with speechless pain,

Then let man revolt! Then let his cry

To the canopy of heav’n mount high,—

Let thy feeling heart be rent in twain!

Let the radiant cheek of joy turn pale,

Nature’s fearful voice triumphant be,

And let holy sympathy prevail

O’er thine immortality!

But in yonder blissful realms afar,

Where the forms unsullied are,

Sorrow’s mournful tempests cease to rave.

There reflection cannot pierce the soul,

Tears of anguish there no longer roll,

Nought remains but mind’s resistance brave.

Beauteous e’en as Iris’ color’d bow

On the thunder-cloud’s soft vaporous dew,

Glimm’ring through the dusky veil of woe

There is seen Rest’s radiant blue.

Great Alcides erst in endless strife

Trod the weary path of life,

Humbl’d e’en the coward’s slave to be,—

Hugg’d the lion, and the hydra fought;

Into Charon’s bark, he, dreading nought,

Plung’d alive, that he his friend might free.

All the heavy loads that earth brings forth,

On the shoulders of the hated one,

By the Goddess are heap’d up in wrath,

Till at length his race is run.

Till the God soars hence like some bright flame,

Casting off his earthly frame,

And the æther’s balmy incense drinks.

In his new unwonted pinions glad,

Upward flies he, and the vision sad

Life had fashion’d, sinks, and sinks, and sinks.

Harmony, that of Olympus speaks,

Hails the blest one where Kronīon lives,

And the Goddess with the rosy cheeks

Smilingly the chalice gives.

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Parables and Riddles

I.

ABRIDGE of pearls its form uprears

High o’er a grey and misty sea;

E’en in a moment it appears,

And rises upwards giddily.

Beneath its arch can find a road

The loftiest vessel’s mast most high,

Itself hath never borne a load,

And seems, when thou draw’st near, to fly.

It comes first with the stream, and goes

Soon as the wat’ry flood is dried.

Where may be found this bridge, disclose,

And who its beauteous form supplied!

II.

IT bears thee many a mile away,

And yet its place it changes ne’er;

It has no pinions to display,

And yet conducts thee through the air.

It is the bark of swiftest motion

That every weary wanderer bore;

With speed of thought the greatest ocean

It carries thee in safety o’er;

One moment wafts thee to the shore.

III.

UPON a spacious meadow play

Thousands of sheep, of silv’ry hue;

And as we see them move to-day,

The man most aged saw them too.

They ne’er grow old, and, from a rill

That never dries, their life is drawn;

A shepherd watches o’er them still,

With curv’d and beauteous silver horn.

He drives them out through gates of gold,

And ev’ry night their number counts;

Yet ne’er has lost, of all his fold,

One lamb, though oft that path he mounts.

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A hound attends him faithfully,

A nimble ram precedes the way;

Canst thou point out that flock to me,

And who the shepherd, canst thou say?

IV.

There stands a dwelling, vast and tall,

On unseen columns fair;

No wanderer treads or leaves its hall,

And none can linger there.

Its wondrous structure first was plann’d

With art no mortal knows;

It lights the lamps with its own hand

’Mongst which it brightly glows.

It has a roof, as crystal bright,

Form’d of one gem of dazzling light;

Yet mortal eye has ne’er

Seen Him who plac’d it there.

V.

Within a well two buckets lie,

One mounts, and one descends;

When one is full, and rises high,

The other downward wends.

They wander ever to and fro—

Now empty are, now overflow.

If to the mouth thou liftest this,

That hangs within the dark abyss.

In the same moment they can ne’er

Refresh thee with their treasures fair.

VI.

Know’st thou the form on tender ground?

It gives itself its glow, its light;

And though each moment changing found,

Is ever whole and ever bright.

In narrow compass ’tis confin’d,

Within the smallest frame it lies;

Yet all things great that move thy mind,

That form alone to thee supplies.

And canst thou, too, the crystal name?

No gem can equal it in worth;

It gleams, yet kindles ne’er to flame,

It sucks in even all the earth.

Within its bright and wondrous ring

Is pictur’d forth the glow of heaven,

And yet it mirrors back each thing

Far fairer than to it ’twas given.

VII.

For ages an edifice here has been found,

It is not a dwelling, it is not a fane;

A horseman for hundreds of days may ride round,

Yet the end of his journey he ne’er can attain.

Full many a century o’er it has pass’d,

The might of the storm and of time it defies;

’Neath the rainbow of Heaven stands free to the last,—

In the ocean it dips, and soars up to the skies.

It was not vain glory that bade its erection,

It serves as a refuge, a shield, a protection;

Its like on the earth never yet has been known

And yet by man’s hand it is fashion’d alone.

VIII.

Amongst all serpents there is one

Born of no earthly breed;

In fury wild it stands alone,

And in its matchless speed

With fearful voice and headlong force

It rushes on its prey,

And sweeps the rider and his horse

In one fell swoop away.

The highest point it loves to gain;

And neither bar nor lock

Its fiery onslaught can restrain:

And arms—invite its shock.

It tears in twain like tender grass,

The strongest forest-tree;

It grinds to dust the harden’d brass,

Though stout and firm it be.

And yet this beast, that none can tame,

Its threat ne’er twice fulfils;

It dies in its self-kindl’d flame,

And dies e’en when it kills.

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IX.

We children six our being had

From a most strange and wondrous pair,

Our mother ever grave and sad,

Our father ever free from care.

Our virtues we from both receive,—

Meekness from her, from him our light;

And so in endless youth we weave

Round thee a circling figure bright.

We ever shun the caverns black,

And revel in the glowing day;

’Tis we who light the world’s dark track,

With our life’s clear and magic ray.

Spring’s joyful harbingers are we,

And her inspiring strains we swell;

And so the house of death we flee,

For life alone must round us dwell.

Without us is no perfect bliss,

When man is glad, we, too, attend,

And when a monarch worshipp’d is,

To him our majesty we lend.

X.

What is the thing esteem’d by few?

The monarch’s hand it decks with pride,

Yet it is made to injure too,

And to the sword is most allied.

No blood it sheds, yet many a wound

Inflicts,—gives wealth, yet takes from none;

Has vanquish’d e’en the earth’s wide round,

And makes life’s current smoothly run.

The greatest kingdoms it has fram’d,

The oldest cities rear’d from dust,

Yet war’s fierce torch has ne’er inflam’d;

Happy are they who in it trust!

XI.

I live within a dwelling of stone,

There buried in slumber I dally;

Yet, arm’d with a weapon of iron alone,

The foe to encounter I sally.

At first I’m invisible, feeble, and mean,

And o’er me thy breath has dominion;

I’m easily drown’d in a rain-drop e’en,

Yet in victory waxes my pinion.

When my sister, all-powerful, gives me her hand,

To the terrible lord of the world I expand.

XII.

Upon a disk my course I trace,

There restlessly forever flit;

Small is the circuit I embrace,

Two hands suffice to cover it.

Yet ere that field I traverse, I

Full many a thousand mile must go,

E’en though with tempest-speed I fly,

Swifter than arrow from a bow.

XIII.

A bird it is, whose rapid motion

With eagle’s flight divides the air;

A fish it is, and parts the ocean,

That bore a greater monster ne’er;

An elephant it is, whose rider

On his broad back a tower has put:

’Tis like the reptile base, the spider,

Whenever it extends its foot;

And when, with iron tooth projecting,

It seeks its own life-blood to drain,

On footing firm, itself erecting,

It braves the raging hurricane.

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THE WALK.

HAIL to thee, mountain belov’d, with thy glittering purple-dyed summit!

Hail to thee also, fair sun, looking so lovingly on!

Thee, too, I hail, thou smiling plain, and ye murmuring lindens,

Ay, and the chorus so glad, cradl’d on yonder high boughs;

Thee, too, peaceable azure, in infinite measure extending

Round the dusky-hued mount, over the forest so green,—

Round about me, who now from my chamber’s confinement escaping,

And from vain frivolous talk, gladly seek refuge with thee.

Through me to quicken me runs the balsamic stream of thy breezes,

While the energetical light freshens the gaze as it thirsts.

Bright o’er the blooming meadow the changeable colors are gleaming,

But the strife, full of charms, in its own grace melts away.

Freely the plain receives me, with carpet far away reaching,

Over its friendly green wanders the pathway along.

Round me is humming the busy bee, and with pinion uncertain

Hovers the butterfly gay over the trefoil’s red flow’r.

Fiercely the darts of the sun fall on me,—the zephyr is silent,

Only the song of the lark echoes athwart the clear air.

Now from the neighboring copse comes a roar, and the tops of the alders

Bend low down,—in the wind dances the silvery grass;

Night ambrosial circles me round; in the coolness so fragrant

Greets me a beauteous roof, form’d by the beeches’ sweet shade.

In the depths of the wood the landscape suddenly leaves me,

And a serpentine path guides up my footsteps on high.

Only by stealth can the light through the leafy trellis of branches

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Sparingly pierce, and the blue smilingly peeps through the boughs.

But in a moment the veil is rent, and the opening forest

Suddenly gives back the day’s glittering brightness to me!

Boundlessly seems the distance before my gaze to be stretching,

And in a purple-ting’d hill terminates sweetly the world.

Deep at the foot of the mountain, that under me falls away steeply,

Wanders the greenish-hued stream, looking like glass as it flows.

Endlessly under me see I the Æther, and endlessly o’er me,—

Giddily look I above, shudd’ringly look I below.

But between the infinite height and the infinite hollow

Safely the wanderer moves over a well-guarded path.

Smilingly past me are flying the banks all-teeming with riches,

And the valley so bright boasts of its industry glad.

See how yonder hedgerows that sever the farmer’s possessions

Have by Demeter been work’d into the tapestried plain!

Kindly decree of the law, of the Deity mortal-sustaining,

Since from the brazen world Love vanish’d for ever away.

But in freer windings the measur’d pastures are travers’d

(Now swallow’d up in the wood, now climbing up to the hills)

By a glimmering streak, the highway that knits lands together;

Over the smooth-flowing stream, quietly glide on the rafts.

Ofttimes resound the bells of the flocks in the fields that seem living,

And the shepherd’s lone song wakens the echo again.

Joyous villages crown the stream, in the copse others vanish,

While from the back of the mount, others plunge wildly below.

Man still lives with the land in neighborly friendship united,

And round his sheltering roof calmly repose still his fields;

Trustingly climbs the vine high over the lowreaching window,

While round the cottage the tree circles its far-stretching boughs.

Happy race of the plain! Not yet awaken’d to freedom,

Thou and thy pastures with joy share in the limited law;

Bounded thy wishes all are by the harvest’s peaceable circuit,

And thy lifetime is spent e’en as the task of the day!

But what suddenly hides the beauteous view? A strange spirit

Over the still-stranger plain spreads itself quickly afar—

Coyly separates now, what scarce had lovingly mingled,

And ’tis the like that alone joins itself on to the like.

Orders I see depicted; the haughty tribes of the poplars

Marshal’d in regular pomp, stately and beauteous appear.

All gives token of rule and choice, and all has its meaning,—

’Tis this uniform plan points out the Ruler to me.

Brightly the glittering domes in far-away distance proclaim him.

Out of the kernel of rocks rises the city’s high wall.

Into the desert without, the Fauns of the forest are driven,

But by devotion is lent life more sublime to the stone.

Man is brought into nearer union with man, and around him

Closer, more actively wakes, swifter moves in him the world.

See! the emulous forces in fiery conflict are kindl’d,

Much they effect when they strive, more they effect when they join.

Thousands of hands by one spirit are mov’d, yet in thousands of bosoms

Beats one heart all alone, by but one feeling inspir’d—

Beats for their native land, and glows for their ancestors’ precepts;

Here on the well-belov’d spot, rest now their time-honor’d bones.

Down from the heavens descends the blessèd troop of Immortals,

In the bright circle divine making their festal abode;

Granting glorious gifts, they appear: and first of all, Ceres

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artist: rudolph schuster.

THE WALK.

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Offers the gift of the plough, Hermes the anchor brings next,

Bacchus the grape, and Minerva the verdant olive-tree’s branches,

Even his charger of war brings there Poseidon as well.

Mother Cybele yokes to the pole of her chariot the lions,

And through the wide-open door comes as a citizen in.

Sacred stones! ’Tis from ye that proceed Humanity’s founders,

Morals and arts ye sent forth, e’en to the ocean’s far isles.

’Twas at these friendly gates that the law was spoken by sages;

In their Penates’ defence, heroes rush’d out to the fray.

On the high walls appear’d the mothers, embracing their infants,

Looking after the march, till in the distance ’twas lost.

Then in prayer they threw themselves down at the Deities’ altars,

Praying for triumph and fame, praying for your safe return.

Honor and triumph were yours, but nought return’d save your glory,

And by a heart-touching stone, told are your valorous deeds.

“Traveler! when thou com’st to Sparta, proclaim to the people

That thou hast seen us lie here, as by the law we were bid.”

Slumber calmly, ye lov’d ones! for sprinkl’d o’er by your life-blood,

Flourish the olive-trees there, joyously sprouts the good seed.

In its possessions exulting, industry gladly is kindl’d,

And from the sedge of the stream smilingly signs the blue God.

Crushingly falls the axe on the tree, the Dryad sighs sadly;

Down from the crest of the mount plunges the thundering load.

Wing’d by the lever, the stone from the rocky crevice is loosen’d;

Into the mountain’s abyss boldly the miner descends.

Mulciber’s anvil resounds with the measur’d stroke of the hammer;

Under the fist’s nervous blow, spurt out the sparks of the steel.

Brilliantly twines the golden flax round the swift-whirling spindles,

Through the strings of the yarn whizzes the shuttle away.

Far in the roads the pilot calls, and the vessels are waiting,

That to the foreigner’s land carry the produce of home;

Others gladly approach with the treasures of far-distant regions,

High on the mast’s lofty head flutters the garland of mirth.

See how yon markets, those centres of life and of gladness, are swarming!

Strange confusion of tongues sounds in the wondering ear.

On to the pile the wealth of the earth is heap’d by the merchant,

All that the sun’s scorching rays bring forth on Africa’s soil,

All that Arabia prepares, that the uttermost Thule produces,

High with heart-gladdening stores fills Amalthea her horn.

Fortune wedded to Talent gives birth there to children immortal,

Suckl’d in Liberty’s arms, flourish the Arts there of joy.

With the image of life the eyes by the sculptor are ravish’d,

And by the chisel inspir’d, speaks e’en the sensitive stone.

Skies artificial repose on slender Ionian columns,

And a Pantheon includes all that Olympus contains.

Light as the rainbow’s spring through the air, as the dart from the bowstring,

Leaps the yoke of the bridge over the boisterous stream.

But in his silent chamber the thoughtful sage is projecting

Magical circles, and steals e’en on the spirit that forms,

Proves the force of matter, the hatreds and loves of the magnet,

Follows the tune through the air, follows through æther the ray,

Seeks the familiar law in chance’s miracles dreaded,

Looks for the ne’er-changing pole in the phenomena’s flight.

Bodies and voices are lent by writing to thought ever silent,

Over the centuries’ stream bears it the eloquent page.

Then to the wondering gaze dissolves the cloud of the fancy,

And the vain phantoms of night yield to the dawning of day.

Man now breaks through his fetters, the happy One! oh, let him never

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Break from the bridle of shame, when from fear’s fetters he breaks!

Freedom! is Reason’s cry,—ay, Freedom! The wild raging passions

Eagerly cast off the bonds nature divine had impos’d.

Ah! in the tempest the anchors break loose, that warningly held him

On to the shore, and the stream tears him along in its flood,—

Into infinity whirls him,—the coasts soon vanish before him,

High on the mountainous waves rocks all-dismasted the bark;

Under the clouds are hid the steadfast stars of the chariot,

Nought now remains,—in the breast even the God goes astray.

Truth disappears from language, from life all faith and all honor

Vanish, and even the oath is but a lie on the lips.

Into the heart’s most trusty bond, and into love’s secrets,

Presses the sycophant base, tearing the friend from the friend.

Treason on Innocence leers, with looks that seek to devour,

And the fell slanderer’s tooth kills with its poisonous bite.

In the dishonor’d bosom, thought is now venal, and love, too,

Scatters abroad to the winds, feelings once God-like and free.

All thy holy symbols, O Truth, Deceit has adopted,

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And has e’en dar’d to pollute Nature’s own voices so fair,

That the craving heart in the tumult of gladness discovers;

True sensations are now mute and can scarcely be heard.

Justice boasts at the tribune, and Harmony vaunts in the cottage,

While the ghost of the law stands at the throne of the king.

Years together, ay, centuries long, may the mummy continue,

And the deception endure, aping the fulness of life.

Until Nature awakes, and with hands all-brazen and heavy

’Gainst the hollow-form’d pile Time and Necessity strikes.

Like a tigress, who, bursting the massive grating of iron,

Of her Numidian wood suddenly, fearfully thinks,—

So with the fury of crime and anguish, humanity rises,

Hoping nature, long-lost, in the town’s ashes to find.

Oh, then open, ye walls, and set the captive at freedom!

To the long desolate plains let him in safety return!

But where am I? The path is now hid, declivities rugged

Bar, with their wide-yawning gulfs, progress before and behind.

Now far behind me is left the gardens’ and hedges’ sure escort,

Every trace of man’s hand also remains far behind.

Only the matter I see pil’d up, whence life has its issue,

And the raw mass of basalt waits for a fashioning hand.

Down through its channel of rock the torrent roaringly rushes,

Angrily forcing a path under the roots of the trees.

All is here wild and fearfully desolate. Nought but the eagle

Hangs in the lone realms of air, knitting the world to the clouds.

Not one zephyr on soaring pinion conveys to my hearing

Echoes, however remote, marking man’s pleasures and pains.

Am I in truth, then, alone? Within thine arms, on thy bosom,

Nature, I lie once again!—Ah, and ’twas only a dream

That assail’d me with horrors so fearful; with life’s dreaded phantom,

And with the down-rushing vale, vanish’d the gloomy one too.

Purer my life I receive again from thine altar unsullied,—

Purer receive the bright glow felt by my youth’s hopeful days.

Ever the will is changing its aim and its rule, while for ever,

In a still varying form, actions revolve round themselves.

But in enduring youth, in beauty ever renewing,

Kindly Nature, with grace thou dost revere the old law!

Ever the same, for the man in thy faithful hands thou preservest

That which the child in its sport, that which the youth lent to thee;

At the same breast thou dost suckle the ceaselessly varying ages;

Under the same azure vault, over the same verdant earth,

Races, near and remote, in harmony wander together,—

See, even Homer’s own sun looks on us, too, with a smile!

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THE SONG OF THE BELL. Vivos Voco. Mortuos Plango. Fulgura Frango.

WALL’D securely in the ground,

Stands the mould of well-bak’d clay:

Comrades, at your task be found!

We must cast the Bell to-day!

From the burning brow

Sweat must run, I trow,

Would we have our work commended—

Blessings must be heaven-descended.

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artist: julius benczur.

THE SONG OF THE BELL.

the fair bride.

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A solemn word may well befit

The task we solemnly prepare;

When goodly converse hallows it,

The labor flows on gladly there.

Let us observe with careful eyes

What thro’ deficient strength escapes;

The thoughtless man we must despise,

Who disregards the thing he shapes.

This forms a man’s chief attribute,

And Reason is to him assign’d

That what his hand may execute,

Within his heart, too, he should find.

Heap ye up the pinewood first,

Yet full dry it needs must be,

That the smother’d flame may burst

Fiercely through the cavity!

Let the copper brew!

Quick the tin add, too,

That the tough bell-metal may

Fuse there in the proper way!

The Bell that in the dam’s deep hole

Our hands with help of fire prepare,

From the high belfry-tower will toll,

And witness of us loudly bear.

’Twill there endure till distant days,

On many an ear its sounds will dwell,

Sad wailings with the mourner raise,—

The chorus of devotion swell.

Whatever changeful fate may bring

To be man’s portion here below,

Against its metal crown will ring,

And through the nations echoing go.

Bubbles white I see ascend;

Good! the heap dissolves at last;

Let the potash with it blend,

Urging on the fusion fast.

Foam and bubble-free

Must the mixture be,

That from metal void of stain

Pure and full may rise the strain.

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For in a song with gladness rife

The cherish’d child it loves to greet,

When first he treads the path of life,

Wrapt in the arms of slumbers sweet;

His coming fate of joy or gloom

Lies buried in the future’s womb;

The tender cares that mothers prove

His golden morning guard with love:

The years with arrowy swiftness fleet.

The proud boy bids the maid adieu,

And into life with wildness flies,

The world on pilgrim’s-staff roams through,—

Then as a stranger homeward hies;

And gracefully, in beauty’s pride,

Like to some heav’nly image fair,

Her modest cheeks with blushes dyed,

He sees the maiden standing there.

A nameless yearning now appears

And fills his heart; alone he strays,

His eyes are ever moist with tears,

He shuns his brothers’ noisy plays;

Her steps he blushingly pursues,

And by her greeting is made blest,

Gathers the flowers of fairest hues,

With which to deck his true love’s breast.

Oh, tender yearning, blissful hope,

Thou golden time of love’s young day!

Heav’n seems before the eye to ope,

The heart in rapture melts away.

Oh may it ever verdant prove,

That radiant time of early love!

Dusky-hued becomes each pipe!

Let me plunge this rod in here:

All for casting will be ripe

When we see it glaz’d appear.

Comrades, stand ye by!

Now the mixture try,

If the brittle will combine

With the soft—propitious sign!

For there is heard a joyous sound

Where sternness is with softness bound,

Where joins the gentle with the strong,

Who binds himself for ever, he

Should prove if heart and heart agree!

The dream is short, repentance long.

Through the bride’s fair locks so dear

Twines the virgin chaplet bright,

When the church-bells, ringing clear,

To the joyous feast invite.

Ah! life’s happiest festival

Needs must end life’s happy May;

With the veil and girdle, all

Those sweet visions fade away.

Though passion may fly,

Yet love must remain;

Though the flow’ret may die,

Yet the fruit scents the plain.

Man must gird for his race

Through the stern paths of life,

Midst turmoil and strife,

Must plant and must form,

Gain by cunning or storm;

Must wager and dare,

Would he reach fortune e’er.

Then wealth without ending upon him soon pours,

His granaries all overflow with rich stores:

The room is enlarged, and his house grows apace;

And o’er it is ruling

The housewife so modest,

His children’s dear mother;

And wisely she governs

The circle of home.

The maidens she trains,

And the boys she restrains,

Keeps plying for ever

Her hands that flag never,

And wealth helps to raise

With her orderly ways;

The sweet-scented presses with treasures piles high,

Bids the thread round the fast-whirling spindle to fly;

The cleanly and bright-polish’d chest she heaps full

With the flax white as snow, and the glistening wool;

All glitter and splendor ordains for the best,

And takes no rest.

And the father, with rapturous gaze,

From the far-seeing roof of his dwelling,

All his blossoming riches surveys;

Sees each projecting pillar and post,

Sees his barns, that of wealth seem to boast;

Sees each storehouse, by blessings down-borne,

And the billow-like waving corn,—

Cries with exulting face:

“Firm as the earth’s firm base,

’Gainst all misfortune’s powers

Proudly my house now towers!”—

But with mighty destiny

Union sure there ne’er can be;

Woe advances rapidly.

Let the casting be begun!

Trac’d already is the breach;

Yet before we let it run,

Heaven’s protecting aid beseech!

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artist: julius benczur.

THE SONG OF THE BELL.

the modest housewife.

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Let the plug now fly!

May God’s help be nigh!

In the mould all-smoking rush

Fire-brown billows with fierce gush.

Beneficent the might of flame,

When ’tis by man watch’d o’er, made tame;

For to this heav’nly power he owes

All his creative genius knows;

Yet terrible that power will be,

When from its fetters it breaks free,

Treads its own path with passion wild,

As nature’s free and reckless child.

Woe, if it casts off its chains,

And, without resistance, growing,

Through the crowded streets and lanes

Spreads the blaze, all fiercely glowing!

For the elements still hate

All that mortal hands create.

From the clouds all blessings rill,

’Tis the clouds that rain distil;

From the clouds, with quivering beams,

Lightning gleams.

From you tower the wailing sound

Spreads the fire alarm around!

Blood-red, lo!

Are the skies!

But ’tis not the day’s clear glow!

Smoke up-flies!

Loud the shout

Round about!

High the fiery column glows,

Through the streets’ far-stretching rows

On with lightning speed it goes.

Hot, as from an oven’s womb,

Burns the air, while beams consume,

Windows rattle, pillars fall,

Children wail and mothers call.

Beasts are groaning,

Underneath the ruins moaning,

All their safety seek in flight,

Day-clear lighted is the night.

Through the hands’ extended chain

Flies the bucket on amain;

Floods of water high are thrown;

Howling comes the tempest on,

Roaring in the flames’ pursuit,

Crackling on the wither’d fruit

Falls it,—on the granary,

On the rafters’ timber dry.

And, as if earth’s heavy weight

Seeking in its flight to bear,

Mounts it, as a giant great,

Wildly through the realms of air.

Man now loses hope at length,

Yielding to immortal strength;

Idly, and with wond’ring gaze,

All the wreck he now surveys.

Burnt to ashes is the stead,

Now the wildstorm’s rugged bed,

In the empty window-panes

Shudd’ring horror now remains,

And the clouds of heaven above

Peep in, as they onward move.

Upon the grave where buried lies

His earthly wealth, his longing eyes

The man one ling’ring moment throws,

Then, as a pilgrim, gladly goes.

Whate’er the fierce flames may destroy,

One consolation sweet is left;

His lov’d ones’ heads he counts,—and, Joy!—

He is not e’en of one bereft!

In the earth it now has pour’d,

And the mould has fill’d aright;

Skill and labor to reward,

Will it beauteous come to light?

If the mould should crack?

If the casting lack?

While we hope, e’en now, alas,

Mischief may have come to pass!

To the dark womb of holy earth

We trust what issues from our hand

As trusts the sower to the land

His seed, in hope ’twill have its birth

To bless us, true to Heaven’s command.

Seed still more precious in the womb

Of earth we trusting hide, and wait

In hope that even from the tomb

’Twill blossom to a happier fate.

Sad and heavy from the dome

Hark! the Bell’s death-wailings come.

Solemnly the strains, with sorrow fraught,

On her way a pilgrim now escort.

For a mother tolls the Bell!

For a fond wife sounds the knell!

Death, regardless of her charms,

Tears her from her husband’s arms,

From her children tears her too,

Offspring of affection true,

Whom she cherish’d with the love

None but mothers e’er can prove.

All the ties their hearts uniting

Are dissolv’d for evermore;

She whose smile that home was lighting

Wanders on oblivion’s shore.

Who will now avert each danger?

Who will now each care dispel?

In her seat will sit a stranger—

She can never love so well!

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Till the Bell has cool’d aright,

Let the arduous labor rest;

As the bird midst foliage bright

Flutters, each may thus be blest.

When the daylight wanes,

Free from duty’s chains

Workmen hear the vesper chime;

Masters have for rest no time.

Gladly hies the wanderer fast,

Through the forest-glades so deep,

Tow’rd his own lov’d cot at last.

Bleating homeward go the sheep;

Broad-brow’d, smooth-skinn’d cattle, all

Bellowing come, and fill each stall.

Home returns the heavy wain,

Stagg’ring ’neath its load of grain.

Many-hued, the garlands lie

On the sheaves, while gladly fly

To the dance the reaper-boys,—

Hush’d each street and market noise,

Round the candle’s social light

All the household now unite.

Creakingly the town-gates close,

Darkness its black mantle throws

O’er the earth; but yet the night,

Though it fills the bad with awe,

Gives the townsman no affright,

For he trusts the wakeful law.

Holy Order, blessing rife,

Heaven’s own child, by whom in life

Equals joyously are bound,

And whose task ’tis towns to found,—

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Who the wandering savage led

From the plains he used to tread,

Enter’d the rude huts of men,

Softening their wild habits then,

And who wove that dearest band,—

Love for home and fatherland!

Thousand busy hands are plying,

Into loving union thrown,

And, in fiery motion vieing,

All the forces here are known.

Under freedom’s shelter holy

Man and master now unite,

Love their stations, high or lowly,

And defy the scorner’s might.

Blessings are our labor’s guerdon,

Work adorns the townsman most;

Honor is a king’s chief burden,

We in hands industrious boast.

Peace all-lovely!

Blissful concord!

Linger, linger

Kindly over this our town!

May we ne’er the sad day witness

When the hordes of cruel warriors

Wildly tread this silent valley;

When the heavens,

That the eve’s bright colors blending

Softly gild

With the light of flames ascending,

From the burning towns are fill’d!

Let us now the mould destroy,

Well it has fulfill’d its part,

That the beauteous shape with joy

May inspire both eye and heart.

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Wield the hammer, wield,

Till the mantle yield!

Would we raise the Bell on high,

Must the mould to atoms fly.

The founder may destroy the mould

With cunning hand, if time it be;

But woe, if, raging uncontrol’d,

The glowing bronze itself should free!

Blind-raging, like the crashing thunder,

It bursts its tenement asunder,

And, as from open jaws of hell,

Around it spews destruction fell.

Where forces rule with senseless might,

No structure there can come to light;

When mobs themselves for freedom strive,

True happiness can never thrive.

Woe, when within a city’s walls,

Where firebrands secretly are pil’d,

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The people, bursting from their thralls,

Tread their own path with fury wild!

Sedition then the Bell surrounds,

And bids it yield a howling tone;

And, meant for none but peaceful sounds,

The signal to the fray spurs on.

“Freedom! Equality!” they shout;

The peaceful townsman grasps his arms.

Mobs stand the streets and halls about,

The place with bands of murderers swarms.

Into hyenas women grow,

From horrors their amusement draw;

The heart, still quivering, of the foe

With panther’s teeth they fiercely gnaw.

All that is holy is effac’d,

Rent are the bonds of modesty;

The good is by the bad replac’d,

And crime from all restraint is free.

Death-fraught the tiger’s tooth appears,

To wake the lion madness seems,

Yet the most fearful of all fears

Is man obeying his wild dreams.

Woe be to him who, to the blind,

The heav’nly torch of light conveys!

It throws no radiance on his mind,

But land and town in ashes lays.

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God hath hearken’d to my vow!

See, how like a star of gold

Peels the metal kernel now,

Smooth and glistening from the mould!

E’en from crown to base

Sunlike gleams its face,

While the scutcheons, fairly plann’d,

Praise the skilful artist’s hand.

Now let us gather round the frame!

The ring let ev’ry workman swell,

That we may consecrate the Bell!

Concordia be henceforth its name,

Assembling all the loving throng

In harmony and union strong!

And this be the vocation fit

For which the founder fashion’d it!

High, high above earth’s life, earth’s labor,

E’en to the heav’ns’ blue vault to soar,

To hover as the thunder’s neighbor,

The very firmament explore;

To be a voice as from above,

Like yonder stars so bright and clear,

That praise their Maker as they move

And usher in the circling year.

Tun’d be its metal mouth alone

To things eternal and sublime,

And, as the swift-wing’d hours speed on,

May it record the flight of time!

Its tongue to Fate it well may lend;

Heartless itself, and feeling nought,

May with its warning notes attend

On human life, with change so fraught.

And, as the strains die on the ear

That it peals forth with tuneful might,

So let it teach that nought lasts here,

That all things earthly take their flight!

Now then, with the rope so strong,

From the vault the Bell upweigh,

That it gains the realms of song,

And the heav’nly light of day!

All hands nimbly ply!

Now it mounts on high!

To this city Joy reveals,—

Peace be the first strain it peals!

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THE POWER OF SONG.

THE foaming stream from out the rock

With thunder roar begins to rush,—

The oak falls prostrate at the shock,

And mountain-wrecks attend the gush.

With rapturous awe, in wonder lost,

The wanderer hearkens to the sound;

From cliff to cliff he hears it toss’d,

Yet knows not whither it is bound:

’Tis thus that song’s bright waters pour

From sources never known before.

In union with those dreaded ones

That spin life’s thread all-silently,—

Who can resist the singer’s tones?

Who from his magic set him free?

With wand like that the Gods bestow,

He guides the heaving bosom’s chords,

He steeps it in the realms below,

He bears it, wondering, heavenwards,

And rocks it, ’twixt the grave and gay,

On Feeling’s scales that trembling sway.

As when, before the startl’d eyes

Of some glad throng, mysteriously,

With giant-step, in spirit-guise,

Appears a wondrous Deity;

Then bows each greatness of the earth

Before the stranger, heaven-born,

Mute are the thoughtless sounds of mirth,

While from each face the mask is torn,

And from the truth’s triumphant might

Each work of falsehood takes to flight:

So, from each idle burden free,

When summon’d by the voice of song,

Man soars to spirit-dignity,

Receiving force divinely strong:

Among the Gods is now his home,

Nought earthly ventures to approach—

All other powers must now be dumb,

No fate can on his realms encroach;

Care’s gloomy wrinkles disappear,

Whilst Music’s charms still linger here.

As, after long and hopeless yearning,

And separation’s bitter smart,

A child, with tears repentant burning,

Clings fondly to his mother’s heart—

So to his youthful happy dwelling,

To rapture pure and free from stain,

All strange and false conceits expelling,

Song guides the wanderer back again.

In faithful Nature’s loving arm,

From chilling precepts to grow warm.

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Praise of Woman.

ALL honor to women!—they soften and leaven

The cares of the world with the roses of Heaven—

The ravishing fetters of love they entwine;

Their charms from the world’s eye modestly veiling,

They foster and nourish, with care never failing,

The fire eternal of feelings divine.

Man’s wild force, in constant motion,

Spurns the bounds by truth assign’d:

And, on passion’s stormy ocean,

To and fro is toss’d his mind.

Peace his bosom visits never,

As he heaps up scheme on scheme,

And through space pursus for ever

Each vain phantom of his dream.

But with her sweet look, so soft and enchaining,

Woman, the fugitive gently restraining,

Summons him back to the regions of earth;

The daughter of Nature, with meekness unshaken,

The home of her mother has never forsaken—

Has ever been true to the place of her birth.

Man, the torrent sternly breasting,

Spends his days in ceaseless strife;

Never pausing, never resting,

Wild he treads the paths of life.

All his plans to ruin bringing,

Ne’er his changing wish grows cold,

When destroy’d, again up-springing,

Like the Hydra’s heads of old.

But in a gentler sphere passing her hours,

Woman plucks ever the moment’s sweet flowers,

Lovingly tends them with fostering care;

Freer than man, though less wide her dominion,

Soaring above him on Wisdom’s bright pinion,

Glitt’ring in Poesy’s circle so fair.

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Selfishness and pride combining,

Man’s cold bosom ne’er can prove,

Round a fond heart fondly twining,

All the heav’nly bliss of love.

Soul communion never feeling,

Tears to him no balm impart,

Life’s hard conflicts only steeling

Sterner still his rugged heart.

But as when softly to Zephyr replying,

Æolus’ harp gently breathes forth its sighing,

The soft soul of woman its sighs breathes forth too;

At the sad tale of misery tenderly grieving,

See we her bosom with sympathy heaving,

Her melting eye sparkling with heavenly dew.

Man, imperious, stern, insulting,

Knows no law save that of might;

Scythians wave their swords exulting—

Persians tremble with affright.

Furious passions raging wildly

Fiercely struggle day by day;

And, where Charis govern’d mildly,

Eris now asserts her sway.

But, with her eloquence winning, yet yielding,

Woman, the sceptre of love gently wielding,

Quenches the smouldering embers of strife;

Each ling’ring emotion of hatred effaces,

Compels the late foes to unite their embraces.

Rivets the transient pleasures of life.

HOPE.

OF better and brighter days to come

Man is talking and dreaming ever;

To gain a happy, a golden home,

His efforts he ceases never;

The world decays, and again revives,

But man for improvement ever strives.

’Tis Hope first shows him the light of day,

Through infancy hovers before him,

Enchants him in youth with her magic ray,

Survives, when the grave closes o’er him;

For when in the tomb ends his weary race,

E’en there still see we her smiling face!

’Tis no vain flattering vision of youth,

On the fool’s dull brain descending;

To the heart it ever proclaims this glad truth:

Tow’rd a happier life we are tending;

And the promise the voice within us hath spoken

Shall ne’er to the hoping soul be broken.

THE GERMAN MUSE.

NO Augustan century,

No propitious Medici

Smil’d on German art when young;

Glory nourish’d not her powers,

She unfolded not her flowers

Princes’ favoring rays among.

From the mighty Fred’rick’s throne

Germany’s most glorious son,—

Went she forth, defenceless, spurn’d;

Proudly Germans may repeat,

While their hearts more gladly beat,—

They themselves their crown have earn’d.

Therefore mounts with nobler pride,

Therefore with a fuller tide

Pours the stream of German bards;—

With his own abundance swells,—

From the inmost bosom wells,—

Chains of method disregards.

THE SOWER.

SEE! with a heart full of hope, to the earth golden seed thou entrustest,

And with joy in the Spring, waitest to see it appear.

Art thou mindful to strew in the furrows of Time worthy actions,

Which for Eternity bloom, calmly by wisdom’s hand sown?

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THE MERCHANT.

WHITHER is sailing the Ship? It bears the people of Sidon

From the cold realms of the North, bringing the amber and tin.

Bear it up gently, O Neptune! and peacefully rock it, ye zephyrs!—

Let it in sheltering bay find the refreshment it needs!

’Tis to you, ye Gods, that the Merchant belongs. Seeking riches,

Goes he,—yet to his ship that which is good ever clings.

GERMAN FAITH.

ONCE for the sceptre of Germany, fought with Bavarian Louis

Fred’rick of Hapsburg descent, both being call’d to the throne.

But the envious fortune of war deliver’d the Austrian

Into the hands of the foe, who overcame him in fight.

With the throne he purchas’d his freedom, pledging his honor

For the victor to draw ’gainst his own people his sword;

But what he vow’d when in chains, when free he could not accomplish,

So, of his own free accord, put on his fetters again.

Deeply mov’d, his foe embrac’d him,—and from thenceforward

As a friend with a friend, pledg’d they the cup at the feast;

Arm-in-arm, the princes on one couch slumber’d together,

While a still bloodier hate sever’d the nations apart.

’Gainst the army of Fred’rick, Louis now went, and behind him

Left the foe he had fought, over Bavaria to watch.

“Aye, it is true! ’Tis really true! I have it in writing!”

Thus did the Pontifex cry, when he first heard of the news.

THE KNIGHTS OF MALTA.

NOBLY, in truth, ye are cloth’d by the Cross’s equipment so dreaded,

When ye, the lions in fight, Accon and Rhodus protect,—

When through the Syrian deserts ye guide the sorrowing pilgrim,

And, with the Cherubim’s sword, stand o’er the Saviour’s blest tomb.

But a glory still nobler surrounds ye,—the garb of the nurser,

When ye, the lions in fight, sons of the race so renown’d,

Serve at the bed of the sick, refreshment prepare for the thirsty,—

When ye perform the mean rites Christian-like mercy enjoins.

Glorious Faith of the Cross! thou only in one wreath unitest

Those two flourishing palms, Meekness and Valor, at once!

ODYSSEUS.

SEEKING to find his home, Odysseus crosses each water;

Through Charybdis so dread; ay, and through Scylla’s wild yells,

Through the alarms of the raging sea, the alarms of the land too,—

E’en to the kingdom of Hell leads him his wandering course.

And at length, as he sleeps, to Ithaca’s coast Fate conducts him;

There he awakes, and, with grief, knows not his fatherland now.

CARTHAGE.

OH thou degenerate child of the great and glorious mother.

Who with the Romans’ strong might couplest the Tyrian’s deceit!

But those ever govern’d with vigor the earth they had conquer’d,—

These instructed the world that they with cunning had won.

Say! what renown does history grant thee? Thou, Roman-like, gainedst

That with the steel, which with gold, Tyrian-like, then thou didst rule!

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COLUMBUS.

ON, thou sailor undaunted! Though shallow witlings deride thee,

And though the steersman his hand carelessly drops from the helm,

On, still on, tow’rd the West! ’Tis there that the coast will first greet thee,

For to thy reason it lies clear and distinct even now.

Trust to the guiding God, and follow the world’s silent ocean!

And though as yet never seen, lo! it ascends from the flood!

With the intellect Nature standeth in union eternal:

And what is promis’d by one, that will the other fulfil.

POMPEII AND HERCULANEUM.

WHAT strange wonder is this? Our prayer to thee was for water,

Earth! What is this that thou now send’st from thy womb in reply?

In the abyss is there life? Or hidden under the lava

Dwelleth some race now unknown? Does what hath fled e’er return?

Greeks and Romans, oh come! Oh, see the ancient Pompeii

Here is discover’d again,—Hercules’ town is rebuilt!

Gable on gable arises, the roomy portico opens

Wide its halls, so make haste,—haste ye to fill it with life!

Open, too, stands the spacious theatre, let, then, the people,

Like a resistless flood, pour through its sevenfold mouths!

Mimes, where are ye? Advance! Let Atrides finish the rites now

He had begun,—let the dread chorus Orestes pursue!

Whither leads yon triumphal arch? Perceive ye the forum?

What are those figures that sit on the Curulian chair?

Lictors! precede with your fasces,—and let the Prætor in judgment

Sit,—let the witness come forth! let the accuser appear!

Cleanly streets spread around, and with a loftier pavement

Does the contracted path wind close to the houses’ long row;

While, to protect them, the roofs protrude,—and the handsome apartments

Round the now desolate court peacefully, fondly are rang’d.

Hasten to open the shops, and the gateways that long have been chok’d up,

And let the bright light of day fall on the desolate night!

See how around the edge extend the benches so graceful,

And how the floor rises up, glitt’ring with many-hued stone!

Freshly still shines the wall with colors burning and glowing!

Where is the artist? His brush he has but now laid aside.

Teeming with swelling fruits, and flowers dispos’d in fair order,

Chases the brilliant festoon ravishing images there.

Here, with a basket full-laden, a Cupid gaily is dancing,

Genie industrious there tread out the purple-dyed wine.

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High there the Bacchanal dances and here she calmly is sleeping,

While the listening Faun has not yet sated his eyes;

Here she puts to flight the swift-footed Centaur, suspended

On one knee, and, the while, goads with the Thyrsus his steps.

Boys, why tarry ye? Quick? The beauteous vessels still stand there;

Hasten, ye maidens, and pour into the Etrurian jar!

Does not the tripod stand here, on sphinxes graceful and wing’d?

Stir up the fire, ye slaves! Haste to make ready the hearth!

Go and buy; Here is money that’s coin’d by Titus the Mighty;

Still are the scales lying here; not e’en one weight has been lost.

Place the burning lights in the branches so gracefully fashion’d,

And with the bright-shining oil see that the lamp is supplied!

What does this casket contain? Oh, see what the bridegroom has sent thee!

Maiden! ’Tis buckles of gold; glittering gems for thy dress.

Lead the bride to the odorous bath,—here still are the unguents;

Paints, too, are still lying here, filling the hollow-shap’d vase.

But where tarry the men? the elders? In noble museum

Still lies a heap of strange rolls, treasures of infinite worth!

Styles, too, are here, and tablets of wax, all ready for writing;

Nothing is lost, for, with faith, earth has protected the whole.

E’en the Penates are present, and all the glorious Immortals

Meet here again, and of all, none, save the priests, are not here.

Hermes, whose feet are grac’d with wings, his Caduceus is waving,

And from the grasp of his hand victory lightly escapes.

Still are the altars standing here,—oh come, then, and kindle—

Long hath the God been away,—kindle the incense to Him!

THE ILIAD.

TEAR for ever the garland of Homer, and number the fathers

Of the immortal work, that through all time will survive!

Yet it has but one mother, and bears that mother’s own features,

’Tis thy features it bears,—Nature,—thy features eterne!

ZEUS TO HERCULES.

’TWAS not by means of my nectar, that thou hast made thee immortal;

Nought but thine own godlike strength conquer’d that nectar for thee.

THE ANTIQUE TO THE NORTHERN WANDERER.

THOU hast cross’d over torrents, and swum thro’ wide-spreading oceans,—

Over the chain of the Alps dizzily bore thee the bridge,

That thou might’st see me from near, and learn to value my beauty,

Which the voice of renown spreads thro’ the wondering world.

And now before me thou standest,—canst touch my altar so holy,—

But art thou nearer to me, or am I nearer to thee?

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artist: ferdinand keller.

POMPEII AND HERCULANEUM.

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THE BARDS OF OLDEN TIME.

SAY, where is now that glorious race, where now are the singers

Who, with the accents of life, listening nations enthral’d.

Sung down from heaven the gods, and sung mankind up to heaven,

And who the spirit bore up high on the pinions of song?

Ah! the singers still live; the actions only are wanting,

And to awake the glad harp, only a welcoming ear.

Happy bards of a happy world! Your life-teeming accents

Flew round from mouth unto mouth, gladdening every race.

With the devotion with which the Gods were receiv’d, each one welcom’d

That which the genius for him, plastic and breathing, then form’d.

With the glow of the song were inflam’d the listener’s senses,

And with the listener’s sense, nourish’d the singer the glow—

Nourish’d and cleans’d it,—fortunate one! for whom in the voices

Of the people still clear echoed the soul of the song.

And to whom from without appear’d, in life, the great Godhead,

Whom the bard of these days scarcely can feel in his breast.

THE ANTIQUES AT PARIS.

THAT which Grecian art created,

Let the Frank, with joy elated,

Bear to Seine’s triumphant strand,

And in his museums glorious

Show the trophies all-victorious

To his wond’ring fatherland.

They to him are silent ever,

Into life’s fresh circle never

From their pedestals come down.

He alone e’er holds the muses

Through whose breast their power diffuses,—

To the Vandal they’re but stone!

THEKLA. A SPIRIT-VOICE.

WHITHER was it that my spirit wended

When from thee my fleeting shadow mov’d?

Is not now each earthly conflict ended?

Say,—have I not liv’d,—have I not lov’d?

Art thou for the nightingales inquiring

Who entranc’d thee in the early year

With their melody so joy-inspiring?

Only whilst they lov’d, they linger’d here.

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Is the lost one lost to me for ever?

Trust me, with him joyfully I stray

There, where nought united souls can sever,

And where ev’ry tear is wiped away.

And thou, too, wilt find us in yon heaven,

When thy love with our love can compare;

There my father dwells, his sins forgiven,—

Murder foul can never reach him there.

And he feels that him no vision cheated

When he gaz’d upon the stars on high;

For, as each one metes, to him ’tis meted;

Who believes it, hath the Holy nigh.

Faith is kept in those blest regions yonder

With the feelings true that ne’er decay.

Venture thou to dream, then, and to wander:

Noblest thoughts oft lie in childlike play.

THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

HUMANITY’S bright image to impair,

Scorn laid thee prostrate in the deepest dust;

Wit wages ceaseless war on all that’s fair,—

In Angel and in God it puts no trust;

The bosom’s treasures it would make its prey,—

Besieges Fancy,—dims e’en Faith’s pure ray.

Yet, issuing like thyself from humble line,

Like thee a gentle shepherdess is she—

Sweet Poesy affords her rights divine,

And to the stars eternal soars with thee.

Around thy brow a glory she hath thrown;

The heart ’twas form’d thee,—ever thou’lt live on!

The world delights whate’er is bright to stain,

And in the dust to lay the glorious low;

Yet fear not! noble bosoms still remain,

That for the Lofty, for the Radiant glow.

Let Momus serve to fill the booth with mirth;

A nobler mind loves forms of nobler worth.

NÆNIA.

EVEN the Beauteous must die! This vanquishes Men and Immortals;

But of the Stygian God moves not the bosom of steel.

Once and once only could Love prevail on the Ruler of Shadows,

And on the threshold e’en then, sternly his gift he recall’d.

Venus could never heal the wounds of the beauteous stripling,

That the terrible boar made in his delicate skin;

Nor could his mother immortal preserve the hero so godlike

When at the west gate of Troy, falling, his fate he fulfill’d.

But she arose from the ocean with all the daughters of Nereus,

And o’er her glorified son rais’d the loud accents of woe.

See! where all the gods and goddesses yonder are weeping,

That the Beauteous must fade, and that the Perfect must die.

Even a woe-song to be in the mouth of the lov’d ones is glorious,

For what is vulgar descends mutely to Orcus’ dark shades.

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THE PLAYING CHILD.

PLAY, fair child, in thy mother’s lap! In that island so holy,

Withering grief cannot come, desolate care not approach.

O’er the abyss the arms of thy mother lovingly hold thee.

Into the watery grave smilest thou guilelessly down.

Play, sweet innocent, still! Arcadia yet dwells around thee,

Nature, as yet unrestrain’d, follows the impulse of joy.

Still does luxuriant vigor raise up its barriers poetic,—

Duty and object as yet guide not thy tractable soul.

Play, then! for soon will labor approach thee, haggard and solemn,

And even duty’s command, pleasure and mind disobey.

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THE SEXES.

SEE in the tender child two beauteous flow’rets united!

Maiden and youth are both now hid in the bud from the eye.

Gently loosens the band, the natures with softness are parted,

And from the modest-fac’d shame, severs the fiery might.

Suffer the boy to play, with raging passions to bluster!

Sated vigor alone turns into beauty again.

From the bud begins the twofold flow’ret to issue,—

Both are precious, but yet, neither thy yearning heart calms.

Ravishing fulness swells the blooming limbs of the maiden,

But, like her girdle, her pride watches with care o’er her charms.

Shy as the trembling roe, which the hunter pursues through the forest,

Flies she from man as a foe,—hates him, because she loves not.

Boldly and proudly looks the youth from beneath his dark eyebrow,

And, girded up for the fight, strains to the utmost his nerves.

Far, in the turmoil of spears, and on the racecourse so dusty,

Hurries him fame’s craving thirst, bears him his boisterous mind.

Now, great Nature, protect thy work! What seeks itself ever,

Flies, if thou rivet it not, ever in anger apart.

Mighty one! thou already art there; from the wildest of conflicts

Thou dost call forth into life harmony’s concord divine.

Sudden is hush’d the sound of the chase; the day’s busy echo

Dies on the ear, and the stars gently sink down to their rest.

Sighing whispers the reed,—soft-murmuring glides on the streamlet,

And her melodious song Philomel trills through the grove.

What is it forces a sigh from the heaving breast of the maiden?

Youth, what is it that bids tears to mount up to thine eye!

Ah! she seeks in vain for a something all-gently to cling to,

And the o’er-ripe fruit bends to the ground with its weight.

Restlessly-striving, the youth in his self-lighted flame is consuming;

Ah! o’er that fierce-burning glow breathes not a softening wind.

See, at length they meet,—’tis Cupid has brought them together,

And to the deity wing’d, victory wing’d soon succeeds.

Love divine, ’tis thou that joinest mortality’s flowers!

Parted forever, by thee are they forevermore link’d!

THE POWER OF WOMAN.

MIGHTY art thou, because of the peaceful charms of thy presence;

That which the silent does not, never the boastful can do.

Vigor in man I expect, the law in its honors maintaining,

But, through the graces alone, woman e’er rules or should rule.

Many, indeed, have rul’d through the might of the spirit and action,

But then, thou noblest of crowns, they were deficient in thee.

No real queen exists but the womanly beauty of woman;

Where it appears, it must rule; ruling because it appears!

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The Dance.

SEE, how like billows the couples with hovering motion are whirling!

Scarce does the swift-wingèd foot seem to alight on the earth.

See I fugitive shadows set free from the weight of the body?

Weave, in the light of the moon, elves their ethereal dance?

As when, rock’d by the zephyr, the weightless vapor flies upwards,

As on the silvery flood lightly is balanc’d the bark,

So on the tuneful billows of Time is the docile foot moving;

Murmuring tones from the chords wafting the body through air.

Now, as if seeking with might to burst through the dance’s strong fetters,

There, where the throng is most dense, boldly a couple whirl round.

Quickly before them arises a path, disappearing behind them;

As with a magical hand, opens and closes the way.

See! now they vanish from sight; in wild entanglement blended,

Falls the edifice proud, built of this movable world.

No, there it rises again exulting, the knot is unravel’d;

While the old rule is restor’d, with but a new form of charm.

Ever demolish’d, the whirling creation renews itself ever,

And, by a law that is mute, each transformation is led.

Say, how is it that, ever renew’d the figures are hov’ring,

While repose is not found, save in the changeable form?

How is each one at freedom to follow the will of his bosom,

And to find out the sole path, as he pursues his swift course?

Wouldst thou know how it is? ’Tis Harmony’s powerful godhead,

Changing the boisterous leap into the sociable dance,

That, like Nemesis, links to the golden bridle of rhythm

Every violent lust, taming each thing that was wild.

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Is’t then in vain that the universe breathes its harmonious numbers?

Does not the music divine bear thee away in its stream?

Feelest thou not the inspiriting time that all creatures are beating?

Not the swift-whirling dance that through the wide realms of space

Brandishing glittering suns, in paths intertwining with boldness!

Honoring Measure in sport, thou dost avoid it in deed.

FORTUNE.

BLEST is the man whom the merciful gods, ere he came into being,

Cherish’d, and whom, as a child, Venus then rock’d in her arms;

And whose eyes by Phœbus, whose lips by Hermes were open’d,

And on whose forehead great Zeus stamp’d the impression of might!

Truly, a glorious lot is his,—ay! e’en a divine one,

For, ere the contest begins, wreath’d with a crown is his brow;

Ere he has liv’d it, the fulness of life as his portion is meted,

Ere he has labor endur’d, he has to Charis attain’d.

Great I must call the man, who, his own creator and sculptor,

Vanquishes even the fates, by his strong virtue alone;

Fortune, alas! he ne’er can o’ercome, and what Charis refuses

Grudgingly, ne’er can he reach, strive with what courage he may.

Thou canst defend thee with resolute will from what is unworthy;

All that is noble the gods freely send down from above.

As thou art lov’d by the lov’d one, so fall the gifts granted by Heaven;

Yonder, in Jupiter’s realm, Favor is lord, as in Love’s.

Gods by affections are govern’d—the curly locks of green childhood

Love they full well, for the glad ever by rapture are led.

’Tis not they who can see that are ever made blest by their presence,—

No one save he who is blind views their bright glory reveal’d.

Gladly they choose for themselves simplicity’s innocent spirit,

And in the vessel so meek, that which is godlike enclose.

All unforeseen they come, deceiving each proud expectation,

No anathema’s might forces the free ones from high.

Down to the man whom he loves, the Father of men and immortals

Bids his eagle descend, bearing him then to the skies.

’Mongst the multitude ever pursues he his self-will’d researches,

And, when well-pleas’d with a head, round it he wreathes with kind hand

Now the laurel, and now the fillet dominion-bestowing,—

Favoring fortune alone e’er can the god himself crown.

Phœbus, the Pythian victor, precedes the happy one’s footsteps,

And the subduer of hearts, Amor, the sweet-smiling god.

Neptune makes level the ocean before him, the keel of the vessel

Glides softly on, as it bears Cæsar and Cæsar’s great fate.

Down at his feet sinks the roaring lion, the blustering dolphin

Mounts from the deep, and his back offers with meekness to Him.

Envy the happy one not, if an easy triumph the Immortals

Grant him, or if from the fight Venus her darling preserves.

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Him whom that smiling one rescues, the favor’d of Heaven, I envy,

Not the man o’er whose eyes she a dark covering throws.

Should Achilles be reckon’d less glorious, in that Hephæstus

Fashion’d his buckler himself, fashion’d his terrible sword,

In that around him when dying the whole of Olympus was gather’d?

Great was his glory, in truth, in that the gods lov’d him well;

In that they honor’d his wrath, and to give renown to their fav’rite,

Hurled the best of the Greeks down to the darkness of hell.

Envy not beauty because she shines like the lily’s sweet calyx

Owing to Venus’s gift, void of all merit herself.

Let her the happy one be; if thou seest her, thou, then, art the blest one!

As without merit she shines, so thou art joy’d by her charms.

Be thou glad that the gift of song descends from the heavens,

And that thou hear’st from the bard what thou hast learn’d from the muse!

Since by the god he’s inspir’d, a god he becomes to the hearer;

Since he the happy one is, thou canst the blissful one be.

In the busy market let Themis appear with her balance,

Let the reward mete itself, strictly proportion’d to toil;

Only a god can tinge the cheeks of a mortal with rapture,—

Where no miracle is, there can no blest one be found.

All that is human must first be born, must grow, and must ripen,

And from shape on to shape, fashioning Time leads it on;

But thou seest not the blissful, the beautiful, come into being,

Since the beginning of time, perfect they ever have been.

Every Venus of earth, like the first one of heaven, arises

Only an ill-defin’d form, out of the infinite sea;

But, like the first Minerva, proceeds, with the ægis provided,

Every lightning-like thought out of the thunderer’s brain.

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GENIUS.

“DO I believe,” sayest thou, “what the masters of wisdom would teach me,

And what their followers’ band boldly and readily swear?

Cannot I ever attain to true peace, excepting through knowledge,

Or is the system upheld only by fortune and law?

Must I distrust the gently-warning impulse, the precept

That thou, Nature, thyself hast in my bosom impress’d,

Till the schools have affix’d to the writ eternal their signet,

Till a mere formula’s chain binds down the fugitive soul?

Answer me, then! for thou hast down into these deeps e’en descended.

Out of the mouldering grave thou didst uninjur’d return.

Is’t to thee known what within the tomb of obscure works is hidden,

Whether, yon mummies amid life’s consolations can dwell?

Must I travel the darksome road? The thought makes me tremble;

Yet I will travel that road, if ’tis to truth and to right.”—

Friend, hast thou heard of the golden age? Full many a story

Poets have sung in its praise, simply and touchingly sung—

Of the time when the holy still wander’d over life’s pathways,—

When with a maidenly shame ev’ry sensation was veil’d,—

When the mighty law that governs the sun in his orbit,

And that, conceal’d in the bud, teaches the point how to move,

When necessity’s silent law, the steadfast, the changeless,

Stirr’d up billows more free, e’en in the bosom of man,—

When the sense, unerring, and true as the hand of the dial,

Pointed only to truth, only to what was eterne?—

Then no profane one was seen, then no Initiate was met with,

And what as living was felt, was not then sought ’mongst the dead;

Equally clear to every breast was the precept eternal,

Equally hidden the source whence it to gladden us sprang;

But that happy period has vanish’d! And self-will’d presumption

Nature’s godlike repose now has for ever destroy’d.

Feelings polluted the voice of the deities echo no longer,

In the dishonorèd breast now is the oracle dumb.

Save in the silenter self, the listening soul cannot find it,

There does the mystical word watch o’er the meaning divine;

There does the searcher conjure it, descending with bosom unsullied;

There does the nature long-lost give him back wisdom again.

If thou, happy one, never hast lost the angel that guards thee,

Forfeited never the kind warnings that instinct holds forth;

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If in thy modest eye the truth is still purely depicted;

If in thine innocent breast clearly still echoes its call;

If in thy tranquil mind the struggles of doubt still are silent,

If they will surely remain silent for ever, as now;

If by the conflicts of feelings a judge will ne’er be required;

If in its malice thy heart dims not the reason so clear,

Oh, then, go thy way in all thy innocence precious!

Knowledge can teach thee in nought; thou canst instruct her in much!

Yonder law, that with brazen staff is directing the struggling,

Nought is to thee. What thou dost, what thou may’st will, is thy law,

And to every race a godlike authority issues.

What thou with holy hand form’st, what thou with holy mouth speak’st,

Will with omnipotent power impel the wondering senses;

Thou but observ’st not the God ruling within thine own breast,

Not the might of the signet that bows all spirits before thee;

Simple and silent thou go’st through the wide world thou hast won.

THE PHILOSOPHICAL EGOTIST.

HAST thou e’er watch’d the infant, who, feeling not yet the affection

Wherewith he’s cradl’d and warm’d, tosses in sleep in the arm,

Till as a youth he awakes, obeying the impulse of passion,

And till his conscience’s light, dawning, first shows him the world?

Hast thou e’er watch’d the mother, procuring sweet rest for her darling

At the expense of her own,—tending the babe as it dreams,—

With her own life supporting and feeding the flame as it trembles,—

And in her own care itself, meeting that care’s own reward?

And great Nature thou slanderest, who, now child, and now mother,

Now receives and now gives, but through necessity lasts?

Self-sufficient, wilt thou from the beauteous link disenchain thee,

Which, in an intimate bond, creature to creature unites?

Frail one! wilt thou stand, then, alone, in thee only relying,

When by the forces’ exchange even the Infinite stands?

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THE WORDS OF FAITH.

THREE words of mighty moment I’ll name,

From mouth unto mouth they fly ever,

Yet the heart can alone their great value proclaim,

For their source from without rises never.

No virtue, no merit, man’s footsteps e’er guides,

When in those three words he no longer confides

For liberty, man is created,—is free,

Though fetters around him be chinking;

Let the cry of the mob never terrify thee,

Nor the scorn of the doltard unthinking!

Fear not the bold slave when he breaks from his chains,

Nor the man who in freedom enduring remains!

And virtue is more than a mere empty sound,

His practice thro’ life man may make it;

And tho’ oft, ere he yet the divine one has found,

He may stumble, he still may o’ertake it.

And that which the wise in his wisdom ne’er knew,

Can be done by the mind that is childlike and true.

And a God, too, there is, with a purpose sublime,

Tho’ frail may be reason’s dominion;

High over the regions of space and of time

The noblest of thoughts waves its pinion;

And tho’ all things in ceaseless succession may roll,

Yet constant forever remains a calm soul.

Preserve, then, the three mighty words I have nam’d,

From mouth unto mouth spread them ever,

By thy heart will their infinite worth be proclaim’d,

Tho’ their source from without rises never.

Forget not that virtue man’s footsteps still guides,

While in those three words he with firmness confides.

THE WORDS OF ERROR.

IN the mouth of the good and the noble are found

Three words of an import momentous;

Yet vain is their echo and empty their sound,

They ne’er can console or content us.

The fruit that life yields is but lost to mankind,

As long as he seeks these vain shadows to find.

As long as he trusts in the golden age,

Where the right and the good conquer ever,

The right and the good an eternal strife wage,

And the foe will succumb to them never,

Unless in the air thou canst crush him to death,

For contact with earth but restores his lost breath.

As long as he trusts that fortune’s rays

With the noble can never be blended—

She follows the bad with loving gaze;

For the good is the earth not intended.

A stranger he is, and his fate is to roam,

And seek an enduring, a ne’er changing home.

As long as he trusts that the truth will e’er stand

Reveal’d to the reason unstable—

Her veil can be rais’d by no mortal hand;

But to guess and suppose we are able.

In a word of mere sound thou enchainest the soul;

But the free one defies e’en the tempest’s control.

From that error, then, Spirit of Light, set thee free,—

In thy breast be a true faith victorious!

What no ear could e’er hear, what no eye could e’er see,

Remains still the truthful, the glorious!

It is not without, for the fool seeks it there;

Within thee it flourishes, constant and fair.

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PROVERBS OF CONFUCIUS.

I.

THREEFOLD is the march of time:

While the future slow advances,

Like a dart the present glances,

Silent stands the past sublime.

No impatience e’er can speed him

On his course, if he delay;

No alarm, no doubts impede him

If he keep his onward way;

No regrets, no magic numbers

Wake the tranc’d one from his slumbers.

Wouldst thou wisely, and with pleasure,

Pass the days of life’s short measure,

From the slow one counsel take,

But a tool of him ne’er make;

Ne’er as friend the swift one know,

Nor the constant one as foe!

II.

Threefold is the form of space:

Length, with ever restless motion,

Seeks eternity’s wide ocean;

Breadth with boundless sway extends;

Depth to unknown realms descends.

All as types to thee are given:

Thou must onward strive for heaven,

Never still or weary be

Wouldst thou perfect glory see;

Far must thy researches go

Wouldst thou learn the world to know;

Thou must tempt the dark abyss

Wouldst thou prove what Being is.

Nought but firmness gains the prize,—

Nought but fulness makes us wise,—

Buried deep, truth ever lies!

LIGHT AND WARMTH.

THE world, a man of noble mind

With glad reliance enters;

Around him spread, he hopes to find

What in his bosom centres:

And dedicates, with ardor warm,

To truth’s good cause his trusty arm.

That all is mean and small, ere long

Experience shows him ever;

Himself to guard amid the throng

Is now his sole endeavor.

His heart, in calm and proud repose,

Soon e’en to love begins to close.

Alas! truth’s clear and brilliant rays

Are not for ever glowing;

How blest is he whose heart ne’er pays

For gift from knowledge flowing!

So thou the worldling’s gaze shouldst bind

To the enthusiast’s steadfast mind!

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BREADTH AND DEPTH.

FULL many in the world we find

To whom nothing seems e’er a mystery;

And when aught pleases or charms the mind,

They’re able to give all its history.

To hear them speak, one could ne’er have denied

That they had won the long-wish’d-for bride.

In silence, however, they quit the earth,

Their life leaves behind it no traces:—

Let him who to something that’s great would give birth,—

To something that time ne’er effaces,—

With patience collect, and unweariedly,

In the smallest point, boundless energy.

The stalk the region around it fills

With branches luxuriant and slender;

The foliage glitters, and balms distils,

But fruit it can never engender.

The kernel alone, in its narrow space,

The pride of the forest, the tree, can embrace.

THE GUIDES OF LIFE.

TWO kinds of genii there are, thro’ life’s mazy pathways to guide thee:

Happy art thou if they stand, join’d into one by thy side!

One with his gladdening sport beguileth thy tedious journey;—

Duty and fate become light, when thou’rt upheld by his arm.

Laughing and talking the while, he on to the chasm conducts thee,

Where, on eternity’s sea, trembling mortality stands.

There does the Other receive thee, with solemn resolve and in silence,

And with his giant-like arm bears thee across the abyss.

Ne’er to one only devote thee! Thine honor ne’er think of confiding

Into the hands of the first, nor to the other thy bliss!

ARCHIMEDES AND THE STUDENT.

TO Archimedes once came a youth, who for knowledge was thirsting,

Saying, “Initiate me into the science divine,

Which for my country has borne forth fruit of such wonderful value,

And which the walls of the town ’gainst the Sambuca protects.”

“Call’st thou the science divine? It is so,” the wise man responded;

“But it was so, my son, ere it avail’d for the town.

Wouldst thou have fruit from her only, e’en mortals with that can provide thee;

Wouldst thou the goddess obtain, seek not the woman in Her!”

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HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.

SINCE thou readest in her what thou thyself hast there written,

And, to gladden the eye, placest her wonders in groups;—

Since o’er her boundless expanses thy cords to extend thou art able,

Thou dost think that thy mind wonderful Nature can grasp.

Thus the astronomer draws his figures over the heavens,

So that he may with more ease traverse the infinite space,

Knitting together e’en suns that by Sirius-distance are parted,

Making them join in the swan and in the horns of the bull.

But because the firmament shows him its glorious surface,

Can he the spheres’ mystic dance therefore decipher aright?

THE TWO PATHS OF VIRTUE.

TWO are the pathways by which mankind can to virtue mount upward:

If thou shouldst find the one barr’d, open the other will lie.

’Tis by exertion the Happy obtain her, the Suffering by patience.

Blest is the man whose kind fate guides him along upon both!

HONORS.

AS the column of light in the waves of the brook is reflected,

Bright as from its own glow, flameth the border with gold;

But by the stream are the waves hurried on,—thro’ the glittering pathway

Each thrusts the other along, swift as the former, to fly,—

So is a mortal that perishes lighted by splendor of honors,—

Not himself, but the place, thro’ which he wandereth, shines.

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ZENITH AND NADIR.

WHERESOEVER thou wand’rest in space, thy Zenith and Nadir

Unto the heavens knit thee, unto the axis of earth.

Howsoever thou actest, let heaven be mov’d by thy purpose,

Let the aim of thy deeds traverse the axis of earth!

DEPARTURE FROM LIFE.

Two are the roads that before thee lie open from life to conduct thee;

To the Ideal one leads thee, the other to Death.

See that while yet thou art free, on the first thou commencest thy journey,

Ere by the merciless Fates on to the other thou’rt led!

THE CHILD IN THE CRADLE.

Happy infant! to thee an infinite space is the cradle.

When to man’s age thou shalt come, narrow thou’lt think the wide world!

THE IMMUTABLE.

Time incessantly hasteneth on—he seeks for perfection.

If thou art true, thou canst cast fetters eternal on him.

THEOPHANIA.

When the happy appear, I forget the Gods in the heavens;

But before me they stand, when I the suffering see.

THE HIGHEST.

Seek’st thou the Highest, the Greatest! In that the plant can instruct thee;

What it unwittingly is, be thou of thine own free will!

IMMORTALITY.

Dread’st thou the aspect of Death! Thou wishest to live on for ever?

Live in the Whole, and when long thou shalt have gone, ’twill remaind!

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Notive Tablets

That which I learn’d from the Deity,—that which through lifetime hath help’d me, Meekly and gratefully now, here I suspend in his shrine.

DIFFERENT DESTINIES.

Millions busily toil, that the human race may continue;

But by only a few is propagated our kind.

Thousands of seeds by the autumn are scatter’d, yet fruit is engender’d

Only by few, for the most back to the element go.

But if one only can blossom, that one is able to scatter

Even a bright living world, fill’d with creations eterne.

THE ANIMATING PRINCIPLE.

Nowhere in the organic or sensitive world ever kindles

Novelty, save in the flow’r, noblest creation of life.

TWO DESCRIPTIONS OF ACTION.

Do what is good, and Humanity’s godlike plant thou wilt nourish;

Plan what is fair, and thou’lt strew seeds of the godlike around.

DIFFERENCE OF STATION.

Even the moral world its nobility boasts—vulgar natures

Reckon by that which they do; noble, by that which they are.

WORTH AND THE WORTHY.

If thou anything hast, let me have it,—I’ll pay what is proper;

If thou anything art, let us our spirits exchange.

THE MORAL FORCE.

If thou feelst not the beautiful, still thou with reason canst will it;

And as a spirit canst do, that which as man thou canst not.

PARTICIPATION.

E’en by the hand of the wicked can truth be working with vigor;

But the vessel is fill’d by what is beauteous alone.

TO *

Tell me all that thou knowest, and I will thankfully hear it!

But wouldst thou give me thyself,—let me, my friend, be excus’d!

TO * *

Wouldst thou teach me the truth? Don’t take the trouble! I wish not,

Through thee, the thing to observe,—but to see thee through the thing.

TO * * *

Thee would I choose as my teacher and friend. Thy living example

Teaches me,—thy teaching word wakens my heart unto life.

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THE PRESENT GENERATION.

Was it always as now? This race I truly can’t fathom.

Nothing is young but old age; youth, alas! only is old.

TO THE MUSE.

What I had been without thee, I know not—yet, to my sorrow,

See I what, without thee, hundreds and thousands now are.

THE LEARNED WORKMAN.

Ne’er does he taste the fruit of the tree that he rais’d with such trouble;

Nothing but taste e’er enjoys that which by learning is rear’d.

THE DUTY OF ALL.

Ever strive for the whole; and if no whole thou canst make thee,

Join, then, thyself to some whole, as a subservient limb!

A PROBLEM.

Let none resemble another; let each resemble the highest!

How can that happen? let each be all complete in itself.

THE PECULIAR IDEAL.

What thou thinkest, belongs to all; what thou feel’st, is thine only.

Wouldst thou make him thine own, feel thou the God whom thou think’st!

TO MYSTICS.

That is the only true secret, which in the presence of all men

Lies, and surrounds thee for aye, but which is witness’d by none.

THE KEY.

Wouldst thou know thyself, observe the actions of others.

Wouldst thou other men know, look thou within thine own heart.

THE OBSERVER.

Stern as my conscience, thou seest the points wherein I’m deficient;

Therefore I’ve always lov’d thee, as my own conscience I’ve lov’d.

WISDOM AND PRUDENCE.

Wouldst thou, my friend, mount up to the highest summit of wisdom,

Be not deterr’d by the fear, prudence thy course may deride:

That short-sighted one sees but the bank that from thee is flying,

Not the one which ere long thou wilt attain with bold flight.

THE AGREEMENT.

Both of us seek for truth—in the world without thou dost seek it,

I in the bosom within; both of us therefore succeed.

If the eye be healthy, it sees from without the Creator;

And if the heart, then within doubtless it mirrors the world.

POLITICAL PRECEPT.

All that thou doest is right; but, friend, don’t carry this precept

On too far,—be content, all that is right to effect.

It is enough to true zeal, if what is existing be perfect;

False zeal always would find finish’d perfection at once.

MAJESTAS POPULI.

Majesty of the nature of man! In crowds shall I seek thee?

’Tis with only a few that thou hast made thine abode.

Only a few ever count; the rest are but blanks of no value,

And the prizes are hid ’neath the vain stir that they make.

TO ASTRONOMERS.

Prate not to me so much of suns and of nebulous bodies;

Think ye nature but great, in that she gives thee to count?

Though your object may be the sublimest that space holds within it,

Yet, my good friends, the sublime dwells not in regions of space.

ASTRONOMICAL WRITINGS.

Oh, how infinite, how unspeakably great, are the heavens!

Yet by frivolity’s hand downwards the heavens are pull’d!

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TO A WORLD-REFORMER.

“I have sacrific’d all,” thou sayest, “that Man I might succor;

Vain the attempt; my reward was persecution and hate.”

Shall I tell thee, my friend, how I to humor him manage?

Trust the proverb! I ne’er have been deceiv’d by it yet.

Thou canst not sufficiently prize Humanity’s value;

Let it be coin’d in deed as it exists in thy breast.

E’en to the man whom thou chancest to meet in life’s narrow pathway,

If he should ask it of thee, hold forth a succoring hand.

But for rain and for dew, for the general welfare of mortals,

Leave thou Heaven to care, friend, as before, so e’en now.

MY ANTIPATHY.

I have a heartfelt aversion for crime,—a twofold aversion,

Since ’tis the reason why man prates about virtue so much.

“What! thou hatest, then, virtue!”—I would that by all it were practis’d,

So that, God willing, no man need speak of it more.

THE BEST STATE.

“How can I know the best state?” In the way that thou know’st the best woman;

Namely, my friend, that the world ever is silent of both.

MY FAITH.

Which religion do I acknowledge? None that thou namest.

“None that I name? And why so?”—Why, for religion’s own sake!

INSIDE AND OUTSIDE.

“God alone sees the heart”—and therefore, since he alone sees it,

Be it our care that we, too, something that’s worthy may see.

HOMER’S HEAD AS A SEAL.

Trusty old Homer! to thee I confide the secret so tender;

For the raptures of love none but the bard should e’er know.

FRIEND AND FOE.

Dearly I love a friend; yet a foe I may turn to my profit;

Friends show me that which I can: foes teach me that which I should.

LIGHT AND COLOR.

Thou that art ever the same, with the Changeless One take up thy dwelling!

Color, thou changeable one, kindly descend upon man!

BEAUTEOUS INDIVIDUALITY.

Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.

’Tis through the reason thou’rt one,—art so with it through the heart.

Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever;

If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.

VARIETY.

Many are good and wise; yet all for one only reckon,

For ’tis conception, alas, rules them, and not a fond heart.

Sad is the sway of conception,—from thousandfold varying figures,

Needy and empty but one it is e’er able to bring.

But where creative beauty is ruling, there life and enjoyment

Dwell; to the ne’er-changing One, thousands of new forms she gives.

THE THREE AGES OF NATURE.

Life she receiv’d from fable; the schools depriv’d her of being,

Life creative again she has from reason receiv’d.

GENIUS.

Understanding, indeed, can repeat what already existed,—

That which Nature has built, after her she, too, can build.

Over Nature can Reason build, but in vacancy only:

But thou, Genius, alone, Nature in Nature canst form.

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THE IMITATOR.

Good from the good,—to the reason this is not hard of conception;

But the genius has pow’r good from the bad to evoke.

’Tis the conceiv’d alone, that thou, Imitator, canst practise;

Food the conceiv’d never is, save to the mind that conceives.

GENIALITY.

How does the genius make itself known? In the way that in nature

Shows the Creator Himself,—e’en in the infinite whole.

Clear is the æther, and yet of depth that ne’er can be fathom’d;

Seen by the eye, it remains evermore clos’d to the sense.

THE INQUIRERS.

Men now seek to explore each thing from within and without too;

How canst thou make thy escape, Truth, from their eager pursuit?

That they may catch thee, with nets and poles extended they seek thee;

But with a spirit-like tread, glidest thou out of the throng.

THE DIFFICULT UNION.

Why are taste and genius so seldom met with united?

Taste of strength is afraid,—genius despises the rein.

CORRECTNESS.

Free from blemish to be, is the lowest of steps, and the highest;

Weakness and greatness alone ever arrive at this point.

THE LAW OF NATURE.

It has ever been so, my friend, and will ever remain so:

Weakness has rules for itself,—vigor is crown’d with success.

CHOICE.

If thou canst not give pleasure to all by thy deeds and thy knowledge,

Give it then, unto the few; many to please is but vain.

SCIENCE OF MUSIC.

Let the creative art breathe life, and the bard furnish spirit;

But the soul is express’d by Polyhymnia alone.

LANGUAGE.

Why can the living spirit be never seen by the spirit?

Soon as the soul ’gins to speak, then can the soul speak no more!

TO THE POET.

Let thy speech be to thee what the body is to the loving;

Beings it only can part,—beings it only can join.

THE MASTER.

Other masters one always can tell by the words which they utter;

That which he wisely omits, shows me the master of style.

THE GIRDLE.

Aphrodite preserves her beauty conceal’d by her girdle;

That which lends her her charms, is what she covers—her shame.

THE DILETTANTE.

Merely because thou hast made a good verse in a language poetic,

One which composes for thee, thou art a poet, forsooth!

THE BABBLER OF ART.

Dost thou desire the good in Art? Of the good art thou worthy,

Which by a ne’er ceasing war ’gainst thee thyself is produc’d?

THE PHILOSOPHIES.

Which among the philosophies will be enduring? I know not.

But that philosophy’s self ever may last, is my hope.

THE FAVOR OF THE MUSES.

Fame with the vulgar expires; but, Muse immortal, thou bearest

Those whom thou lov’st, who love thee, into Mnemosyne’s arms.

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THE BEST STATE-CONSTITUTION.

I can recognize only as such, the one that enables

Each to think what is right,—but that he thinks so, cares not.

TO LAWGIVERS.

Ever take it for granted, that man collectively wishes

That which is right; but take care, never to think so of one!

THE HONORABLE.

Ever honor the whole; individuals only I honor;

In individuals I always discover the whole.

FALSE IMPULSE TO STUDY.

Oh, how many new foes against truth! My very soul bleedeth

When I behold the owl-race now bursting forth to the light.

THE FOUNTAIN OF SECOND YOUTH.

Trust me, ’tis not a mere tale,—the fountain of youth really runneth,

Runneth for ever. Thou ask’st, Where? In the poet’s sweet art!

THE CIRCLE OF NATURE.

All, thou gentle one, lies embrac’d in thy kingdom; the greybeard

Back to the days of his youth, childish and childlike, returns.

THE GENIUS WITH THE INVERTED TORCH.

Lovely he looks, ’tis true, with the light of his torch now extinguish’d;

But remember that death is not æsthetic, my friends!

THE VIRTUE OF WOMAN.

Man of virtue has need;—into life with boldness he plunges,

Ent’ring with fortune more sure into the hazardous strife;

But to woman one virtue suffices; it ever is shining

Lovingly forth to the heart: so let it shine to the eye!

THE FAIREST APPARITION.

If thou never hast gaz’d upon beauty in moments of sorrow,

Thou canst with truth never boast that thou true beauty hast seen.

If thou never hast gaz’d upon gladness in beauteous features,

Thou canst with truth never boast that thou true gladness hast seen.

THE FORUM OF WOMAN.

Woman, never judge man by his individual actions;

But upon man, as a whole, pass thy decisive decree.

FEMALE JUDGMENT.

Man frames his judgment on reason; but woman on love founds her verdict;

If her judgment loves not, woman already has judg’d.

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THE IDEAL OF WOMAN.
TO AMANDA.

Woman in everything yields to man; but in that which is highest,

Even the manliest man yields to the woman most weak.

But that highest,—what is it? The gentle radiance of triumph

As in thy brow upon me, beauteous Amanda, it beams.

When o’er the bright shining disk the clouds of affliction are fleeting,

Fairer the image appears, seen through the vapor of gold.

Man may think himself free! thou art so,—for thou never knowest

What is the meaning of choice,—know’st not necessity’s name.

That which thou givest, thou always giv’st wholly; but one art thou ever,

Even thy tenderest sound is thine harmonious self.

Youth everlasting dwells here, with fulness that never is exhausted,

And with the flower at once pluck’st thou the ripe golden fruit.

EXPECTATION AND FULFILMENT.

Into life’s ocean the youth with a thousand masts daringly launches;

Mute, in a boat sav’d from wreck, enters the greybeard the port.

THE COMMON FATE.

See how we hate, how we quarrel, how thought and how feeling divide us!

But thy locks, friend, like mine, meanwhile are bleachening fast.

HUMAN ACTION.

Where the pathway begins, eternity seems to lie open,

Yet at the narrowest point even the wisest man stops.

THE FATHER.

Work as much as thou wilt, alone thou’lt be standing for ever,

Till by nature thou’rt join’d forcibly on to the Whole.

LOVE AND DESIRE.

Rightly said Schlosser! Man loves what he has; what he has not, desireth;

None but the wealthy minds love; poor minds desire alone.

GOODNESS AND GREATNESS.

Only two virtues exist. Oh, would they were ever united!

Ever the good with the great, ever the great with the good!

THE IMPULSES.

Fear with his iron staff may urge the slave onward for ever;

Rapture, do thou lead me on ever in roseate chains!

NATURALISTS AND TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHERS.

Enmity be between ye! Your union too soon is cemented;

Ye will but learn to know truth, when ye divide in the search.

GERMAN GENIUS.

Strive, O German, for Roman-like strength and for Grecian-like beauty!

Thou art successful in both; ne’er has the Gaul had success.

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TRIFLES.

THE EPIC HEXAMETER.

Giddily onward it bears thee with resistless impetuous billows;

Nought but the ocean and air seest thou before or behind.

THE DISTICH.

In the Hexameter rises the fountain’s watery column,

In the Pentameter sweet falling in melody down.

THE EIGHT-LINE STANZA.

Stanza, by love thou’rt created,—by love all-tender and yearning;

Thrice dost thou bashfully fly; thrice dost with longing return.

THE OBELISK.

On a pedestal lofty the sculptor in triumph has rais’d me.

“Stand thou,” spake he,—and I stand proudly and joyfully here.

THE TRIUMPHAL ARCH.

“Fear not,” the builder exclaim’d, “the rainbow that stands in the heavens;

“I will extend thee, like it, into infinity far!”

THE BEAUTIFUL BRIDGE.

Under me, over me, hasten the waters, the chariots; my builder

Kindly has suffer’d e’en me, over myself, too, to go!

THE GATE.

Let the gate open stand, to allure the savage to precepts;

Let it the citizen lead into free nature with joy.

ST. PETER’S.

If thou seekest to find Immensity here, thou’rt mistaken;

For my greatness is meant greater to make thee thyself!

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GERMANY AND HER PRINCES.

Thou hast produc’d mighty monarchs, of whom thou art not unworthy,

For the obedient alone make him who governs them great.

But, O Germany, try if thou for thy rulers canst make it

Harder as kings to be great,—easier, though, to be men!

TO PROSELYTISERS.

“Give me only a fragment of earth beyond the earth’s limits,”—

So the godlike man said,—“and I will move it with ease.”

Only give me permission to leave myself for one moment,

And without any delay I will engage to be yours.

THE CONNECTING MEDIUM.

How does nature proceed to unite the high and the lowly

In mankind? She commands vanity ’tween them to stand!

THE MOMENT.

Doubtless an epoch important has with the century risen;

But the moment, so great, finds but a race of small worth.

GERMAN COMEDY.

Fools we may have in plenty, and simpletons, too, by the dozen;

But for comedy these never make use of themselves.

BOOKSELLER’S ANNOUNCEMENT.

Nought is for man so important as rightly to know his own purpose;

For but twelve groschen hard cash, ’tis to be bought at my shop!

DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES.

Deeper and bolder truths be careful, my friends, of avowing;

For as soon as ye do, all the world on ye will fall.

GREEKISM.

Scarce has the fever so chilly of Gallomania departed,

When a more burning attack in Grecomania breaks out.

Greekism,—what did it mean?—’Twas harmony, reason, and clearness!

Patience, good gentlemen, pray, ere ye of Greekism speak!

’Tis for an excellent cause ye are fighting, and all that I ask for

Is that with reason it ne’er may be a laughing-stock made.

THE SUNDAY CHILDREN.

Years has the master been lab’ring, but always without satisfaction;

To an ingenious race, ’twould be in vision conferr’d.

What they yesterday learnt, to-day they fain would be teaching:

Small compassion, alas, is by those gentlemen shown!

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THE PHILOSOPHERS.

PUPIL.

I am rejoic’d, worthy sirs, to find you in pleno assembl’d;

For I have come down below, seeking the one needful thing.

ARISTOTLE.

Quick to the point, my good friend! For the Jena Gazette comes to hand here,

Even in hell,—so we know all that is passing above.

PUPIL.

So much the better! So give me (I will not depart hence without it)

Some good principle now,—one that will always avail!

FIRST PHILOSOPHER.

Cogito, ergo sum. I have thought, and therefore existence!

If the first be but true, then is the second one sure.

PUPIL.

As I think, I exist. ’Tis good! But who always is thinking?

Oft I’ve existed e’en when I have been thinking of nought.

SECOND PHILOSOPHER.

Since there are things that exist, a thing of all things there must needs be;

In the thing of all things dabble we, just as we are.

THIRD PHILOSOPHER.

Just the reverse say I. Besides myself there is nothing;

Ev’rything else that there is, is but a bubble to me.

FOURTH PHILOSOPHER.

Two kinds of things I allow to exist,—the world and the spirit;

Nought of others I know; even these signify one.

FIFTH PHILOSOPHER.

I know nought of the thing, and know still less of the spirit;

Both but appear unto me; yet no appearance they are.

SIXTH PHILOSOPHER.

I am I, and settle myself,—and if I then settle

Nothing to be, well and good—there’s a nonenity form’d.

SEVENTH PHILOSOPHER.

There is conception at least! A thing conceiv’d there is, therefore;

And a conceiver as well,—which, with conception, makes three.

PUPIL.

All this nonsense, good sirs, won’t answer my purpose a tittle;

I a real principle need,—one by which something is fix’d.

EIGHTH PHILOSOPHER.

Nothing is now to be found in the theoretical province;

Practical principles hold, such as: thou canst, for thou shouldst.

PUPIL.

If I but thought so! When people know no more sensible answer,

Into the conscience at once plunge they with desperate haste.

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DAVID HUME.

Don’t converse with those fellows! That Kant has turn’d them all crazy;

Speak to me, for in hell I am the same that I was.

LAW POINT.

I have made use of my nose for years together to smell with;

Have I a right to my nose that can be legally prov’d?

PUFFENDORF.

Truly a delicate point! Yet the first possession appeareth

In thy favor to tell; therefore make use of it still!

SCRUPLE OF CONSCIENCE.

Willingly serve I my friends; but, alas, I do it with pleasure;

Therefore I often am vex’d, that no true virtue I have.

DECISION.

As there is no other means, thou hadst better begin to despise them;

And with aversion, then, do that which thy duty commands.

G. G.

Each one, when seen by himself, is passably wise and judicious;

When they in corpore are, nought but a blockhead is seen.

THE HOMERIDES.

Who is the bard of the Iliad among you?

For since he likes puddings,

Heyne begs he’ll accept these that from Göttingen come.

“Give them to me! The king’s quarrel I sang!” “I the fight near the vessels!”—

“Hand me the puddings! I sang what upon Ida took place!”

Gently! Don’t tear me to pieces! The puddings will not be sufficient;

He by whom they are sent destin’d them only for one.

THE MORAL POET.

Man is in truth a poor creature,—I know it,—and fain would forget it;

Therefore (how sorry I am!) came I, alas, unto thee!

THE DANAIDES.

Into the sieve we’ve been pouring for years,—o’er the stone we’ve been brooding;

But the stone never warms,—nor does the sieve ever fill.

THE SUBLIME SUBJECT.

’Tis thy Muse’s delight to sing God’s pity to mortals;

But, that they pitiful are,—is it a matter for song?

THE ARTIFICE.

Wouldst thou give pleasure at once to the children of earth and the righteous?

Draw the image of lust—adding the devil as well!

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JEREMIADS.

ALL, both in prose and in verse, in Germany fast is decaying;

Far behind us, alas, lieth the golden age now!

For by philosophers spoil’d is our language—our logic by poets,

And no more common sense governs our passage through life.

From the æsthetic, to which she belongs, now virtue is driven,

And into politics forced, where she’s a troublesome guest.

Where are we hastening now? If natural, dull we are voted,

And if we put on constraint, then the world calls us absurd.

Oh, thou joyous artlessness ’mongst the poor maidens of Leipzig,

Witty simplicity come,—come, then, to glad us again!

Comedy, oh repeat thy weekly visits so precious,

Sigismund, lover so sweet,—Mascarill, valet jocose!

Tragedy, full of salt and pungency epigrammatic,—

And thou, minuet-step of our old buskin preserv’d!

Philosophic romance, thou mannikin waiting with patience,

When, ’gainst the pruner’s attack, nature defendeth herself!

Ancient prose, oh return,—so nobly and boldly expressing

All that thou think’st and hast thought,—and what the reader thinks too!

All, both in prose and in verse, in Germany fast is decaying;

Far behind us, alas, lieth the golden age now!

KNOWLEDGE.

Knowledge to one is a goddess both heav’nly and high,—to another

Only an excellent cow, yielding the butter he wants.

KANT AND HIS COMMENTATORS.

See how a single rich man gives a living to numbers of beggars!

’Tis when sovereigns build, carters are kept in employ.

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SHAKESPEAR’S GHOST.
A PARODY.

I, TOO, at length discern’d great Hercules’ energy mighty,—

Saw his shade. He himself was not, alas, to be seen.

Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians,

And, with the baying of dogs, bark’d dramaturgists around.

There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended,

And the bolt, fix’d on the string, steadily aim’d at the heart.

“What still hardier action, Unhappy One, dost thou now venture,

Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?”

“’Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet

Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanish’d, may find?”

“If they believe not in Nature, nor in the old Grecian, but vainly

Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them.”

“Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventur’d,

Ay, and stark-naked besides, so that each rib we can count.”

“What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then,

Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus’ gloom?”—

“There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely

Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness clad.”

“Doubtless ’tis well! Philosophy now has refin’d your sensations,

And from the humor so bright, fly the affections so black.”—

“Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren,

But then e’en sorrow can please, if ’tis sufficiently moist.”

“But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia,

Join’d to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?”—

“Neither! For nought we love but what is Christian and moral;

And what is popular too, homely, domestic, and plain.”

“What? Does no Cæsar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now,

Not an Andromache e’en, not an Orestes, my friend?”

“No! there is nought to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce,

Secretaries perchance, ensigns and majors of horse.”

“But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e’er meet with

That can be truly call’d great?—what that is great can they do?”—

“What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket

Silver spoons, and fear not e’en in the stocks to be plac’d.”

“Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic,

Which raises man up on high, e’en when it grinds him to dust?”—

“All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also,

And our sorrows and wants, seek we and find we, too, here.”

“But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,—

Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if ’tis yourselves that ye seek?”

“Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question;

Ever is destiny blind,—ever is righteous the bard.”

“Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature,

While ’tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?”

“There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reck’ning;

And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!”

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THE RIVERS.

RHINE.

True, as becometh a Switzer, I watch over Germany’s borders;

But the light-footed Gaul jumps o’er the suffering stream.

RHINE AND MOSELLE.

Many a year have I clasp’d in my arms the Lorrainian maiden;

But our union as yet ne’er has been blest with a son.

DANUBE IN—.

Round me are dwelling the falcon-ey’d race, the Phæacian people;

Sunday with them never ends; ceaselessly moves round the spit.

MAIN.

Ay, it is true that my castles are crumbling; yet, to my comfort,

Have I for centuries past seen my old race still endure.

SAALE.

Short is my course, during which I salute many princes and nations;

Yet the princes are good—ay! and the nations are free.

ILMO.

Poor are my banks, it is true; but yet my soft-flowing waters

Many immortal lays hear, borne by the current along.

PLEISSE.

Flat is my shore and shallow my current; alas, all my writers,

Both in prose and in verse, drink far too deep of its stream!

ELBE.

All ye others speak only a jargon; ’mongst Germany’s rivers

None speak German but me; I but in Misnia alone.

SPREE.

Ramler once gave me language,—my Cæsar a subject; and therefore

I had my mouth then stuff’d full; but I’ve been silent since that.

WESER.

Nothing, alas, can be said about me; I really can’t furnish

Matter enough to the Muse e’en for an epigram small.

MINERAL WATERS AT—.

Singular country! what excellent taste in its fountains and rivers!

In its people alone none have I ever yet found!

PEGNITZ.

I for a long time have been a hypochondriacal subject;

I but flow on because it has my habit been long.

THE—RIVERS.

We would gladly remain in the lands that own—as their masters;

Soft their yoke ever is, and all their burdens are light.

SALZACH.

I, to salt the archbishopric, come from Juvavia’s mountains;

Then to Bavaria turn, where they have great need of salt!

THE ANONYMOUS RIVER.

Lenten food for the pious bishop’s table to furnish,

By my Creator I’m pour’d over the famishing land.

LES FLEUVES INDISCRETS.

Pray be silent, ye rivers! One sees ye have no more discretion

Than, in a case we could name, Diderot’s favorites had.

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THE METAPHYSICIAN.

“HOW far beneath me seems the earthly ball!

The pigmy race below I scarce can see!

How does my art, the noblest art of all,

Bear me close up to heaven’s bright canopy!”

So cries the slater from his tower’s high top,

And so the little would-be-mighty man,

Hans Metaphysicus, from out his critic-shop.

Explain, thou little would-be-mighty man!

The tower from which thy looks the world survey,

Whereof,—whereon is it erected, pray?

How didst thou mount it? Of what use to thee

Its naked heights, save o’er the vale to see?

THE PHILOSOPHERS.

THE principle by which each thing

Tow’rd strength and shape first tended,—

The pulley whereon Zeus the ring

Of earth, that loosely us’d to swing,

With cautiousness suspended,—

He is a clever man, I vow,

Who its real name can tell me now,

Unless to help him I consent—

’Tis: ten and twelve are different!

Fire burns,—’tis chilly when it snows,

Man always is two-footed,—

The sun across the heavens goes.—

This, he who nought of logic knows

Finds to his reason suited.

Yet he who metaphysics learns,

Knows that nought freezes when it burns,—

Knows that what’s wet is never dry,—

And that what’s bright attracts the eye.

Old Homer sings his noble lays,

The hero goes through dangers;

The brave man duty’s call obeys,

And did so, even in the days

When sages yet were strangers—

But heart and genius now have taught

What Locke and what Descartes ne’er tho’t;

By them immediately is shown

That which is possible alone.

In life, avails the right of force,

The bold the timid worries;

Who rules not, is a slave of course,

Without design each thing across

Earth’s stage for ever hurries.

Yet what would happen if the plan

Which guides the world now first began,

Within the moral system lies

Disclos’d with clearness to our eyes.

“When man would seek his destiny,

Man’s help must then be given;

Save for the whole, ne’er labors he,—

Of many drops is form’d the sea,—

By water mills are driven;

Therefore the wolf’s wild species flies,—

Knit are the state’s enduring ties.”

Thus Puffendorf and Feder, each

Is ex cathedrâ wont to teach.

Yet if what such professors say,

Each brain to enter durst not,

Nature exerts her mother-sway,

Provides that ne’er the chain gives way,

And that the ripe fruits burst not.

Meanwhile, until earth’s structure vast

Philosophy can bind at last,

’Tis she that bids its pinions move,

By means of hunger and of love!

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PEGASUS IN HARNESS.

AT a horse-fair, once,—it may perhaps have been

Where other things are bought and sold,—I mean

At the Haymarket,—there the muses’ horse

A hungry poet brought—to sell, of course.

The hippogriff neigh’d shrilly, loudly,

And rear’d upon his hind-legs proudly;

In utter wonderment each stood and cried:

“The noble regal beast! But, woe betide!

Two hideous wings his slender form deface,

The finest team he else would not disgrace.”—

“The breed,” said they, “is doubtless rare,

But who would travel through the air?”—

Not one of them would risk his gold.

At length a farmer grew more bold:

“As for his wings, I of no use should find them,

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But then how easy ’tis to clip or bind them!

The horse for drawing may be useful found,—

So, friend, I don’t mind giving twenty pound!”

The other, glad to sell his merchandise,

Cried, “Done!”—And Hans rode off upon his prize.

The noble creature was, ere long, put-to,

But scarcely felt the unaccustom’d load,

Than, panting to soar upwards, off he flew,

And, fill’d with honest anger, overthrew

The cart where an abyss just met the road.

“Ho! ho!” thought Hans: “No cart to this mad beast

I’ll trust. Experience makes one wise at least.

To drive the coach to-morrow now my course is,

And he as leader in the team shall go.

The lively fellow’ll save me full two horses;

As years pass on, he’ll doubtless tamer grow.”

All went on well at first. The nimble steed

His partners rous’d,—like lightning was their speed.

What happen’d next? Tow’rd heaven was turn’d his eye,—

Unus’d across the solid ground to fly,

He quitted soon the safe and beaten course,

And true to nature’s strong resistless force,

Ran over bog and moor, o’er hedge, and pasture till’d;

An equal madness soon the other horses fill’d,—

No reins could hold them in, no help was near,

Till,—only picture the poor travelers’ fear!—

The coach, well shaken, and completely wreck’d,

Upon a hill’s steep top at length was check’d.

“If this is always sure to be the case,”

Hans cried, and cut a very sorry face,

“He’ll never do to draw a coach or wagon;

Let’s see if we can’t tame the fiery dragon

By means of heavy work and little food.”

And so the plan was tried.—But what ensu’d?

The handsome beast, before three days had past,

Wasted to nothing. “Stay! I see at last!”

Cried Hans. “Be quick, you fellows! yoke him now

With my most sturdy ox before the plough.”

No sooner said than done. In union queer

Together yok’d were soon wing’d horse and steer.

The griffin pranc’d with rage, and his remaining might

Exerted to resume his old-accustom’d flight.

’Twas all in vain—his partner stepp’d with circumspection,

And Phœbus’ haughty steed must follow his direction;

Until at last, by long resistance spent,

When strength his limbs no longer was controlling,

The noble creature, with affliction bent,

Fell to the ground, and in the dust lay rolling.

“Accursèd beast!” at length with fury mad

Hans shouted, while he soundly plied the lash,—

“Even for ploughing, then, thou art too bad!—

That fellow was a rogue to sell such trash!”

Ere yet his heavy blows had ceas’d to fly,

A brisk and merry youth by chance came by.

A lute was tinkling in his hand,

And through his light and flowing hair

Was twin’d with grace a golden band.

“Whither, my friend, with that strange pair?”

From far he to the peasant cried.

“A bird and ox to one rope tied—

Was such a team e’er heard of, pray?

Thy horse’s worth I’d fain essay;

Just for one moment lend him me,—

Observe, and thou shalt wonders see!”

The hippogriff was loosen’d from the plough,

Upon his back the smiling youth leap’d now;

No sooner did the creature understand

That he was guided by a master-hand,

Than ’gainst his bit he champ’d, and upward soar’d,

While lightning from his flaming eyes outpour’d.

No longer the same being, royally

A spirit, ay, a god, ascended he,

Spread in a moment to the stormy wind

His noble wings, and left the earth behind,

And, ere the eye could follow him,

Had vanish’d in the heavens dim.

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THE PUPPET-SHOW OF LIFE.

THOU’RT welcome in my box to peep!

Life’s puppet-show, the world in little,

Thou’lt see depicted to a tittle,—

But pray at some small distance keep!

’Tis by the torch of love alone,

By Cupid’s taper it is shown.

See, not a moment void the stage is!

The child in arms at first they bring,—

The boy then skips,—the youth now storms and rages,—

The man contends, and ventures everything!

Each one attempts success to find,

Yet narrow is the race-course ever;

The chariot rolls, the axles quiver,

The hero presses on, the coward stays behind,

The proud man falls with mirth-inspiring fall,

The wise man overtakes them all!

Thou seest fair woman at the barrier stand,

With beauteous hands, with smiling eyes,

To glad the victor with his prize.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
ON HIS DEVOTING HIMSELF TO PHILOSOPHY.

SO many arduous trials the Grecian youth had to suffer

Ere th’ Eleusinian house welcom’d him under its roof.

Art thou ripe and prepar’d, the holy temple to enter,

Where her mysterious lore Pallas Athene preserves?

Know’st thou what there ’tis awaits thee? How dear thy purchase may cost thee?

That with a gift that is sure, one that is not, thou must buy?

Feelest thou strength enough to fight that sternest of conflicts

Where the reason and heart, mind and the thought disagree?

Courage enough with doubt’s undying hydra to wrestle,

And to contend like a man ’gainst the dread foe in thyself?

With an eye that is sound, with a heart of innocence sacred,

Then to unmask the deceit veil’d in the garments of truth?

Fly, if thou canst not depend on the guide within thine own bosom,

Fly from the treacherous brink, ere thou art chok’d in the gulf!

Many have sought for light, and only plung’d into darkness;

’Tis but in twilight alone infancy wanders secure!

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THE POETRY OF LIFE.
TO * * *

“OH, who would feed on dreams for ever fleeing,

That with a borrow’d lustre clothe the being,

Deceiving hope with a possession vain?

The truth uncover’d I would see remain.

Though with my dream should vanish all my heaven,

Though the free spirit to whose wings ’twas given

To scale the Possible’s unbounded realm,

The present with strong chains should overwhelm:

’Twould teach itself then to obey;

’Twould find, then, duty’s sacred call,

And that of need, most stern of all,

The more subservient to its sway.

He who would ’scape the gentle rule of truth,

Can he endure necessity forsooth?”

My rigid friend, thus dost thou cry and see

From ’neath experience’s safe portal,

Looking with scorn on what but seems to be.

Soon flies the loving band immortal,

Stricken with terror by thy solemn word;—

The dancing hours stand still, no muse’s strains are heard,—

The sister-deities, with beauteous hair,

Take up their garlands now in mute despair,—

Apollo breaks his lyre of gold,

His wondrous staff breaks Hermes too,

While from life’s features wan and cold

Falls the dream’s veil of rosy hue.

The world a tomb is,—Venus’ son

The magic band tears from his eyes,—

His mother in the godlike one

Sees now the mortal,—trembles, flies.

Age steals on beauty’s youthful form,

Upon thy lips no more is warm

The kiss of love,—and ere thy joy has pass’d,

Into a lifeless stone thou’rt chang’d at last.

TO GOETHE.
ON HIS PRODUCING VOLTAIRE’S “MAHOMET” ON THE STAGE.

DOST thou, whom, freed from rules constrain’d and wrong,

On truth and nature once again we’re plac’d,—

Who, in the cradle e’en a hero strong,

Stiflest the serpents round our genius lac’d,—

Thou whom the godlike science has so long

With her unsullied sacred fillet grac’d,—

Dost thou on ruin’d altars sacrifice

To that false muse whom we no longer prize?

This theatre belongs to native art,

No foreign idols worshipp’d here are seen;

A laurel we can show, with joyous heart,

That on the German Pindus has grown green:

The sciences’ most holy, hidden part

The German genius dares to enter e’en,

And, following the Briton and the Greek,

A nobler glory now attempts to seek.

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For yonder, where slaves kneel, and despots hold

The reins,—where spurious greatness lifts its head,

Art has no power the noble there to mould,

’Tis by no Louis that its seed is spread;

From its own fulness it must needs unfold,

By earthly majesty ’tis never fed;

’Tis with truth only it can e’er unite,

Its glow free spirits only e’er can light.

’Tis not to bind us in a worn-out chain

Thou dost this play of olden time recall,—

’Tis not to seek to lead us back again

To days when thoughtless childhood rul’d o’er all.

It were, in truth, an idle risk and vain

Into the moving wheel of time to fall;

The winged hours for ever bear it on,

The new arrives, and, lo! the old has gone.

The narrow theatre is now more wide,

Into its space a universe now steals;

In pompous words no longer is our pride,

Nature we love when she her form reveals;

Fashion’s false rules no more are deified;

And as a man the hero acts and feels.

’Tis passion makes the notes of freedom sound,

And ’tis in truth the beautiful is found.

Weak is the frame of Thespis’ chariot fair,

Resembling much the bark of Acheron,

That carries nought but shades and forms of air;

And if rude life should venture to press on,

The fragile bark its weight no more can bear,

For fleeting spirits it can hold alone.

Appearance ne’er can reach reality,—

If nature be victorious, art must fly.

For on the stage’s boarded scaffold here

A world ideal opens to our eyes,

Nothing is true and genuine save—a tear;

Emotion on no dream of sense relies.

The real Melpomene is still sincere,

Nought as a fable merely she supplies—

By truth profound to charm us is her care;

The false one, truth pretends, but to ensnare.

Now from the scene, Art threatens to retire,

Her kingdom wild maintains still Phantasy;

The stage she like the world would set on fire,

The meanest and the noblest mingles she.

The Frank alone ’tis Art can now inspire,

And yet her archetype can his ne’er be;

In bounds unchangeable confining her,

He holds her fast, and vainly would she stir.

The stage to him is pure and undefil’d;

Chas’d from the regions that to her belong

Are Nature’s tones, so careless and so wild,

To him e’en language rises into song;

A realm harmonious ’tis, of beauty mild,

Where limb unites to limb in order strong.

The whole into a solemn temple blends,

And ’tis the dance that grace to motion lends.

And yet the Frank must not be made our guide,

For in his art no living spirit reigns;

The boasting gestures of a spurious pride

That mind which only loves the true disdains.

To nobler ends alone be it applied,

Returning, like some soul’s long-vanish’d manes,

To render the oft-sullied stage once more

A throne befitting the great muse of yore.

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NUPTIAL ODE.
ADDRESSED IN THE ORIGINAL TO MDLLE. SLEVOIGT, ON HER MARRIAGE TO DR. STURM.

FAIR bride, attended by our blessing,

Glad Hymen’s flowery path ’gin pressing!

We witness’d with enraptur’d eye

The graces of thy soul unfolding,

Thy youthful charms their beauty moulding

To blossom for love’s ecstasy.

A happy fate now hovers round thee,

And friendship yields without a smart

To that sweet god whose might hath bound thee;—

He needs must have, he hath thy heart!

To duties dear, to troubles tender,

Thy youthful breast must now surrender,

Thy garland’s summons must obey.

Each toying infantine sensation,

Each fleeting sport of youth’s creation,

For evermore hath pass’d away;

And Hymen’s sacred bond now chaineth

Where soft and flutt’ring Love was shrin’d;

Yet for a heart, where beauty reigneth,

Of flowers alone that bond is twin’d.

The secret that can keep for ever,

In verdant links, that nought can sever,

The bridal garland, wouldst thou find?

’Tis purity the heart pervading,

The blossoms of a grace unfading,

And yet with modest shame combin’d,

Which, like the sun’s reflection glowing,

Makes every heart throb blissfully;—

’Tis looks with mildness overflowing,

And self-maintaining dignity!

GRECIAN GENIUS.
TO MEYER IN ITALY.

Speechless to thousands of others, who with deaf hearts would consult him,

Talketh the spirit to thee, who art his kinsman and friend.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND.
HERR VON MECHELN OF BASLE.

Nature in charms is exhaustless, in beauty ever reviving;

And, like nature, fair art is inexhaustible too.

Hail, thou honor’d old man! for both in thy heart thou preservest

Living sensations, and thus ne’er ending youth is thy lot!

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LINES IN THE FOLIO ALBUM OF A LEARNED FRIEND.

Once wisdom dwelt in tomes of ponderous size,

While friendship from a pocket-book would talk;

But now that knowledge in small compass lies,

And floats in almanacs, as light as cork,

Courageous man thou dost not hesitate

To open for thy friends this house so great!

Hast thou no fear, I seriously would ask,

That thou may’st thus their patience overtask?

THE PRESENT.

Ring and staff, oh to me on a Rhenish flask ye are welcome!

Him a true shepherd I call, who thus gives drink to his sheep.

Draught thrice blest! It is by the Muse I have won thee,—the Muse, too,

Sends thee,—and even the Church places upon thee her seal.

WILLIAM TELL.

When hostile elements with rage resound,

And fury blindly fans war’s lurid flame,—

When in the strife of party quarrel drown’d,

The voice of justice no regard can claim,—

When crime is free, and impious hands are found

The sacred to pollute, devoid of shame,

And loose the anchor which the State maintains,—

No subject there we find for joyous strains.

But when a nation, that its flocks still feeds

With calm content, nor other’s wealth desires,

Throws off the cruel yoke ’neath which it bleeds,

Yet, e’en in wrath, humanity admires,—

And, e’en in triumph, moderation heeds,—

That is immortal, and our song requires.

To show thee such an image now is mine;

Thou know’st it well, for all that’s great is thine!

TO THE HEREDITARY PRINCE OF WEIMAR,
ON HIS PROCEEDING TO PARIS. SUNG IN A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.

With one last bumper let us hail

The wanderer belov’d,

Who takes his leave of this still vale

Wherein in youth he rov’d.

From loving arms, from native home,

He tears himself away,

To yonder city proud to roam,

That makes whole lands its prey.

Dissension flies, all tempests end,

And chain’d is strife abhorr’d;

We in the crater may descend

From whence the lava pour’d.

A gracious fate conduct thee through

Life’s wild and mazy track!

A bosom nature gave thee true,—

A bosom true bring back!

Thou’lt visit lands that war’s wild train

Had crush’d with careless heed;

Now smiling Peace salutes the plain,

And strews the golden seed.

The hoary Father Rhine thou’lt greet,

Who thy forefather blest

Will think of, whilst his waters fleet

In ocean’s bed to rest.

Do homage to the hero’s manes,

And offer to the Rhine,

The German frontier who maintains,

His own-created wine,—

So that thy country’s soul thy guide

May be, when thou hast cross’d

On the frail bark to yonder side,

Where German faith is lost!

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THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE New Century
— TO —

EVER will place of refuge, noble friend,

For peace and glorious freedom open lie?

The century in tempests had its end,

The new one now begins with murder’s cry.

Each land-connecting bond is torn away,

Each ancient custom hastens to decline;

Not e’en the ocean can war’s tumult stay.

Not e’en the Nile-god, not the hoary Rhine.

Two mighty nations strive, with hostile power,

For undivided mastery of the world;

And, by them, each land’s freedom to devour,

The trident brandish’d is—the lightning hurl’d.

Each country must to them its gold afford,

And, Brennus-like, upon the fatal day,

The Frank now throws his heavy iron sword,

The even scales of justice to o’erweigh.

His merchant-fleets the Briton greedily

Extends, like Polyp-limbs, on ev’ry side;

And the domain of Amphitrité free

As if his home it were, would fain bestride.

E’en to the south pole’s dim, remotest star,

His restless course moves onward, unrestrain’d;

Each isle he tracks,—each coast, however far,

But Paradise alone he ne’er has gain’d!

Although thine eye may ev’ry map explore,

Vainly thou’lt seek to find that blissful place,

Where freedom’s garden smiles for evermore,

And where in youth still blooms the human race.

Before thy gaze the world extended lies,

The very shipping it can scarce embrace;

And yet upon her back, of boundless size,

E’en for ten happy men there is not space!

Into thy bosom’s holy, silent cells,

Thou needs must fly from life’s tumultuous throng!

Freedom but in the realm of vision dwells,

And beauty bears no blossoms but in song.

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FAREWELL TO THE READER.

A MAIDEN blush o’er every feature straying,

The Muse her gentle harp now lays down here,

And stands before thee, for thy judgment praying,—

She waits with reverence, but not with fear;

Her last farewell for his kind smile delaying,

Whom splendor dazzles not, who holds truth dear.

The hand of him alone whose soaring spirit

Worships the Beautiful, can crown her merit.

These simple lays are only heard resounding,

While feeling hearts are gladden’d by their tone,

With brighter phantasies their path surrounding,

To nobler aims their footsteps guiding on.

Yet coming ages ne’er will hear them sounding,

They live but for the present hour alone;

The passing moment call’d them into being,

And, as the hours dance on, they, too, are fleeing.

The spring returns, and nature then awaking,

Bursts into life across the smiling plain;

Each shrub its perfume through the air is shaking,

And heaven is fill’d with one sweet choral strain;

While young and old, their secret haunts forsaking,

With raptur’d eye and ear rejoice again.

The spring then flies,—to seed return the flowers,

And nought remains to mark the vanish’d hours.

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Semele.

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SEMELE: IN TWO SCENES.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Juno.

Semele, Princess of Thebes.

Jupiter.

Mercury.

Scene—The Palace of Cadmus at Thebes.

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SCENE I.

Juno.

(Descending from her chariot, enveloped in a cloud.) Away, ye Peacocks, with my winged car

Upon Cithæron’s cloud-capp’d summit wait!

[The chariot and cloud vanish.

Hail, hail, thou House of my undying anger!

A fearful hail to thee, thou hostile roof,

Ye hated walls!—This, this then, is the place

Where Jupiter pollutes his marriage bed

Even before the face of modest day!

’Tis here, then, that a woman, a frail mortal,

A dust-created being, dares to lure

The mighty Thunderer from out mine arms,

And hold him prisoner against her lips!

Juno! Juno! thought of madness!

Thou all lonely and in sadness,

Standest now on Heaven’s bright throne!

Though the votive smoke ascendeth,

Though each knee in homage bendeth,

What are they when Love has flown?

To humble, alas, each too-haughty emotion

That swell’d my proud breast, from the foam of the ocean

Fair Venus arose, to enchant Gods and men!

And the Fates my still-deeper abasement decreeing,

Her offspring Hermione brought into being,

And the bliss once mine own can ne’er glad me again!

Amongst the Gods do I not reign the Queen?

Am I not Sister of the Thunderer?

Am I not wife of Zeus the Lord of All?

Groans not the mighty axis of the Heav’ns

At my command? Gleams not Olympus’ crown

Upon my head? Ha! now I feel myself!

In my immortal veins is Kronos’ blood,

Right royally now swells my godlike heart.

Revenge! revenge!

Shall she unpunish’d ridicule my might?

Unpunish’d, discord roll amongst the Gods,

Inviting Eris to invade the courts,

The joyous courts of Heav’n? Vain, thoughtless one!

Perish, and learn upon the Stygian stream

The difference ’twixt divine and earthly dust!

Thy giant-armour, may it weigh thee down—

Thy passion for a God to atoms crush thee!

Armed with revenge, as with a coat of mail,

I have descended from Olympus’ heights,

Devising sweet, ensnaring, flatt’ring words;

But in those words, death and destruction lurk.

Hark! ’tis her footstep! she approaches now—

Approaches ruin and a certain death!

Veil thyself, Goddess, in a mortal form! [Exit.

Semele.

(Calling behind the scenes.)

The sun is fast declining! Maidens, haste,

Scatter ambrosial fragrance through the hall,

Strew roses and narcissus-flowers around,

Forgetting not the gold-embroider’d pillow.

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He comes not yet—the sun is fast declining—

Juno.

(Hastily entering in the form of an old woman.) Prais’d be the Deities, my dearest daughter!

Semele.

Ha! Do I dream? Am I awake? Gods! Beroë!

Juno.

Is’t possible that Semele can e’er

Forget her nurse?

Semele.

’Tis Beroë! By Zeus!

Oh, let thy daughter clasp thee to her heart!

Thou livest still? What can have brought thee here

From Epidaurus? Tell me all thy tale!

Thou’rt still my mother as of old?

Juno.

Thy mother!

Time was, thou call’dst me so.

Semele.

Thou art so still,

And wilt remain so, till I drink full deep

Of Lethe’s madd’ning draught.

Juno.

Soon Beroë

Will drink oblivion from the waves of Lethe;

But Cadmus’ daughter ne’er will taste that draught.

Semele.

How, my good nurse? Thy language ne’er was wont

To be mysterious or of hidden meaning;

The spirit of grey hairs ’tis speaks in thee;

Thou say’st I ne’er shall taste of Lethe’s draught?

Juno.

I said so, Yes! But wherefore ridicule

Grey hairs? ’Tis true that they, unlike fair tresses,

Have ne’er been able to ensnare a God!

Semele.

Pardon poor thoughtless me! What cause have I

To ridicule grey hairs? Can I suppose

That mine for ever fair will grace my neck?

But what was that I heard thee muttering

Between thy teeth?—A God?

Juno.

Said I, a God?

The Deities in truth dwell ev’rywhere!

’Tis good for Earth’s frail children to implore them.

The Gods are found where thou art—Semele!

What wouldst thou ask?

Semele.

Malicious heart! But say:

What brings thee to this spot from Epidaurus?

’Tis not because the Gods delight to dwell

Near Semele!

Juno.

By Jupiter, nought else!—

What fire was that which mounted to thy cheeks

When I pronounced the name of Jupiter!

Nought else, my daughter! Fearfully the plague

At Epidaurus rages; ev’ry blast

Is deadly poison, ev’ry breath destroys;

The son his mother burns, his bride the bridegroom;

The funeral piles rear up their flaming heads,

Converting even midnight to bright day,

While howls of anguish ceaseless rend the air;

Full to o’erflowing is the cup of woe!—

In anger, Zeus looks down on our poor nation;

In vain the victim’s blood is shed, in vain

Before the altar bows the priest his knee;

Deaf is his ear to all our supplications—

Therefore, my sorrow-stricken country now

Has sent me here to Cadmus’ regal daughter,

In hopes that I may move her to avert

His anger from us—“Beroë, the nurse,

“Has influence,” thus they said, “with Semele,

“And Semele with Zeus”—I know no more,

And understand still less what means the saying,

That Semele such influence has with Zeus.

Semele.

(Eagerly and thoughtlessly.)

The plague shall cease to-morrow! Tell them so!

Zeus loves me! Say so! It shall cease to-day!

Juno.

(Starting up in astonishment.)

Ha! Is it true what Fame with thousand tongues

Has spread abroad from Ida to Mount Hæmus?

Zeus loves thee? Zeus salutes thee in the glory

Wherein the denizens of Heav’n regard him,

When in Saturnia’s arms he sinks to rest?—

Let, O ye Gods, my grey hairs now descend

To Orcus’ shades, for I have liv’d enough!

In god-like splendor Kronos’ mighty Son

Comes down to her,—to her, who on this breast

Once suckled—yes! to her—

Semele.

Oh, Beroë!

In youthful form he came, in lovelier guise

Than they who from Aurora’s lap arise;

Fairer than Hesper, breathing incense dim,—

In floods of æther steep’d appear’d each limb;

He mov’d with graceful and majestic motion,

Like silv’ry billows heaving o’er the ocean,

Or as Hyperion, whose bright shoulders ever

His bow and arrows bear, and clanging quiver;

His robe of light behind him gracefully

Danc’d in the breeze, his voice breath’d melody,

Like crystal streams with silv’ry murmur falling,

More ravishing than Orpheus’ strains enthralling.

Juno.

My daughter!—Inspiration spurs thee on,

Raising thy heart to flights of Helicon!

If thus in strains of Delphic ecstasy

Ascends the short-liv’d blissful memory

Of his bright charms,—Oh, how divine must be

His own sweet voice,—his look how heavenly!

But why of that great attribute

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Kronîon joys in most, be mute,—

The majesty that hurls the thunder,

And tears the fleeting clouds asunder?

Wilt thou say nought of that alone!

Prometheus and Deucalion

May lend the fairest charms of love,

But none can wield the bolt save Jove!

The thunderbolt it is alone

Which he before thy feet laid down

That proves thy right to Beauty’s crown.

Semele.

What say’st thou? What are thunderbolts to me!

Juno.

(Smiling.) Ah, Semele! A jest becomes thee well!

Semele.

Deucalion has no offspring so divine

As is my Zeus—of thunder nought I know.

Juno.

Mere envy! Fie!

Semele.

No, Beroë! By Zeus!

Juno.

Thou swear’st?

Semele.

By Zeus! By mine own Zeus!

Juno.

(Shrieking.) Thou swear’st?

Unhappy one!

Semele.

(In alarm.) What mean’st thou? Beroë!

Juno.

Repeat the word that dooms thee to become

The wretchedest of all on Earth’s wide face!—

Alas, lost creature! ’Twas not Zeus!

Semele.

Not Zeus?

Oh, fearful thought!

Juno.

A cunning traitor ’twas

From Attica, who, ’neath a god-like form,

Robb’d thee of honor, shame, and innocence!—[Semele sinks to the ground.

Well may’st thou fall! Ne’er may’st thou rise again!

May endless night enshroud thine eyes in darkness,

May endless silence round thine ears encamp!

Remain for ever here a lifeless mass!

Oh, infamy! Enough to hurl chaste day

Back into Hecate’s gloomy arms once more!

Ye Gods! And is it thus that Beroë

Finds Cadmus’ daughter, after sixteen years

Of bitter separation! Full of joy

I came from Epidaurus; but with shame

To Epidaurus must retrace my steps.—

Despair I take with me. Alas, my people!

E’en to the second Deluge now the plague

May rage at will, may pile Mount Oeta high

With corpses upon corpses, and may turn

All Greece into one mighty charnel-house,

Ere Semele can bend the angry Gods.

I, thou, and Greece, and all, have been betray’d!

Semele.

(Trembling as she rises, and extending an arm towards her.) Oh! Beroë.

Edition: current; Page: [164]

Juno.

Take courage, my dear heart!

Perchance ’tis Zeus! altho’ it scarce can be!

Perchance ’tis really Zeus! This we must learn!

He must disclose himself to thee, or thou

Must fly his sight for ever, and devote

The monster to the death-revenge of Thebes.

Look up, dear daughter—look upon the face

Of thine own Beroë, who looks on thee

With sympathizing eyes—my Semele,

Were it not well to try him?

Semele.

No, by Heaven!

I should not find him then—

Juno.

What! Wilt thou be

Perchance less wretched, if thou pinest on

In mournful doubt?—and if ’tis really he,—

Semele.

(Hiding her face in Juno’s lap.) Ah! ’tis not he!

Juno.

And if he came to thee

Array’d in all the majesty wherein

Olympus sees him? Semele! What then?

Wouldst thou repent thee then of having tried him?

Semele.

(Springing up.) Ha! be it so! He must unveil himself!

Juno.

(Hastily.) Thou must not let him sink into thine arms

Till he unveils himself—so hearken, child,

To what thy faithful nurse now counsels thee,—

To what affection whispers in mine ear,

And will accomplish’—Say! will he soon come?

Semele.

Before Hyperion sinks in Thetis’ bed,

He promis’d to appear.

Juno.

(Forgetting herself, hastily.) Is’t so, indeed?

He promis’d? Ha! To-day? (Recovering herself.) Let him approach,

And when he would attempt, inflam’d with love,

To clasp his arms around thee, then do thou,—

Observe me well,—as if by lightning struck,

Start back in haste. Ha! picture his surprise!

Leave him not long in wonderment, my child;

Continue to repulse him with a look

As cold as ice—more wildly, with more ardor,

He’ll press thee then—the coyness of the fair

Is but a dam, that for awhile keeps back

The torrent, only to increase the flood

With greater fury. Then begin to weep:

’Gainst giants he might stand,—look calmly on

When Typheus, hundred-arm’d, in fury hurl’d

Mount Ossa and Olympus ’gainst his throne:

But Zeus is soon subdu’d by beauty’s tears.

Thou smilest?—Be it so! Is, then, the scholar

Wiser, perchance, than she who teaches her?—

Then thou must pray the God one little, little,

Most innocent request to grant to thee—

One that may seal his love and Godhead too.

He’ll swear by Styx. The Styx he must obey!

That oath he dares not break! Then speak these words:

“Thou shalt not touch this body, till thou com’st

“To Cadmus’ daughter cloth’d in all the might

“Wherein thou art embrac’d by Kronos’ daughter!”

Be not thou terrified, my Semele,

If he, in order to escape thy wish,

As bugbears paints the horrors of his presence,

Describes the flames that round about him roar,

The thunder round him rolling when he comes:

These, Semele, are nought but empty fears—

The Gods dislike to show to us frail mortals

These the most glorious of their attributes;

Be thou but obstinate in thy request,

And Juno’s self will gaze on thee with envy.

Semele.

The frightful ox-eyed one! How often he

Complains, in the blest moments of our love,

Of her tormenting him with her black gall—

Juno.

(Aside, furiously, but with embarrassment.)

Ha! creature! Thou shalt die for this contempt!

Semele.

My Beroë! What art thou murmuring there?

Juno.

(In confusion.)

Nothing, my Semele! Black gall torments

Me also—Yes! a sharp, reproachful look

With lovers often passes as black gall—

Yet ox-eyes, after all, are not so ugly.

Semele.

Oh, Beroë, for shame! they’re quite the worst

That any head can possibly contain!

And then her cheeks of green and yellow hues,

The obvious penalty of poisonous envy—

Zeus oft complains to me that that same shrew

Each night torments him with her nauseous love,

And with her jealous whims,—enough, I’m sure,

Into Ixion’s wheel to turn all Heaven.

Juno.

(Raving up and down in extreme confusion.)

No more of this!

Semele.

What, Beroë! So angry?

Have I said more than what is true? Said more

Than what is wise?

Juno.

Thou hast said more, young woman,

Edition: current; Page: [165]

Than what is true—said more than what is wise!

Deem thyself truly blest, if thy blue eyes

Smile thee not into Charon’s bark too soon!

Saturnia has her altars and her temples,

And wanders amongst mortals—that great Goddess

Avenges nought so bitterly as scorn.

Semele.

Here let her wander, and give birth to scorn!

What is’t to me—My Jupiter protects

My ev’ry hair,—what harm can Juno do?

But now enough of this, my Beroë!

Zeus must appear to-day in all his glory;

And if Saturnia should on that account

Find out the path to Orcus—

Juno.

(Aside.) That same path

Another probably will find before her,

If but Kronīon’s lightning hits the mark!—

(To Semele.)

Yes, Semele, she well may burst with envy

When Cadmus’ daughter, in the sight of Greece,

Ascends in triumph to Olympus’ heights—

Semele.

(Smiling gently.)

Think’st thou they’ll hear in Greece of Cadmus’ daughter?

Juno.

From Sidon to Athens the trumpet of Fame

Shall ring with no other but Semele’s name!

The Gods from the Heavens shall even descend,

And before thee their knees in deep homage shall bend,

While mortals in silent submission abide

The will of the Giant-Destroyer’s lov’d bride;

And when distant years shall see

Thy last hour—

Semele.

(Springing up, and falling on her neck.) Oh Beroë!

Juno.

Then a tablet white shall bear

This inscription graven there:

Here is worshipp’d Semele!

Who on earth so fair as she?

She who from Olympus’ throne

Lur’d the Thunder-hurler down!

She who, with her kisses sweet,

Laid him prostrate at her feet!

And when Fame on her thousand wings bears it around,

The echo from valley and hill shall resound.

Semele.

(Beside herself.)

Pythia! Apollo! Hear!

When, oh when will he appear?

Juno.

And on smoking altars they

Rites divine to thee shall pay—

Semele.

(Inspired.)

I will hearken to their prayer,

And will drive away their care,—

Quench with my tears the lightning of great Jove,

His breast to pity with entreaty move!

Juno.

(Aside.) Poor thing! that wilt thou ne’er have power to do. (Meditating.)

Ere long will melt . . . . yet—yet—she call’d me ugly!—

No! Pity only when in Tartarus! (To Semele.)

Fly now, my love! Make haste to leave this spot,

That Zeus may not observe thee—let him wait

Long for thy coming, that he with more fire

May languish for thee—

Semele.

Beroë! The Heavens

Have chosen thee their mouthpiece! Happy I!

The Gods from Olympus shall even descend,

And before me their knees in deep homage shall bend,

While mortals in silent submission abide—

But hold!—’tis time for me to haste away!

[Exit hurriedly.

Juno.

(Looking after her with exultation.)

Weak, proud, and easily-deluded woman!

His tender looks shall be consuming fire—

His kiss, annihilation—his embrace,

A raging tempest to thee! Human frames

Are powerless to endure the dreaded presence

Of him who wields the thunderbolt on high!

(With raving ecstasy.)

Ha! when her waxen mortal body melts

Within the arms of Him, the Fire-distilling,

As melts the fleecy snow before the heat

Of the bright sun—and when the perjur’d one,

In place of his soft tender bride, embraces

A form of terror—with what ecstasy

Shall I gaze downwards from Cithæron’s height,

Exclaiming, so that in his hand the bolt

Shall quake, “For shame, Saturnius! Fie, for shame!

“What need is there for thee to clasp so roughly?”

[Exit hastily.

(A Symphony.)

Edition: current; Page: [166]

SCENE II.
The Hall as before.—Sudden brightness.

Zeus in the shape of a youth.—Mercury in the distance.

Zeus.

Thou son of Maia!

Mercury.

(Kneeling, with his head bowed reverentially.) Zeus!

Zeus.

Up! Hasten! Turn

Thy pinions’ flight tow’rd far Scamander’s bank!

A shepherd there is weeping o’er the grave

Of his lov’d shepherdess. No one shall weep

When Zeus is loving: Call the dead to life!

Mercury.

(Rising.) Let but thy head a nod almighty give,

And in an instant I am there,—am back

In the same instant—

Zeus.

Stay! As I o’er Argos

Was flying, from my temples curling rose

The sacrificial smoke: it gave me joy

That thus the people worship me—so fly

To Ceres, to my sister,—thus speaks Zeus:

“Ten-thousandfold for fifty years to come

“Let her reward the Argive husbandmen!”—

Mercury.

With trembling haste I execute thy wrath,—

With joyous speed thy messages of grace,

Father of All! For to the Deities

’Tis bliss to make man happy; to destroy him

Is anguish to the Gods. Thy will be done!

Where shall I pour into Thine ears their thanks,—

Below in dust, or at Thy throne on high?

Zeus.

Here at my throne on earth—within the palace

Of Semele! Away!

[Exit Mercury.

Does she not come,

As is her wont, Olympus’ mighty king

To clasp against her rapture-swelling breast?

Why hastens not my Semele to meet me?

A vacant, death-like, fearful silence reigns

On ev’ry side around the lonely palace,

So wont to ring with wild Bacchantic shouts—

No breath is stirring—on Cithæron’s height

Exulting Juno stands. Will Semele

Never again make haste to meet her Zeus?

(A pause, after which he continues.)

Ha! Can you impious one perchance have dar’d

To set her foot in my love’s sanctuary?—

Saturnia—Mount Cithæron—her rejoicings!

Fearful foreboding!—Semele—yet peace!—

Take courage!—I’m thy Zeus! the scatter’d Heav’ns

Shall learn, my Semele, that I’m thy Zeus!

Where is the breath of air that dares presume

Roughly to blow on her whom Zeus calls His?

I scoff at all her malice.—Where art thou,

Oh Semele? I long have pin’d to rest

My world-tormented head upon thy breast,—

To lull my wearied senses to repose

From the wild storm of earthly joys and woes,—

To dream away the emblems of my might,

My reins, my tiller, and my chariot bright,

And live for nought beyond the joys of love!

Oh heav’nly inspiration, that can move

Even the Gods divine! What is the blood

Of mighty Uranus—what all the flood

Of nectar and ambrosia—what the throne

Of high Olympus—what the pow’r I own,

The golden sceptre of the starry skies—

What the Omnipotence that never dies,

What Might eternal, Immortality—

What e’en a God, oh love, if reft of thee?

The shepherd who, beside the murmuring brook,

Leans on his true love’s breast, nor cares to look

After his straying lambs, in that sweet hour

Envies me not my thunderbolt of power!

She comes—she hastens nigh! Pearl of my works,

Woman!—the Artist who created thee

Should be ador’d. ’Twas I—myself I worship:

Zeus worships Zeus, for Zeus created thee.

Ha! Who will now, in all the Being-realm,

Condemn me? How unseen, yes, how despis’d

Dwindle away my worlds, my constellations,

Edition: current; Page: [167]

So ray-diffusing, all my dancing systems,

What wise men call the music of my spheres!—

How dead are all when weigh’d against a soul!

(Semele approaches, without looking up.)

My pride! my throne on earth! Oh Semele!

(He rushes towards her; she seeks to fly.)

Thou fly’st?—Art mute?—Ha! Semele! thou fly’st?

Semele.

(Repulsing him.) Away!

Zeus.

(After a pause of astonishment.)

Is Jupiter asleep? Will Nature

Rush to her fall?—Can Semele speak thus?—

What, not an answer? Eagerly mine arms

Tow’rd thee are stretch’d—my bosom never throbb’d

Responsive to Agenor’s daughter,—never

Throbb’d against Leda’s breast,—my lips ne’er burn’d

For the sweet kiss of prison’d Danaë,

As now—

Semele.

Peace, Traitor! Peace!

Zeus.

(With displeasure, but tenderly.)

My Semele!

Semele.

Out of my sight!

Zeus.

(Looking at her with majesty,)

Know, I am Zeus!

Semele.

Thou Zeus?

Tremble, Salmoneus, for he fearfully

Will soon demand again the stolen charms

That thou hast robb’d him of—thou art not Zeus!

Zeus.

(With dignity.)

The mighty universe around me whirls,

And calls me so—

Semele.

Ha! Fearful blasphemy!

Zeus.

(More gently.) How, my divine one?

Wherefore such a tone?

What reptile dares to steal thine heart from me?

Semele.

My heart was vow’d to Him whose ape thou art!

Men ofttimes come beneath a godlike form

To snare a woman. Hence! thou art not Zeus!

Zeus.

Thou doubtest? What! Can Semele still doubt

My Godhead?

Edition: current; Page: [168]

Semele.

(Mournfully.) Would that thou wert Zeus!

No son of morrow-nothingness shall touch this mouth;

This heart is vow ’d to Zeus! Would thou wert He!

Zeus.

Thou weepest? Zeus is here,—weeps Semele?

[Falling down before her.

Speak! But command! and then shall slavish Nature

Lie trembling at the feet of Cadmus’ daughter!

Command! and streams shall instantly make halt—

And Helicon, and Caucasus, and Cynthus,

And Athos, Mycale, and Rhodope, and Pindus,

Shall burst their bonds when I order it so,

And kiss the valleys and plains below,

And dance in the breeze like flakes of snow.

Command! and the Winds from the East and the North,

And the fierce Tornado shall sally forth,

While Poseidon’s trident their power shall own,

When they shake to its base his watery throne;

The billows in angry fury shall rise,

And every sea-mark and dam despise;

The lightning shall gleam thro’ the firmament black,

While the poles of Earth and of Heaven shall crack,

The Ocean the heights of Olympus explore,

From thousandfold jaws with wild deafening roar

The thunder shall howl, while with mad jubilee

The hurricane fierce sings in triumph to thee;

Command—

Semele.

I’m but a woman, a frail woman!

How can the Potter bend before his pot?

How can the Artist kneel before his statue?

Zeus.

Pygmalion bow’d before his masterpiece—

And Zeus now worships his own Semele!

Semele.

(Weeping bitterly.)

Arise—arise! Alas, for us poor maidens!

Zeus has my heart, Gods only can I love.

The Gods deride me, Zeus despises me!

Zeus.

Zeus who is now before thy feet—

Semele.

Arise!

Zeus reigns on high, above the thunderbolts,

And, clasp’d in Juno’s arms, a reptile scorns.

Zeus.

(Hastily.)

Ha! Semele and Juno!—which the reptile?

Semele.

How blest beyond all utterance would be

Cadmus’ daughter—wert thou Zeus! Alas!

Thou art not Zeus!

Zeus.

(Arises.) I am!

(He extends his hand, and a rainbow fills the hall; music accompanies its appearance.)

Know’st thou me now?

Semele.

Strong is that mortal’s arm, whom Gods protect,—

Saturnius loves thee—none can I e’er love

But Deities—

Zeus.

What! art thou doubting still

Whether my might is lent me by the Gods,

And not God-born? The Gods, my Semele,

In charity oft lend their strength to man;

Ne’er do the Deities their terrors lend—

Death and destruction is the Godhead’s seal—

Bearer of death to thee were Zeus unveil’d!

(He extends his hand. Thunder, fire, smoke, and earthquake. Music accompanies the spell here and subsequently.)

Semele.

Withdraw, withdraw thy hand!—Oh, mercy, mercy

For the poor nation! Yes! thou art the Child

Of great Saturnius—

Zeus.

Ha! thou thoughtless one!

Shall Zeus, to please a woman’s stubbornness,

Bid planets whirl, and bid the suns stand still?

Zeus will do so!—Oft has a God’s descendant

Ripp’d up the fire-impregnate womb of rocks,

And yet his might’s confined to Tellus’ bounds;

Zeus only can do this!

(He extends his hand—the sun vanishes, and it becomes suddenly night.)

Semele.

(Falling down before him.) Almighty one!

Couldst thou but love!

[Day reappears.

Zeus.

Ha! Cadmus’ daughter asks

Kronīon if Kronīon e’er can love!

One word, and he throws off Divinity—

Is flesh and blood, and dies, and is belov’d!

Semele.

Would Zeus do that?

Zeus.

Speak, Semele!

What more?

Apollo’s self confesses that ’tis bliss

To be a man ’mongst men—a sign from thee,

And I’m a man!

Semele.

(Falling on his neck.)

Oh, Jupiter, the Epidaurus women

Thy Semele a foolish maiden call,

Because, though by the Thunderer belov’d,

She can obtain nought from him—

Zeus.

(Eagerly.) They shall blush,

Those Epidaurus women! Ask!—but ask!

And by the dreaded Styx—whose boundless might

Binds e’en the Gods like slaves—if Zeus deny thee,

Edition: current; Page: [none] Edition: current; Page: [none] Edition: current; Page: [none]

artist: n. gysis.

SEMELE.

scene ii.

Edition: current; Page: [none] Edition: current; Page: [169]

Then shall the Gods, e’en in that self-same moment,

Hurl me despairing to annihilation!

Semele.

(Springing up joyfully.)

By this I know that thou’rt my Jupiter!

Thou swearest—and the Styx has heard thine oath!

Let me embrace thee, then, in the same guise

In which—

Zeus.

(Shrieking with alarm.)

Unhappy one! Oh stay! oh stay!

Semele.

Saturnia—

Zeus.

(Attempting to stop her mouth.)

Be thou dumb!

Semele.

Embraces thee.

Zeus.

(Pale, and turning away.)

Too late! The sound escap’d!—The Styx!—’Tis death

Thou, Semele, hast gain’d!

Semele.

Ha! Loves Zeus thus?

Zeus.

All Heaven I would have given, had I only

Lov’d thee but less!

(Gazing at her with cold horror.)

Thou’rt lost—

Semele.

Oh, Jupiter!

Zeus.

(Speaking furiously to himself.)

Ah! Now I mark thine exultation, Juno!

Accursed jealousy! This rose must die!

Too fair—alas! too sweet for Acheron!

Semele.

Methinks thou’rt niggard of thy majesty!

Zeus.

Accursed be my majesty, that now

Has blinded thee! Accursed be my greatness,

That must destroy thee! Curs’d be I myself

For having built my bliss on crumbling dust!

Semele.

These are but empty terrors, Zeus! In truth

I do not dread thy threats!

Zeus.

Deluded child!

Go! take a last farewell for evermore

Of all thy friends belov’d—nought, nought has power

To save thee, Semele! I am thy Zeus!

Yet that no more—Go—

Semele.

Jealous one! the Styx!—

Think not that thou’lt be able to escape me.

[Exit.

Zeus.

No! Juno shall not triumph.—She shall tremble—

Aye, and by virtue of the deadly might

That makes the earth and makes the heavens my footstool,

Upon the sharpest rock in Thracia’s land

With adamantine chains I’ll bind her fast.

But, oh, this oath—

[Mercury appears in the distance.

What means thy hasty flight?

Mercury.

I bring the fiery, wing’d, and weeping thanks

Of those whom thou hast bless’d—

Zeus.

Again destroy them!

Mercury.

(In amazement.) Zeus!

Zeus.

None shall now be bless’d!

She dies—

[The Curtain falls.

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