Poems of The Third Period by Friedrich Schiller (the beginning after the end novel read .txt) 📖

The veil, rose-woven, by the young desire
With dreams, drops from the hueless cheeks of life.
The world seems what it is - a grave! and love
Casts down the bondage wound his eyes above,
And sees! - He sees but images of clay
Where he dreamed gods; and sighs - and glides away.
The youngness of the beautiful grows old,
And on thy lips the bride's sweet kiss seems cold;
And in the crowd of joys - upon thy throne
Thou sittest in state, and hardenest into stone.


TO GOETHE,

ON HIS PRODUCING VOLTAIRE'S "MAHOMET" ON THE STAGE.

Thou, by whom, freed from rules constrained and wrong,
On truth and nature once again we're placed, -
Who, in the cradle e'en a hero strong,
Stiffest the serpents round our genius laced, -
Thou whom the godlike science has so long
With her unsullied sacred fillet graced, -
Dost thou on ruined altars sacrifice
To that false muse whom we no longer prize?

This theatre belongs to native art,
No foreign idols worshipped 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.

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 ruled o'er all.
It were, in truth, an idle risk and vain
Into the moving wheel of time to fall;
The winged hours forever 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 naught 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,
Naught 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 undefiled;
Chased 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-vanished manes.
To render the oft-sullied stage once more
A throne befitting the great muse of yore.


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.


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!


VERSES WRITTEN IN THE FOLIO ALBUM OF A LEARNED FRIEND.

Once wisdom dwelt in tomes of ponderous size,
While friendship from a pocketbook 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?


VERSES 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 honored old man! for both in thy heart thou preservest
Living sensations, and thus ne'er-ending youth is thy lot!


THE SUNDAY CHILDREN.

Years has the master been laboring, but always without satisfaction;
To an ingenious race 'twould be in vision conferred.
What they yesterday learned, to-day they fain would be teaching:
Small compassion, alas, is by those gentlemen shown!


THE HIGHEST.

Seerest thou the highest, the greatest!
In that the plant can instruct thee;
What it unwittingly is, be thou of thine own free will!


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 see'st fair woman it the barrier stand,
With beauteous hands, with smiling eyes,
To glad the victor with his prize.


TO LAWGIVERS.

Ever take it for granted, that man collectively wishes
That which is right; but take care never to think so of one!


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 HEREDITARY PRINCE OF WEIMAR, ON HIS PROCEEDING TO PARIS.

(SUNG IN A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.)

With one last bumper let us hail
The wanderer beloved,
Who takes his leave of this still vale
Wherein in youth he roved.

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 chained is strife abhorred;
We in the crater may descend
From whence the lava poured.

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 crushed with careless heed;
Now smiling peace salutes the plain,
And strews the