The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 470

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 G.o.ds on high, Frail man becomes a deity When love to him is given; 'Tis love that makes the heavens s.h.i.+ne 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 h.e.l.l At Ceres' daughter's smile so bright,-- Yes--love illumes the realms of night!

In h.e.l.l were heard, with heavenly sound, Holding in chains its warder bound, Thy lays, O Thracian one!

A gentler doom dread Minos pa.s.sed, While down his cheeks the tears coursed fast And e'en around Megaera's face The serpents twined in fond embrace, The lashes' work seemed done.

Driven by Orpheus' lyre away, The vulture left his giant-prey [8]; With gentler motion rolled along Dark Lethe and Cocytus' river, Enraptured Thracian, by thy song,-- And love its burden was forever!

By love are blest the G.o.ds on high, Frail man becomes a deity When love to him is given; 'Tis love that makes the heavens s.h.i.+ne 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 sunlit 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 silvery 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 streams from Nature's lute so fair.

Thou wisdom with the glance of fire, Thou mighty G.o.ddess, 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?

If love had beckoned not from high, Had we gained immortality?

If love had not inflamed each thought, Had we the master spirit sought?

'Tis love that guides the soul along To Nature's Father's heavenly throne

By love are blest the G.o.ds on high, Frail man becomes a deity When love to him is given; 'Tis love that makes the heavens s.h.i.+ne With hues more radiant, more divine, And turns dull earth to heaven!

TO A MORALIST.

Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?

Is love but the folly you say?

Benumbed with the winter, and freezing, You scold at the revels of May.

For you once a nymph had her charms, And Oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms-- All its nectar in Julia's breathing.

If Jove at that moment had hurled The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirled, You had felt not the shock of creation.

Learn this--that philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse,--quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,-- But it cannot make G.o.ds of us--No!

It is well icy reason should thaw In the warm blood of mirth now and then, The G.o.ds for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men.

The spirit is bound by the ties Of its gaoler, the flesh;--if I can Not reach as an angel the skies, Let me feel on the earth as a man!

COUNT EBERHARD, THE GROANER OF WURTEMBERG.

A WAR SONG.

Now hearken, ye who take delight In boasting of your worth!

To many a man, to many a knight, Beloved 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 loved 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 gnas.h.i.+ng teeth, Saw our bright ranks revealed 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 filled his father's eye, And made the youthful warrior fly, And tears of anguish shed.

Now, rascals, quake!--This grieved 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.

Ere long the feud raged fierce and loud,-- Then hastened steed and man To Doeffingen in thronging crowd, While joy inspired the youngster proud,-- And soon the strife began.

Our army's signal-word that day Was the disastrous fight; It spurred us on like lightning's ray, And plunged us deep in b.l.o.o.d.y fray, And in the spears' black night.

The youthful Count his ponderous mace With lion's rage swung round; Destruction stalked before his face, While groans and howlings filled 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, Checked was the victor's glow; The count cheered thus his knights again-- "My son is like all other men,-- March, children, 'gainst the foe!"

With greater fury whizzed each lance, Revenge inflamed the blood; O'er corpses moved the fearful dance The townsmen fled in random chance O'er mountain, vale, and flood.

Then back to camp, with trumpet's 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 s.h.i.+nes like star above!

Farewell, then, ye who take delight In boasting of your worth!

To many a man, to many a knight, Beloved in peace, and brave in fight, The Swabian land gives birth!