The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 479

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 n.o.bler 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, arrived 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, Illumined by her fiery crown, Then stands before her full-grown son Unveiled--as great Urania; The sooner only by him caught, The fairer he had fled away!

Thus stood, in wonder rapture-fraught, Ulysses' n.o.ble son that day, When the sage mentor who his youth beguiled; Herself transfigured as Jove's glorious child!

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 viewed with disdain, Let solemn truth in song remain, And let the Muses' band defend her!

In all the fullness of her splendor, Let her survive in numbers glorious, More dread, when veiled 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 every other crown despise!

The sisters who escaped you here, Within your mother's arms ye'll meet; What n.o.ble spirits may revere, Must be deserving and complete.

High over your own course of time Exalt yourselves with pinion bold, And dimly let your gla.s.s 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 ravished gaze,-- Into one stream of light thus flow,-- One bond of truth that ne'er decays!

THE CELEBRATED WOMAN.

AN EPISTLE BY A MARRIED MAN--TO A FELLOW-SUFFERER.

[In spite of Mr. Carlyle's a.s.sertion of Schiller's "total deficiency in humor," [12] we think that the following poem suffices to show that he possessed the gift in no ordinary degree, and that if the aims of a genius so essentially earnest had allowed him to indulge it he would have justified the opinion of the experienced Iffland as to his capacities for original comedy.]

Can I, my friend, with thee condole?-- Can I conceive the woes that try men, When late repentance racks the soul Ensnared into the toils of hymen?

Can I take part in such distress?-- Poor martyr,--most devoutly, "Yes!"

Thou weep'st because thy spouse has flown To arms preferred before thine own;-- A faithless wife,--I grant the curse,-- And yet, my friend, it might be worse!

Just hear another's tale of sorrow, And, in comparing, comfort borrow!

What! dost thou think thyself undone, Because thy rights are shared with one!

O, happy man--be more resigned, My wife belongs to all mankind!

My wife--she's found abroad--at home; But cross the Alps and she's at Rome; Sail to the Baltic--there you'll find her; Lounge on the Boulevards--kind and kinder: In short, you've only just to drop Where'er they sell the last new tale, And, bound and lettered in the shop, You'll find my lady up for sale!

She must her fair proportions render To all whose praise can glory lend her;-- Within the coach, on board the boat, Let every pedant "take a note;"

Endure, for public approbation, Each critic's "close investigation,"

And brave--nay, court it as a flattery-- Each spectacled Philistine's battery.

Just as it suits some scurvy carcase In which she hails an Aristarchus, Ready to fly with kindred souls, O'er blooming flowers or burning coals, To fame or shame, to shrine or gallows, Let him but lead--sublimely callous!

A Leipsic man--(confound the wretch!) Has made her topographic sketch, A kind of map, as of a town, Each point minutely dotted down; Scarce to myself I dare to hint What this d----d fellow wants to print!

Thy wife--howe'er she slight the vows-- Respects, at least, the name of spouse; But mine to regions far too high For that terrestrial name is carried; My wife's "The famous Ninon!"--I "The gentleman that Ninon married!"

It galls you that you scarce are able To stake a florin at the table-- Confront the pit, or join the walk, But straight all tongues begin to talk!

O that such luck could me befall, Just to be talked about at all!

Behold me dwindling in my nook, Edged at her left,--and not a look!

A sort of rushlight of a life, Put out by that great orb--my wife!

Scarce is the morning gray--before Postman and porter crowd the door; No premier has so dear a levee-- She finds the mail-bag half its trade; My G.o.d--the parcels are so heavy!

And not a parcel carriage-paid!

But then--the truth must be confessed-- They're all so charmingly addressed: Whate'er they cost, they well requite her-- "To Madame Blank, the famous writer!"

Poor thing, she sleeps so soft! and yet 'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber; "Madame--from Jena--the Gazette-- The Berlin Journal--the last number!"

Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue (Sweet eyes!) fall straight--on the Review!

I by her side--all undetected, While those cursed columns are inspected; Loud squall the children overhead, Still she reads on, till all is read: At last she lays that darling by, And asks--"What makes the baby cry?"

Already now the toilet's care Claims from her couch the restless fair; The toilet's care!--the gla.s.s has won Just half a glance, and all is done!

A snappish--pettish word or so Warns the poor maid 'tis time to go:-- Not at her toilet wait the Graces Uncombed Erynnys takes their places; So great a mind expands its scope Far from the mean details of--soap!

Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster-- Now round my muse her votaries cl.u.s.ter; Spruce Abbe Millefleurs--Baron Herman-- The English Lord, who don't know German,-- But all uncommonly well read From matchless A to deathless Z!

Sneaks in the corner, shy and small, A thing which men the husband call!

While every fop with flattery fires her, Swears with what pa.s.sion he admires her.-- "'Pa.s.sion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?"

Lord bless your soul, the worst's to come:--

I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,-- And hope--the rogue will stay to dinner!

But oh, at dinner!--there's the sting; I see my cellar on the wing!

You know if Burgundy is dear?-- Mine once emerged three times a year;-- And now to wash these learned throttles, In dozens disappear the bottles; They well must drink who well do eat (I've sunk a capital on meat).

Her immortality, I fear, a Death-blow will prove to my Madeira; It has given, alas! a mortal shock To that old friend--my Steinberg hock! [13]

If Faust had really any hand In printing, I can understand The fate which legends more than hint;-- The devil take all hands that print!

And what my thanks for all?--a pout-- Sour looks--deep sighs; but what about?

About! O, that I well divine-- That such a pearl should fall to swine-- That such a literary ruby Should grace the finger of a b.o.o.by!

Spring comes;--behold, sweet mead and lea Nature's green splendor tapestries o'er; Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree; Larks sing--the woodland wakes once more.

The woodland wakes--but not for her!

From Nature's self the charm has flown; No more the Spring of earth can stir The fond remembrance of our own!

The sweetest bird upon the bough Has not one note of music now; And, oh! how dull the grove's soft shade, Where once--(as lovers then)--we strayed!

The nightingales have got no learning-- Dull creatures--how can they inspire her?

The lilies are so undiscerning, They never say--"how they admire her!"

In all this jubilee of being, Some subject for a point she's seeing-- Some epigram--(to be impartial, Well turned)--there may be worse in Martial!

But, hark! the G.o.ddess stoops to reason:-- "The country now is quite in season, I'll go!"--"What! to our country seat?"

"No!--Travelling will be such a treat; Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear; But Carlsbad's quite the rage this year!"

Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces; Nature is gay--in watering-places!

Those pleasant spas--our reigning pa.s.sion-- Where learned Dons meet folks of fas.h.i.+on; Where--each with each ill.u.s.trious soul Familiar as in Charon's boat, All sorts of fame sit cheek-by-jowl, Pearls in that string--the table d'hote!

Where dames whom man has injured--fly, To heal their wounds or to efface, them; While others, with the waters, try A course of flirting,--just to brace them!

Well, there (O man, how light thy woes Compared with mine--thou need'st must see!) My wife, undaunted, greatly goes-- And leaves the orphans (seven!!!) to me!

O, wherefore art thou flown so soon, Thou first fair year--Love's honeymoon!

All, dream too exquisite for life!

Home's G.o.ddess--in the name of wife!

Reared by each grace--yet but to be Man's household Anadyomene!

With mind from which the sunbeams fall, Rejoice while pervading all; Frank in the temper pleased to please-- Soft in the feeling waked with ease.

So broke, as native of the skies, The heart-enthraller on my eyes; So saw I, like a morn of May, The playmate given to glad my way; With eyes that more than lips bespoke, Eyes whence--sweet words--"I love thee!" broke!

So--Ah, what transports then were mine!