The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 524

A.

Eh? What? Has a diploma?

In Suabia may such things be got?

EPITAPH

ON A CERTAIN PHYSIOGNOMIST.

On every nose he rightly read What intellects were in the head And yet--that he was not the one By whom G.o.d meant it to be done, This on his own he never read.

TRUST IN IMMORTALITY.

The dead has risen here, to live through endless ages; This I with firmness trust and know.

I was first led to guess it by the sages, The knaves convince me that 'tis really so.

APPENDIX OF POEMS ETC. IN SCHILLER'S DRAMATIC WORKS.

APPENDIX.

The following variations appear in the first two verses of Hector's Farewell, as given in The Robbers, act ii. scene 2.

ANDROMACHE.

Wilt thou, Hector, leave me?--leave me weeping, Where Achilles' murderous blade is heaping b.l.o.o.d.y offerings on Patroclus' grave?

Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly Spears to hurl, the G.o.ds to honor duly, When thou'rt buried 'neath dark Xanthus' wave?

HECTOR.

Dearest wife, go,--fetch my death-spear glancing, Let me join the battle-dance entrancing, For my shoulders bear the weight of Troy!

Heaven will be our Astyanax' protector!

Falling as his country's savior, Hector Soon will greet thee in the realms of joy.

The following additional verse is found in Amalia's Song, as sung in The Robbers, act iii. scene 1. It is introduced between the first and second verses, as they appear in poems.

His embrace--what maddening rapture bound us!

Bosom throbbed 'gainst bosom with wild might; Mouth and ear were chained--night reigned around us-- And the spirit winged toward heaven its flight.

From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.

CHORUS OF ROBBERS.

What so good for banis.h.i.+ng sorrow As women, theft, and b.l.o.o.d.y affray?

We must dance in the air to-morrow, Therefore let's be right merry to-day!

A free and jovial life we've led, Ever since we began it.

Beneath the tree we make our bed, We ply our task when the storm's o'erhead And deem the moon our planet.

The fellow we swear by is Mercury, A capital hand at our trade is he.

To-day we become the guests of a priest, A rich farmer to-morrow must feed us; And as for the future, we care not the least, But leave it to heaven to heed us.

And when our throats with a vintage rare We've long enough been supplying, Fresh courage and strength we drink in there, And with the evil one friends.h.i.+p swear, Who down in h.e.l.l is frying.

The groans o'er fathers reft of breath, The sorrowing mothers' cry of death, Deserted brides' sad sobs and tears.

Are sweetest music to our ears.

Ha! when under the axe each one quivering lies, When they bellow like calves, and fall round us like flies, Naught gives such pleasure to our sight, It fills our ears with wild delight.

And when arrives the fatal day The devil straight may fetch us!

Our fee we get without delay-- They instantly Jack-Ketch us.

One draught upon the road of liquor bright and clear, And hip! hip! hip; hurrah! we're seen no longer here!

From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.

MOOR'S SONG.

BRUTUS.

Ye are welcome, peaceful realms of light!

Oh, receive Rome's last-surviving son!

From Philippi, from the murderous fight, Come I now, my race of sorrow run.-- Ca.s.sius, where art thou?--Rome overthrown!

All my brethren's loving band destroyed!

Safety find I at death's door alone, And the world to Brutus is a void!

CAESAR.

Who now, with the ne'er-subdued-one's tread, Hither from yon rocks makes haste to come?-- Ha! if by no vision I'm misled, 'Tis the footstep of a child of Rome.-- Son of Tiber--whence dost thou appear?

Stands the seven-hilled city as of yore Oft her orphaned lot awakes my tear, For alas, her Caesar is no more?

BRUTUS.

Ha! thou with the three-and-twenty wounds!

Who hath, dead one, summoned thee to light?

Back to gaping Orcus' fearful bonds, Haughty mourner! triumph not to-night!

On Philippi's iron altar, lo!

Reeks now freedom's final victim's blood; Rome o'er Brutus' bier feels her death-throe,-- He seeks Minos.--Back to thy dark flood!

CAESAR.

Oh, the death-stroke Brutus' sword then hurled!

Thou, too--Brutus--thou? Could this thing be?

Son! It was thy father!--Son! the world Would have fallen heritage to thee!

Go--'mongst Romans thou art deemed immortal, For thy steel hath pierced thy father's breast.