heavily over the north, requires a stronger lever than the enthusiasm of
a few individuals, and a firmer Hypomochlion than the shoulders of two or
three patriots. Yet if this anthology reconciles you squeamish Europeans
to us snow-men as little as--let's suppose the case--our "Muses'
Almanac," [61] which we--let's again suppose the case--might have
written, it will at least have the merit of helping its companions
through the whole of Germany to give the last neck-stab to expiring
taste, as we people of Tobolsko like to word it.
If your Homers talk in their sleep, and your Herculeses kill flies with
their clubs--if every one who knows how to give vent to his portion of
sorrow in dreary Alexandrines, interprets that as a call to Helicon,
shall we northerns be blamed for tinkling the Muses' lyre?--Your matadors
claim to have coined silver when they have stamped their effigy on
wretched pewter; and at Tobolsko coiners are hanged. 'Tis true that you
may often find paper-money amongst us instead of Russian roubles, but war
and hard times are an excuse for anything.
Go forth then, Siberian anthology! Go! Thou wilt make many a coxcomb
happy, wilt be placed by him on the toilet-table of his sweetheart, and
in reward wilt obtain her alabaster, lily-white hand for his tender kiss.
Go! thou wilt fill up many a weary gulf of ennui in assemblies and
city-visits, and may be relieve a Circassienne, who has confessed herself
weary amidst a shower of calumnies. Go! thou wilt be consulted in the
kitchens of many critics; they will fly thy light, and like the
screech-owl, retreat into thy shadow. Ho, ho, ho! Already I hear the
ear-cracking howls in the inhospitable forest, and anxiously conceal
myself in my sable.
SUPPRESSED POEMS.
THE JOURNALISTS AND MINOS.
I chanced the other eve,--
But how I ne'er will tell,--
The paper to receive.
That's published down in hell.
In general one may guess,
I little care to see
This free-corps of the press
Got up so easily;
But suddenly my eyes
A side-note chanced to meet,
And fancy my surprise
At reading in the sheet:--
"For twenty weary springs"
(The post from Erebus,
Remark me, always brings
Unpleasant news to us)--
"Through want of water, we
Have well-nigh lost our breath;
In great perplexity
Hell came and asked for Death;
"'They can wade through the Styx,
Catch crabs in Lethe's flood;
Old Charon's in a fix,
His boat lies in the mud,
"'The dead leap over there,
The young and old as well;
The boatman gets no fare,
And loudly curses hell.'
"King Minos bade his spies
In all directions go;
The devils needs must rise,
And bring him news below.
"Hurrah! The secret's told
They've caught the robber's nest;
A merry feast let's hold!
Come, hell, and join the rest!
"An author's countless band,
Stalked round Cocytus' brink,
Each bearing in his hand
A glass for holding ink.
"And into casks they drew
The water, strange to say,
As boys suck sweet wine through
An elder-reed in play.
"Quick! o'er them cast the net,
Ere they have time to flee!
Warm welcome ye will get,
So come to Sans-souci!
"Smelt by the king ere long,
He sharpened up his tooth,
And thus addressed the throng
(Full angrily, in truth):
"'The robbers is't we see?
What trade? What land, perchance?'--
'German news-writers we!'--
Enough to make us dance!
"'A wish I long have known
To bid ye stop and dine,
Ere ye by Death were mown,
That brother-in-law of mine.
"'Yet now by Styx I swear,
Whose flood ye would imbibe,
That torments and despair
Shall fill your vermin-tribe!
"'The pitcher seeks the well,
Till broken 'tis one day;
They who for ink would smell,
The penalty must pay.
"'So seize them by their thumbs,
And loosen straight my beast
E'en now he licks his gums,
Impatient for the feast.'--
"How quivered every limb
Beneath the bull-dog's jaws
Their honors baited him,
And he allowed no pause.
"Convulsively they swear,
Still writhe the rabble rout,
Engaged with anxious care
In pumping Lethe out."
Ye Christians, good and meek,
This vision bear in mind;
If journalists ye seek,
Attempt their thumbs to find.
Defects they often hide,
As folks whose hairs are gone
We see with wigs supplied
Probatum! I have done!
BACCHUS IN THE PILLORY.
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb
Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the cane so troublesome!
Sprigs of fashion by the dozen
Thou dost bring to book, good cousin.
Cousin, thou art not in clover;
Many a head that's filled with smoke
Thou hast twirled and well-nigh broke,
Many a clever one perplexed,
Many a stomach sorely vexed,
Turning it completely over;
Many a hat put on awry,
Many a lamb chased cruelly,
Made streets, houses, edges, trees,
Dance around us fools with ease.
Therefore thou are not in clover,
Therefore thou, like other folk,
Hast thy head filled full of smoke,
Therefore thou, too, art perplexed,
And thy stomach's sorely vexed,
For 'tis turned completely over;
Therefore thou art not in clover.
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb
Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the carle so troublesome!
Seest thou how our tongues and wits
Thou hast shivered into bits--
Seest thou this, licentious wight?
How we're fastened to a string,
Whirled around in giddy ring,
Making all like night appear,
Filling with strange sounds our ear?
Learn it in the stocks aright!
When our ears wild noises shook,
On the sky we cast no look,
Neither stock nor stone reviewed,
But were punished as we stood.
Seest thou now, licentious wight?
That, to us, yon flaring sun
Is the Heidelbergers' tun;
Castles, mountains, trees, and towers,
Seem like chopin-cups of ours.
Learn'st thou now, licentious wight?
Learn it in the stocks aright!
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb,
Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the carle so troublesome!
Kinsman, once so full of glee,
Kinsman, where's thy drollery,
Where thy tricks, thou cunning one?
All thy tricks are spent and past,
To the devil gone at last
Like a silly fop thou'lt prate,
Like a washerwoman rate.
Thou art but a simpleton.
Now thou mayest--more shame to thee--
Run away, because of me;
Cupid, that young rogue, may glory
Learning wisdom from thy story;
Haste, thou sluggard, hence to flee
As from glass is cut our wit,
So, like lightning, 'twill be split;
If thou won't be chased away,
Let each folly also stay
Seest my meaning? Think of me!
Idle one, away with thee!
SPINOSA.
A mighty oak here ruined lies,
Its top was wont to kiss the skies,
Why is it now o'erthrown?--
The peasants needed, so they said,
Its wood wherewith to build a shed,
And so they've cut it down.
TO THE FATES.
Not in the crowd of masqueraders gay,
Where coxcombs' wit with wondrous splendor flares,
And, easier than the Indian's net the prey,
The virtue of young beauties snares;--
Not at the toilet-table of the fair,
Where vanity, as if before an idol, bows,
And often breathes a warmer prayer
Than when to heaven it pays its vows;
And not behind the curtain's cunning veil,
Where the world's eye is hid by cheating night,
And glowing flames the hearts assail,
That seemed but chilly in the light,--
Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip,
While Phoebus' rays she boldly drinks,
Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip,
And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks--
To ye--to ye, O lonely sister-band,
Daughters of destiny, ascend,
When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand,
These strains, where bliss and sadness blend.
You only has no sonnet ever wooed,
To win your gold no usurer e'er sighed
No coxcomb e'er with plaints your steps pursued,
For you, Arcadian shepherd ne'er has died.
Your gentle fingers ye forever ply,
Life's nervous thread with care to twist,
Till sound the clanging shears, and fruitlessly
The tender web would then resist.
Since thou my thread of life hast kindly spun,
Thy hand, O Clotho, I now kiss!
Since thou hast spared that life whilst scarce begun,
Receive this nosegay, Lachesis!
Full often thorns upon the thread,
But oftener roses, thou hast strung;
For thorns and roses there outspread,
Clotho, to thee this lay be sung!
Oft did tempestuous passions rise,
And threat to break the thread by force;
Oft projects of gigantic size
Have checked its free, unfettered course.
Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss,
Too fine appeared the thread to me;
Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss,
Too firm its fabric seemed to be.
Clotho, for this and other lies,
Thy pardon I with tears implore;
Henceforth I'll take whatever prize
Sage Clotho gives, and asks no more.
But never let the shears cut off a rose--
Only the thorns,--yet as thou will'st!
Let, if thou will'st, the death-shears, sharply close,
If thou this single prayer fulfill'st!
Oh, goddess! when, enchained to Laura's breath,
My spirit from its shell breaks free,
Betraying when, upon the gates of death,
My youthful life hangs giddily,
Let to infinity the thread extend,
'Twill wander through the realms of bliss,--
Then, goddess, let thy cruel shears descend!
Then let them fall, O Lachesis!
THE PARALLEL.
Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;
I try to think in vain, to whom or how
Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind.--
I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!
The moon--she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,
By eating stolen bread her living gets,--
Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,
While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.
The moon--for this may Herod give her thanks!--
Reserves her best till night may have returned;
Our lady swallows up by day the francs
That she at night-time may have earned.
The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,
As surely as the month comes round;
With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween--
But she to need more time is found!
The moon to love her silver-horns is said,
But makes a sorry show;
She likes them on her husband's head,--
She's right to have it so
KLOPSTOCK AND WIELAND.
(WHEN THEIR MINIATURES WERE HANGING SIDE BY SIDE.)
In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river,
The man upon the right I'll love forever,
For 'twas he first that wrote for me.
For all the world the left man wrote, full clearly,
And so we all should love him dearly;
Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!
THE MUSES' REVENGE.
AN ANECDOTE OF HELICON.
Once the nine all weeping came
To the god of song
"Oh, papa!" they there exclaim--
"Hear our tale of wrong!
"Young ink-lickers swarm about
Our dear Helicon;
There they fight, manoeuvre, shout,
Even to thy throne.
"On their steeds they galop hard
To the spring to drink,
Each one calls himself a bard--
Minstrels--only think!
"There they--how the thing to name!
Would our persons treat--
This, without a blush of shame,
We can ne'er repeat;
"One, in front of all, then cries,
'I the army lead!'
Both his fists he wildly plies,
Like a bear indeed!
"Others wakes he in a trice
With his whistlings rude;
But none follow, though he twice
Has those sounds renewed.
"He'll return, he threats, ere long,
And he'll come no doubt!
Father, friend to lyric song,
Please to show him out!"
Father Phoebus laughing hears
The complaint they've brought;
"Don't be frightened, pray, my dears,
We'll soon cut them short!
"One must hasten to hell-fire,
Go, Melpomene!
Let a fury borrow lyre,
Notes, and dress, of thee.
"Let her meet, in this array,
One of these vile crews,
As though she had lost her way,
Soon as night ensues.
"Then with kisses dark, I trust,
They'll the dear child greet,
Satisfying their wild lust
Just as it is meet!"--
Said and done!--Then one from hell
Soon was dressed aright.
Scarcely had the prey, they tell,
Caught the fellow's sight,
Than, as kites a pigeon follow,
They attacked her straight--
Part, not all, though, I can swallow
Of what folks relate.
If fair boys were 'mongst the band,
How came they to be--
This I cannot understand,--
In such company?
. . . . .
The goddess a miscarriage had, good lack!
And was delivered of an--Almanac!
THE HYPOCHONDRIACAL PLUTO.
A ROMANCE.
BOOK I.
The sullen mayor who reigns in hell,
By mortals Pluto hight,
Who thrashes all his subjects well,
Both morn and eve, as stories tell,
And rules the realms of night,
All pleasure lost in cursing once,
All joy in flogging, for the nonce.
The sedentary life he led
Upon his brazen chair
Made his hindquarters very red,
While pricks, as from a nettle-bed,
He felt both here and there:
A burning sun, too, chanced to shine,
And boiled down all his blood to brine.
'Tis true he drank full many a draught
Of Phlegethon's black flood;
By cupping, leeches, doctor's craft,
And venesection, fore and aft,
They took from him much blood.
Full many a clyster was applied,
And purging, too, was also tried.
His doctor, versed in sciences,
With wig beneath his hat,
Argued and showed with wondrous ease,
From Celsus and Hippocrates,
When he in judgment sat,--
"Right worshipful the mayor of hell,
The liver's wrong, I see full well."
"He's but a booby," Pluto said,
"With all his trash and pills!
A man like me--pray where's his head?
A young man yet--his wits have fled!
While youth my veins yet fills!
Unless electuaries he'll bring,
Full in his face my club I'll fling!"
Or right or wrong,--'twas a hard case
To weather such a trial;
(Poor men, who lose a king's good grace!)
He's straight saluted in the face
By every splint and phial.
He very wisely made no fuss;
This hint he learnt of Cerberus.
"Go! fetch the barber of the skies,
Apollo, to me soon!"
An airy courier straightway flies
Upon his beast, and onward hies,
And skims past poles and moon;
As he went off, the clock struck four,
At five his charger reached the door.
Just then Apollo happened--"Heigh-ho!
A sonnet to have made?"
Oh, dear me, no!--upon Miss Io
(Such is the tale I heard from Clio)
The midwife to have played.
The boy, as if stamped out of wax,
Might Zeus as father fairly tax.
He read the letter half asleep,
Then started in dismay:
"The road is long, and hell is deep,
Your rocks I know are rough and steep . . .
Yet like a king he'll pay!"
He dons his cap of mist and furs,
Then through the air the charger spurs.
With locks all frizzled a la mode,
And ruffles smooth and nice,
In gala dress, that brightly glowed
(A gift Aurora had bestowed),
With watch-chains of high price,
With toes turned out, and chapeau bas,
He stood before hell's mighty czar.
BOOK II.
The grumbler, in his usual tone,
Received him with a curse:
"To Pomerania straight begone!
Ugh! how he smells of eau de Cologne!
Why, brimstone isn't worse.
He'd best be off to heaven again,
Or he'll infect hell's wide domain."
The god of pills, in sore surprise,
A spring then backwards took:
"Is this his highness' usual guise?
'Tis in the brain, I see, that lies
The mischief--what a look!
See how his eyes in frenzy roll!
The case is bad, upon my soul!
"A journey to Elysium
The infectus would dissolve,
Making the saps less tough become,
As through the Capitolium
And stomach they revolve.
Provisionally be it so:
Let's start then--but incognito!"
"Ay, worthy sir, no doubt well meant!
If, in these regions hazy,
As with you folk, so charged with scent,
You dapper ones who heaven frequent,
'Twere proper to be lazy,
If hell a master needed not,
Why, then I'd follow on the spot!
"Ha! if the cat once turned her back,
Pray where would be the mice?
They'd sally forth from every crack,
My very mufti would attack,
Spoil all things in a trice!
Oddsbodikins! 'tis pretty cool!
I'll let him see I'm no such fool!
"A pleasant uproar happened erst,
When they assailed my tower!
No fault of mine 'twas, at the worst,
That from their desks and chains to burst
Philosophers had power.
What, has there e'er escaped a poet?
Help, heaven! what misery to know it!
"When days are long, folks talk more stuff!
Upon your seats, no doubt,
With all your cards and music rough,
And scribblings too, 'tis hard enough
The moments to eke out.
Idleness, like a flea will gnaw
On velvet cushions,--as on straw.
"My brother no attempt omits
To drive away ennui;
His lightning round about him flits,
The target with his storms he hits
(Those howls prove that to me),
Till Rhea's trembling shoulders ache,
And force me e'en for hell to quake.
"Were I grandfather Coelus, though,
You wouldn't soon escape!
Into my belly straight you'd go,
And in your swaddling-clothes cry 'oh!'
And through five windows gape!
First o'er my stream you'd have to come,
And then, perhaps, to Elysium!
"Your steed you mounted, I dare say,
In hopes to catch a goose;
If it is worth the trouble, pray
Tell what you've heard from me to-day,
At shaving time, to Zeus.
Just leave him then to swallow it;
I don't care what he thinks a bit;
"You'd better now go homeward straight!
Your servant! there's the door!
For all your pains--one moment wait!
I'll give you--liberal is the rate--
A piece of ruby-ore.
In heaven such things are rareties;
We use them for base purposes."
BOOK III.
The god at once, then, said farewell,
At small politeness striving;
When sudden through the crowds of hell
A flying courier rushed pell-mell,
From Tellus' bounds arriving.
"Monarch! a doctor follows me!
Behold this wondrous prodigy!"
"Place for the doctor!" each one said--
He comes with spurs and whip,
To every one he nods his head,
As if he had been born and bred
In Tartarus--the rip!
As jaunty, fearless, full of nous
As Britons in the Lower House.
"Good morrow, worthy sirs!--Ahem!
I'm glad to see that here
(Where all they of Prometheus' stem
Must come, whene'er the Fates condemn)
One meets with such good cheer!
Why for Elysium care a rush?
I'd rather see hell's fountains gush!"
"Stop! stop! his impudence, I vow,
Its due reward shall meet;
By Charles's wain, I swear it now!
He must--no questions I'll allow,--
Prescribe me a receipt.
All hell is mine, I'm Pluto hight!
Make haste to bring your wares to light!"
The doctor, with a knowing look,
The swarthy king surveyed;
He neither felt his pulse, nor took
The usual steps,--(see Galen's book),--
No difference 'twould have made
As piercing as electric fire
He eyed him to his heart's desire.
"Monarch! I'll tell thee in a trice
The thing that's needed here;
Though desperate may seem the advice--
The case itself is very nice--
And children dragons fear.
Devil must devil eat!--no more!--
Either a wife,--or hellebore!
"Whether she scold, or sportive play,
('Tween these, no medium's known),
She'll drive the incubus away
That has assailed thee many a day
Upon thine iron throne.
She'll make the nimble spirits fleet
Up towards the head, down towards the feet."
Long may the doctor honored be
Who let this saying fall!
He ought to have his effigy
By Phidias sculptured, so that he
May be discerned by all;
A monument forever thriving,
Boerhaave, Hippocrates, surviving!
REPROACH--TO LAURA.
Maiden, stay!--oh, whither wouldst thou go?
Do I still or pride or grandeur show?
Maiden, was it right?
Thou the giant mad'st a dwarf once more,
Scattered'st far the mountains that of yore
Climbed to glory's sunny height.
Thou hast doomed my flowerets to decay,
All the phantoms bright hast blown away,
Whose sweet follies formed the hero's trust;
All my plans that proudly raised their head
Thou dost, with gentle zephyr-tread,
Prostrate, laughing, in the dust.
To the godhead, eagle-like, I flew,--
Smiling, fortune's juggling wheel to view,
Careless wheresoe'er her ball might fly;
Hovering far beyond Cocytus' wave,
Death and life receiving like a slave--
Life and death from out one beaming eye!
Like the victors, who, with thunder-lance,
On the iron plain of glory dance,
Starting from their mistress' breast,--
From Aurora's rosy bed upsprings
God's bright sun, to roam o'er towns of kings,
And to make the young world blest!
Toward the hero doth this heart still strain?
Drink I, eagle, still the fiery rain
Of thine eye, that burneth to destroy?
In the glances that destructive gleam,
Laura's love I see with sweetness beam,--
Weep to see it--like a boy!
My repose, like yonder image bright,
Dancing in the waters--cloudless, light,
Maiden, hath been slain by thee!
On the dizzy height now totter I--
Laura--if from me--my Laura fly!
Oh, the thought to madness hurries me!
Gladly shout the revellers as they quaff,
Raptures in the leaf-crowned goblet laugh,
Jests within the golden wine have birth,
Since the maiden hath enslaved my mind,
I have left each youthful sport behind,
Friendless roam I o'er the earth.
Hear I still bright glory's thunder-tone?
Doth the laurel still allure me on?
Doth thy lyre, Apollo Cynthius?
In my breast no echoes now arise,
Every shamefaced muse in sorrow flies,--
And thou, too, Apollo Cynthius?
Shall I still be, as a woman, tame?
Do my pulses, at my country's name,
Proudly burst their prison-thralls?
Would I boast the eagle's soaring wing?
Do I long with Roman blood to spring,
When my Hermann calls?
Oh, how sweet the eye's wild gaze divine
Sweet to quaff the incense at that shrine!
Prouder, bolder, swells the breast.
That which once set every sense on fire,
That which once could every nerve inspire,
Scarce a half-smile now hath power to wrest!
That Orion might receive my fame,
On the time-flood's heaving waves my name
Rocked in glory in the mighty tide;
So that Kronos' dreaded scythe was shivered,
When against my monument is quivered,
Towering toward the firmament in pride.
Smil'st thou?--No? to me naught's perished now!
Star and laurel I'll to fools allow,
To the dead their marble cell;--
Love hath granted all as my reward,
High o'er man 'twere easy to have soared,
So I love him well!
THE SIMPLE PEASANT. [62]
MATTHEW.
Gossip, you'll like to hear, no doubt!
A learned work has just come out--
Messias is the name 'twill bear;
The man has travelled through the air,
And on the sun-beplastered roads
Has lost shoe-leather by whole loads,--
Has seen the heavens lie open wide,
And hell has traversed with whole hide.
The thought has just occurred to me
That one so skilled as he must be
May tell us how our flax and wheat arise.
What say you?--Shall I try to ascertain?
LUKE.
You fool, to think that any one so wise
About mere flax and corn would rack his brain.
ACTAEON.
Thy wife is destined to deceive thee!
She'll seek another's arms and leave thee,
And horns upon thy head will shortly sprout!
How dreadful that when bathing thou shouldst see me
(No ether-bath can wash the stigma out),
And then, in perfect innocence, shouldst flee me!
MAN'S DIGNITY.
I am a man!--Let every 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 front, 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.
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 everything 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 hurled 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's grave
Hast seen great Marius stand!"
Thus speaks the son of Rome with pride,
Still mighty in his fall;
He is a man, and naught beside,--
Before him tremble all.
His grandsons afterwards began
Their portions to o'erthrow,
And thought it well that every man
Should learn with grace to crow.
For shame, for shame,--once more for shame!
The wretched ones?--they've even
Squandered the tokens of their fame,
The choicest gifts of heaven.
God's counterfeit has sinfully
Disgraced his form divine,
And in his vile humanity
Has wallowed like the swine.
The face of earth each vainly treads,
Like gourds, that boys in sport
Have hollowed out to human heads,
With skulls, whose brains are--naught.
Like wine that by a chemist's art
Is through retorts refined,
Their spirits to the deuce depart,
The phlegma's left behind.
From every woman's face they fly,
Its very aspect dread,--
And if they dared--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!
THE MESSIAD.
Religion 'twas produced this poem's fire;
Perverted also?--prithee, don't inquire!
THOUGHTS ON THE 1ST OCTOBER, 1781.
What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height?
What the exulting Evoe? [63]
Why glows the cheek? Whom is't that I, with pinions light,
Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?
Is it the genius whom the gladsome throng obeys?
Do I his numerous train descry?
In plenty's teeming horn the gifts of heaven he sways,
And reels from very ecstacy!--
See how the golden grape in glorious beauty shines,
Kissed by the earliest morning-beams!
The shadow of yon bower, how lovingly it signs,
As it with countless blessings teams!
Ha! glad October, thou art welcome unto me!--
October's first-born, welcome thou!
Thanks of a purer kind, than all who worship thee,
More heartfelt thanks I'm bringing now!
For thou to me the one whom I have loved so well,
And love with fondness to the grave,
Who merits in my heart forevermore to dwell,--
The best of friends in Rieger [64] gave.
'Tis true thy breath doth rock the leaves upon the trees,
And sadly make their charms decay;
Gently they fall:--and swift, as morning phantasies
With those who waken, fly away.
'Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes,
Who makes all Nature's chords resound
With discord dull, and turns the plains and groves to wastes,
So that they sadly mourn around.
See how the gloomy forms of years, as on they roll,
Each joyous banquet overthrows,
When, in uplifted hand, from out the foaming bowl,
Joy's noble purple brightly flows!
See how they disappear, when friends sweet converse hold,
And loving wander arm-in-arm;
And, to revenge themselves on winter's north wind cold,
Upon each other's breasts grow warm!
And when spring's children smile upon us once again,
When all the youthful splendor bright,
When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strain
Awakens with it each delight:
How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!
What life from out our glances pours!
Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades,
Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!
Oh, may this whisper breathe--(let Rieger bear in mind
The storm by which in age we're bent!)--
His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kind
Gleams softly from the firmament!
In silence be he led to yonder thundering height,
And guided be his eye, that he,
In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright.
And that, with growing ecstacy,
On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells,
He may experience friendship's bliss,
Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells,
Conscious that all their love is his.
Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say:
"And G--, too, is a friend of thine!
When silvery locks no more around his temples play,
G-- still will be a friend of thine!"
"E'en yonder"--and now in his eye the crystal tear
Will gleam--"e'en yonder he will love!
Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere,
Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!"
EPITAPH.
Here lies a man cut off by fate
Too soon for all good men;
For sextons he died late--too late
For those who wield the pen.
QUIRL.
You tell me that you feel surprise
Because Quirl's paper's grown in size;
And yet they're crying through the street
That there's a rise in bread and meat.
THE PLAGUE.
A PHANTASY.
Plague's contagious murderous breath
God's strong might with terror reveals,
As through the dreary valley of death
With its brotherhood fell it steals!
Fearfully throbs the anguish-struck heart,
Horribly quivers each nerve in the frame;
Frenzy's wild laughs the torment proclaim,
Howling convulsions disclose the fierce smart.
Fierce delirium writhes upon the bed--
Poisonous mists hang o'er the cities dead;
Men all haggard, pale, and wan,
To the shadow-realm press on.
Death lies brooding in the humid air,
Plague, in dark graves, piles up treasures fair,
And its voice exultingly raises.
Funeral silence--churchyard calm,
Rapture change to dread alarm.--
Thus the plague God wildly praises!
MONUMENT OF MOOR THE ROBBER. [65]
'Tis ended!
Welcome! 'tis ended
Oh thou sinner majestic,
All thy terrible part is now played!
Noble abased one!
Thou, of thy race beginner and ender!
Wondrous son of her fearfulest humor,
Mother Nature's blunder sublime!
Through cloud-covered night a radiant gleam!
Hark how behind him the portals are closing!
Night's gloomy jaws veil him darkly in shade!
Nations are trembling,
At his destructive splendor afraid!
Thou art welcome! 'Tis ended!
Oh thou sinner majestic,
All thy terrible part is now played!
Crumble,--decay
In the cradle of wide-open heaven!
Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes,
When the hot thirst for glory
Raises its barriers over against the dread throne!
See! to eternity shame has consigned thee!
To the bright stars of fame
Thou hast clambered aloft, on the shoulders of shame!
Yet time will come when shame will crumble beneath thee,
When admiration at length will be thine!
With moist eye, by thy sepulchre dreaded,
Man has passed onward--
Rejoice in the tears that man sheddeth,
Oh thou soul of the judged!
With moist eye, by the sepulchre dreaded,
Lately a maiden passed onward,
Hearing the fearful announcement
Told of thy deeds by the herald of marble;
And the maiden--rejoice thee! rejoice thee!
Sought not to dry up her tears.
Far away I stood as the pearls were falling,
And I shouted: Amalia!
Oh, ye youths! Oh, ye youths!--
With the dangerous lightning of genius
Learn to play with more caution!
Wildly his bit champs the charger of Phoebus;
Though, 'neath the reins of his master,
More gently he rocks earth and heaven,
Reined by a child's hand, he kindles
Earth and heaven in blazing destruction!
Obstinate Phaeton perished,
Buried beneath the sad wreck.
Child of the heavenly genius!
Glowing bosom all panting for action!
Art thou charmed by the tale of my robber?
Glowing like time was his bosom, and panting for action!
He, like thee, was the child of the heavenly genius.
But thou smilest and goest--
Thy gaze flies through the realms of the world's long story,
Moor, the robber, it finds not there--
Stay, thou youth, and smile not!
Still survive all his sins and his shame--
Robber Moor liveth--in all but name.
THE BAD MONARCHS. [66]
Earthly gods--my lyre shall win your praise,
Though but wont its gentle sounds to raise
When the joyous feast the people throng;
Softly at your pompous-sounding names,
Shyly round your greatness purple flames,
Trembles now my song.
Answer! shall I strike the golden string,
When, borne on by exultation's wing,
O'er the battle-field your chariots trail?
When ye, from the iron grasp set free,
For your mistress' soft arms, joyously
Change your pond'rous mail?--
Shall my daring hymn, ye gods, resound,
While the golden splendor gleams around,
Where, by mystic darkness overcome,
With the thunderbolt your spleen may play,
Or in crime humanity array,
Till--the grave is dumb?
Say! shall peace 'neath crowns be now my theme?
Shall I boast, ye princes, that ye dream?--
While the worm the monarch's heart may tear,
Golden sleep twines round the Moor by stealth,
As he, at the palace, guards the wealth,
Guards--but covets ne'er.
Show how kings and galley-slaves, my Muse,
Lovingly one single pillow use,--
How their lightnings flatter, when surpressed,
When their humors have no power to harm,
When their mimic minotaurs are calm,
And--the lions rest!
Up, thou Hecate! with thy magic seal
Make the barred-up grave its wealth reveal,--
Hark! its doors like thunder open spring;
When death's dismal blast is heard to sigh,
And the hair on end stands fearfully,
Princes' bliss I sing!
Do I hear the strand, the coast, detect
Where your wishes' haughty fleet was wrecked,
Where was stayed your greatness' proud career
That they ne'er with glory may grow warm,
Night, with black and terror-spreading arm,
Forges monarchs here.
On the death-chest sadly gleams the crown,
With its heavy load of pearls weighed down,
And the sceptre, needed now no more.
In what splendor is the mould arrayed!
Yet but worms are with the body paid,
That--the world watched o'er.
Haughty plants within that humble bed
See how death their pomp decayed and fled
With unblushing ribaldry besets!
They who ruled o'er north and east and west
Suffer now his ev'ry nauseous jest,
And--no sultan threats?
Leap for joy, ye stubborn dumb, to-day,
And your heavy slumber shake away!
From the battle, victory upsprings!
Hearken to the trump's exulting song!
Ye are worshipped by the shouting throng!--
Rouse ye, then, ye kings!
Seven sleepers!--to the clarion hark!
How it rings, and how the fierce dogs bark!
Shouts from out a thousand barrels whizz;
Eager steeds are neighing for the wood,--
Soon the bristly boar rolls in his blood,--
Yours the triumph is!
But what now?--Are even princes dumb?
Tow'rd me scornful echoes ninefold come,
Stealing through the vault's terrific gloom--
Sleep assails the page by slow degrees,
And Madonna gives to you the keys
Of--her sleeping-room.
Not an answer--hushed and still is all--
Does the veil, then, e'en on monarchs fall,
Which enshrouds their humble flatt'rers glance?
And ye ask for worship in the dust,
Since the blind jade, Fate, a world has thrust
In your purse, perchance?
And ye clatter, giant puppet troops,
Marshalled in your proudly childish groups,
Like the juggler on the opera scene?--
Though the sound may please the vulgar ear,
Yet the skilful, filled with sadness, jeer
Powers so great, but mean.
Let your towering shame be hid from sight
In the garment of a sovereign's right,
From the ambush of the throne outspring!
Tremble, though, before the voice of song
Through the purple, vengeance will, ere long,
Strike down e'en a king!
THE SATYR AND MY MUSE.
An aged satyr sought
Around my Muse to pass,
Attempting to pay court,
And eyed her fondly through his glass.
By Phoebus' golden torch,
By Luna's pallid light,
Around her temple's porch
Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;
And warbled many a lay,
Her beauty's praise to sing,
And fiercely scraped away
On his discordant fiddle-string.
With tears, too, swelled his eyes,
As large as nuts, or larger;
He gasped forth heavy sighs,
Like music from Silenus' charger.
The Muse sat still, and played
Within her grotto fair,
And peevishly surveyed
Signor Adonis Goatsfoot there.
"Who ever would kiss thee,
Thou ugly, dirty dunce?
Wouldst thou a gallant be,
As Midas was Apollo once?
"Speak out, old horned boor
What charms canst thou display?
Thou'rt swarthy as a Moor,
And shaggy as a beast of prey.
"I'm by a bard adored
In far Teutonia's land;
To him, who strikes the chord,
I'm linked in firm and loving band."
She spoke, and straightway fled
The spoiler,--he pursued her,
And, by his passion led,
Soon caught her, shouted, and thus wooed her:
"Thou prudish one, stay, stay!
And hearken unto me!
Thy poet, I dare say,
Repents the pledge he gave thee.
"Behold this pretty thing,--
No merit would I claim,--
Its weight I often fling
On many a clown's back, to his shame.
"His sharpness it increases,
And spices his discourse,
Instilling learned theses,
When mounted on his hobby-horse
"The best of songs are known,
Thanks to this heavy whip
Yet fool's blood 'tis alone
We see beneath its lashes drip.
"This lash, then, shall be his,
If thou'lt give me a smack;
Then thou mayest hasten, miss,
Upon thy German sweetheart's track."
The Muse, with purpose sly,
Ere long agreed to yield--
The satyr said good-by,
And now the lash I wield!
And I won't drop it here,
Believe in what I say!
The kisses of one's dear
One does not lightly throw away.
They kindle raptures sweet,
But fools ne'er know their flame!
The gentle Muse will kneel at honor's feet,
But cudgels those who mar her fame.
THE PEASANTS. [67]
Look outside, good friend, I pray!
Two whole mortal hours
Dogs and I've out here to-day
Waited, by the powers!
Rain comes down as from a spout,
Doomsday-storms rage round about,
Dripping are my hose;
Drenched are coat and mantle too,
Coat and mantle, both just new,
Wretched plight, heaven knows!
Pretty stir's abroad to-day;
Look outside, good friend, I pray!
Ay, the devil! look outside!
Out is blown my lamp,--
Gloom and night the heavens now hide,
Moon and stars decamp.
Stumbling over stock and stone,
Jerkin, coat, I've torn, ochone!
Let me pity beg
Hedges, bushes, all around,
Here a ditch, and there a mound,
Breaking arm and leg.
Gloom and night the heavens now hide
Ay, the devil! look outside!
Ay, the deuce, then look outside!
Listen to my prayer!
Praying, singing, I have tried,
Wouldst thou have me swear?
I shall be a steaming mass,
Freeze to rock and stone, alas!
If I don't remove.
All this, love, I owe to thee,
Winter-bumps thou'lt make for me,
Thou confounded love!
Cold and gloom spread far and wide!
Ay, the deuce! then look outside!
Thousand thunders! what's this now
From the window shoots?
Oh, thou witch! 'Tis dirt, I vow,
That my head salutes!
Rain, frost, hunger, tempests wild,
Bear I for the devil's child,
Now I'm vexed full sore.
Worse and worse 'tis! I'll begone.
Pray be quick, thou Evil One!
I'll remain no more.
Pretty tumult there's outside!
Fare thee well--I'll homeward stride.
THE WINTER NIGHT.
Farewell! the beauteous sun is sinking fast,
The moon lifts up her head;
Farewell! mute night o'er earth's wide round at last
Her darksome raven-wing has spread.
Across the wintry plain no echoes float,
Save, from the rock's deep womb,
The murmuring streamlet, and the screech-owl's note,
Arising from the forest's gloom.
The fish repose within the watery deeps,
The snail draws in his head;
The dog beneath the table calmly sleeps,
My wife is slumbering in her bed.
A hearty welcome to ye, brethren mine!
Friends of my life's young spring!
Perchance around a flask of Rhenish wine
Ye're gathered now, in joyous ring.
The brimming goblet's bright and purple beams
Mirror the world with joy,
And pleasure from the golden grape-juice gleams--
Pleasure untainted by alloy.
Concealed behind departed years, your eyes
Find roses now alone;
And, as the summer tempest quickly flies,
Your heavy sorrows, too, are flown.
From childish sports, to e'en the doctor's hood,
The book of life ye thumb,
And reckon o'er, in light and joyous mood,
Your toils in the gymnasium;
Ye count the oaths that Terence--may he ne'er,
Though buried, calmly slumber!--
Caused you, despite Minelli's notes, to swear,--
Count your wry faces without number.
How, when the dread examinations came,
The boy with terror shook!
How, when the rector had pronounced his name,
The sweat streamed down upon his book!
All this is now involved in mist forever,
The boy is now a man,
And Frederick, wiser grown, discloses never
What little Fritz once loved to plan.
At length--a doctor one's declared to be,--
A regimental one!
And then,--and not too soon,--discover we
That plans soap-bubbles are alone. [68]
Blow on! blow on! and let the bubbles rise,
If but this heart remain!
And if a German laurel as the prize
Of song, 'tis given me to gain!
THE WIRTEMBERGER.
The name of Wirtemberg they hold
To come from Wirth am berg [69], I'm told.
A Wirtemberger who ne'er drinks
No Wirtemberger is, methinks!
THE MOLE.
HUSBAND.
The boy's my very image! See!
Even the scars my small-pox left me!
WIFE.
I can believe it easily
They once of all my senses reft me.
HYMN TO THE ETERNAL.
'Twixt the heavens and earth, high in the airy ocean,
In the tempest's cradle I'm borne with a rocking motion;
Clouds are towering,
Storms beneath me are lowering,
Giddily all the wonders I see,
And, O Eternal, I think of Thee!
All Thy terrible pomp, lend to the Finite now,
Mighty Nature! Oh, of Infinity, thou
Giant daughter!
Mirror God, as in water!
Tempest, oh, let thine organ-peal
God to the reasoning worm reveal!
Hark! it peals--how the rocks quiver beneath its growls
Zeboath's glorious name, wildly the hurricane howls!
Graving the while
With the lightning's style
"Creatures, do ye acknowledge me?"--
Spare us, Lord! We acknowledge Thee!
DIALOGUE.
A.
Hark, neighbor, for one moment stay!
Herr Doctor Scalpel, so they say,
Has got off safe and sound;
At Paris I your uncle found
Fast to a horse's crupper bound,--
Yet Scalpel made a king his prey.
B.
Oh, dear me, no! A real misnomer!
The fact is, he has his diploma;
The other one has not.
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 God 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
Bloody offerings on Patroclus' grave?
Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly
Spears to hurl, the gods 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 banishing sorrow
As women, theft, and bloody 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 friendship swear,
Who down in hell 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.--
Cassius, 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.
Go--and shout it even to yon portal:
"Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal,
For his steel hath pierced his father's breast."
Go--thou knowest now what on Lethe's strand
Made me a prisoner stand.--
Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land!
BRUTUS.
Father, stay!--In all earth's realms so fair,
It hath been my lot to know but one,
Who with mighty Caesar could compare;
And of yore thou called'st him thy son.
None but Caesar could a Rome o'erthrow,
Brutus only made great Caesar fear;
Where lives Brutus, Caesar's blood must flow;
If thy path lies yonder, mine is here.
From Wallenstein's Camp, scene 1.
RECRUIT'S SONG.
How sweet the wild sound
Of drum and of fife!
To roam o'er earth's round,
Lead a wandering life,
With steed trained aright,
And bold for the fight,
With a sword by the side,
To rove far and wide,--
Quick, nimble, and free
As the finch that we see
On bushes and trees,
Or braving the breeze,--
Huzza, then! the Friedlander's banner for me!
From Wallenstein's Camp, scene the last.
SECOND CUIRASSIER sings.
Up, 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 proved 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.
CHORUS.
None other can there our places supply,
Each must stand alone,--on himself must rely.
DRAGOON.
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.
CHORUS.
The man who can look upon death without fear--
The soldier,--is now the sole freeman left here.
FIRST YAGER.
The cares of this life, he casts them away,
Untroubled 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,
CHORUS.
And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employ
To drink full deep of the goblet of joy.
[They refill their glasses and drink.
CAVALRY SERGEANT.
The skies o'er him shower his lot filled 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.
CHORUS.
Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,
And digs--till at length he has dug his own grave.
FIRST YAGER.
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.
CHORUS.
He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,
But carries by storm love's blissful prize.
SECOND CUIRASSIER.
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.
CHORUS.
Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,
His peace he can never leave behind,
FIRST YAGER.
(Taking his two neighbors by the hand. The rest do the same,
forming a large semi-circle.)
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!
CHORUS.
Unless ye have courage your life to stake,
That life ye never your own can make!
From William Tell, act i. scene 1.
SCENE--The high rocky shore of the Lake of Lucerne, opposite Schwytz.
The lake forms an inlet in the land; a cottage is near the shore;
a fisher-boy is rowing in a boat. Beyond the lake are seen the green
pastures, the villages and farms of Schwytz glowing in the sunshine.
On the left of the spectator are the peaks of the Hacken, enveloped in
clouds; on his right, in the distance, are seen the glaciers. Before
the curtain rises the RANZ DES VACHES, and the musical sound of the
cattle-bells are heard, and continue also for some time after the scene
opens.
FISHER-BOY (sings in his boat).
AIR--Ranz des Vaches.
Bright smiles the lake, as it woos to its deep,--
A boy on its margin of green lies asleep;
Then hears he a strain,
Like the flute's gentle note,
Sweet as voices of angels
In Eden that float.
And when he awakens, with ecstasy blest,
The waters are playing all over his breast,
From the depths calls a voice
"Dearest child, with me go!
I lure down the sleeper,
I draw him below."
HERDSMAN (on the mountain).
AIR--Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.
Ye meadows, farewell!
Ye pastures so glowing!
The herdsman is going,
For summer has fled!
We depart to the mountain; we'll come back again,
When the cuckoo is calling,--when wakens the strain,--
When the earth is tricked out with her flowers so gay,
When the stream sparkles bright in the sweet month of May.
Ye meadows, farewell!
Ye pastures so glowing!
The herdsman is going,
For summer has fled!
CHAMOIS-HUNTER (appearing on the top of a rock).
AIR--Second Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.
O'er the heights growls the thunder, while quivers the bridge,
Yet no fear feels the hunter, though dizzy the ridge;
He strides on undaunted,
O'er plains icy-bound,
Where spring never blossoms,
Nor verdure is found;
And, a broad sea of mist lying under his feet,
Man's dwellings his vision no longer can greet;
The world he but views
When the clouds broken are--
With its pastures so green,
Through the vapor afar.
From William Tell, act iii. scene 1.
WALTER sings.
Bow and arrow bearing,
Over hills and streams
Moves the hunter daring,
Soon as daylight gleams.
As all flying creatures
Own the eagle's sway,
So the hunter, Nature's
Mounts and crags obey.
Over space he reigneth,
And he makes his prize
All his bolt attaineth,
All that creeps or flies.
From William Tell, act iv. scene 3.
CHORUS OF BROTHERS OF MERCY.
Death comes to man with hasty stride,
No respite is to him e'er given;
He's stricken down in manhood's pride,
E'en in mid race from earth he's driven.
Prepared, or not, to go from here,
Before his Judge he must appear!
From Turandot, act ii. scene 4.
RIDDLE.
The tree whereon decay
All those from mortals sprung,--
Full old, and yet whose spray
Is ever green and young;
To catch the light, it rolls
Each leaf upon one side;
The other, black as coals,
The sun has ne'er descried.
It places on new rings
As often as it blows;
The age, too, of all things
To mortal gaze it shows.
Upon its bark so green
A name oft meets the eye,
Yet 'tis no longer seen,
When it grows old and dry.
This tree--what can it mean?
I wait for thy reply. [70]
From Mary Stuart, act iii, scene 1.
SCENE--A Park. MARY advances hastily from behind some trees. HANNAH
KENNEDY follows her slowly.
MARY.
Let me my newly-won liberty taste!
Let me rejoice as a child once again!
And, as on pinions, with airy foot hast
Over the tapestried green of the plain!
Have I escaped from my prison so drear?
Shall I no more in my sad dungeon pine?
Let me in long and in thirsty draughts here
Drink in the breezes, so free, so divine
Thanks, thanks, ye trees, in smiling verdure dressed,
In that ye veil my prison-walls from sight!
I'll dream that I am free and blest
Why should I waken from a dream so bright?
Do not the spacious heavens encompass me?
Behold! my gaze, unshackled, free,
Pierces with joy the trackless realms of light!
There, where the gray-tinged hills of mist project,
My kingdom's boundaries begin;
Yon clouds, that tow'rd the south their course direct,
France's far-distant ocean seek to win.
Swiftly-flying clouds, hardy sailors through air!
Mortal hath roamed with ye, sailed with ye, ne'er!
Greetings of love to my youthful home bear!
I am a prisoner, I am in chains,
Ah, not a herald, save ye, now remains,
Free through the air hath your path ever been,
Ye are not subject to England's proud queen!
Yonder's a fisherman trimming his boat.
E'en that frail skiff from all danger might tear me,
And to the dwellings of friends it might bear me.
Scarcely his earnings can keep life afloat.
Richly with treasures his lap I'd heap over,--
Oh! what a draught should reward him to-day!
Fortune held fast in his nets he'd discover,
If in his bark he would take me away!
Hear'st thou the horn of the hunter resound,
Wakening the echo through forest and plain?
Ah, on my spirited courser to bound!
Once more to join in the mirth-stirring train!
Hark! how the dearly-loved tones come again!
Blissful, yet sad, the remembrance they wake;
Oft have they fallen with joy on mine ear,
When in the highlands the bugle rang clear,
Rousing the chase over mountain and brake.
From The Maid of Orleans, Prologue, scene 4.
JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).
Farewell, ye mountains, and ye pastures dear,
Ye still and happy valleys, fare ye well!
No longer may Joan's footsteps linger here,
Joan bids ye now a long, a last farewell!
Ye meadows that I watered, and each bush
Set by my hands, ne'er may your verdure fail!
Farewell, ye grots, ye springs that cooling gush
Thou echo, blissful voice of this sweet vale,
So wont to give me back an answering strain,--
Joan must depart, and ne'er return again!
Ye haunts of all my silent joys of old,
I leave ye now behind forevermore!
Disperse, ye lambs, far o'er the trackless wold!
She now hath gone who tended you of yore!
I must away to guard another fold,
On yonder field of danger, stained with gore.
Thus am I bidden by a spirit's tone
'Tis no vain earthly longing drives me on.
For He who erst to Moses on the height
Of Horeb, in the fiery bush came down,
And bade him stand in haughty Pharaoh's sight,
He who made choice of Jesse's pious son,
The shepherd, as his champion in the fight,--
He who to shepherds grace hath ever shown,
He thus addressed me from this lofty tree:
"Go hence! On earth my witness thou shalt be!
"In rugged brass, then, clothe thy members now,
In steel thy gentle bosom must be dressed!
No mortal love thy heart must e'er allow,
With earthly passion's sinful flame possessed.
Ne'er will the bridal wreath adorn thy brow,
No darling infant blossom on thy breast;
Yet thou with warlike honors shalt be laden,
Raising thee high above each earthly maiden.
"For when the bravest in the fight despair,
When France appears to wait her final blow,
Then thou my holy oriflamme must bear;
And, as the ripened corn the reapers mow,
Hew down the conqueror as he triumphs there;
His fortune's wheel thou thus wilt overthrow,
To France's hero-sons salvation bring,
Deliver Rheims once more, and crown thy king!"
The Lord hath promised to send down a sign
A helmet he hath sent, it comes from Him,--
His sword endows mine arm with strength divine,
I feel the courage of the cherubim;
To join the battle-turmoil how I pine!
A raging tempest thrills through every limb;
The summons to the field bursts on mine ear,
My charger paws the ground, the trump rings clear.
From The Maid of Orleans, act iv. scene 1.
SCENE--A hall prepared for a festival. The pillars are covered with
festoons of flowers; flutes and hautboys are heard behind the scene.
JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).
Each weapon rests, war's tumults cease to sound,
While dance and song succeed the bloody fray;
Through every street the merry footsteps bound,
Altar and church are clad in bright array,
And gates of branches green arise around,
Over the columns twine the garlands gay;
Rheims cannot hold the ever-swelling train
That seeks the nation-festival to gain.
All with one joyous feeling are elate,
One single thought is thrilling every breast;
What, until now, was severed by fierce hate,
Is by the general rapture truly blessed.
By each who called this land his parent-state,
The name of Frenchman proudly is confessed;
The glory is revived of olden days,
And to her regal son France homage pays.
Yet I who have achieved this work of pride,
I cannot share the rapture felt by all:
My heart is changed, my heart is turned aside,
It shuns the splendor of this festival;
'Tis in the British camp it seeks to hide,--
'Tis on the foe my yearning glances fall;
And from the joyous circle I must steal,
My bosom's crime o'erpowering to conceal.
Who? I? What! in my bosom chaste
Can mortal's image have a seat?
This heart, by heavenly glory graced,--
Dares it with earthly love to beat?
The saviour of my country, I,--
The champion of the Lord Most High,
Own for my country's foe a flame--
To the chaste sun my guilt proclaim,
And not be crushed beneath my shame?
(The music behind the scene changes into a soft, melting melody.)
Woe! oh woe! what strains enthralling!
How bewildering to mine ear
Each his voice beloved recalling,
Charming up his image dear!
Would that battle-tempests bound me!
Would that spears were whizzing round me
In the hotly-raging strife!
Could my courage find fresh life!
How those tones, those voices blest
Coil around my bosom burning
All the strength within my breast
Melting into tender yearning,
Into tears of sadness turning!
(The flutes are again heard--she falls into a silent melancholy.)
Gentle crook! oh that I never
For the sword had bartered thee!
Sacred oak! why didst thou ever
From thy branches speak to me?
Would that thou to me in splendor,
Queen of heaven, hadst ne'er come down!
Take--all claim I must surrender,--
Take, oh take away thy crown!
Ah, I open saw yon heaven,
Saw the features of the blest!
Yet to earth my hopes are riven,
In the skies they ne'er can rest!
Wherefore make me ply with ardor
This vocation, terror-fraught?
Would this heart were rendered harder.
That by heaven to feel was taught!
To proclaim Thy might sublime
Those select, who, free from crime,
In Thy lasting mansions stand;
Send Thou forth Thy spirit-band,
The immortal, and the pure,
Feelingless, from tears secure
Never choose a maiden fair,
Shepherdess' weak spirit ne'er!
Kings' dissensions wherefore dread I,
Why the fortune of the fight?
Guilelessly my lambs once fed I
On the silent mountain-height.
Yet Thou into life didst bear me,
To the halls where monarchs throne.
In the toils of guilt to snare me--
Ah, the choice was not mine own!
FOOTNOTES.
[1] The allusion in the original is to the seemingly magical power
possessed by a Jew conjuror, named Philadelphia, which would not be
understood in English.
[2] This most exquisite love poem is founded on the platonic notion, that
souls were united in a pre-existent state, that love is the yearning
of the spirit to reunite with the spirit with which it formerly made
one--and which it discovers on earth. The idea has often been made
subservient to poetry, but never with so earnest and elaborate a beauty.
[3] "Und Empfindung soll mein Richtschwert seyn." A line of great
vigor in the original, but which, if literally translated, would seem
extravagant in English.
[4] Joseph, in the original.
[5] The youth's name was John Christian Weckherlin.
[6] Venus.
[7] Originally Laura, this having been one of the "Laura-Poems," as
the Germans call them of which so many appeared in the Anthology (see
Preface). English readers will probably not think that the change is
for the better.
[8] Tityus.
[9] This concluding and fine strophe is omitted in the later editions
of Schiller's "Poems."
[10] Hercules who recovered from the Shades Alcestis, after she had
given her own life to save her husband, Admetus. Alcestis, in the hands
of Euripides (that woman-hater as he is called!) becomes the loveliest
female creation in the Greek drama.
[11] i. e. Castor and Pollux are transferred to the stars, Hercules to
Olympus, for their deeds on earth.
[12] Carlyle's Miscellanies, vol. iii, p. 47.
[13] Literally "Nierensteiner,"--a wine not much known in England,
and scarcely--according to our experience--worth the regrets of its
respectable owner.
[14] In Schiller the eight long lines that conclude each stanza of
this charming love-poem, instead of rhyming alternately as in the
translation, chime somewhat to the tune of Byron's Don Juan--six lines
rhyming with each other, and the two last forming a separate couplet.
In other respects the translation, it is hoped, is sufficiently close
and literal.
[15] The peach.
[16] Sung in "The Parasite," a comedy which Schiller translated from
Picard--much the best comedy, by the way, that Picard ever wrote.
[17] The idea diffused by the translator through this and the preceding
stanza is more forcibly condensed by Schiller in four lines.
[18] "And ere a man hath power to say, "behold,"
The jaws of Darkness do devour it up,
So quick bright things come to confusion."--
SHAKESPEARE.
[19] The three following ballads, in which Switzerland is the scene,
betray their origin in Schiller's studies for the drama of William Tell.
[20] The avalanche--the equivoque of the original, turning on the Swiss
word Lawine, it is impossible to render intelligible to the English
reader. The giants in the preceding line are the rocks that overhang the
pass which winds now to the right, now to the left, of a roaring stream.
[21] The Devil's Bridge. The Land of Delight (called in Tell "a serene
valley of joy") to which the dreary portal (in Tell the black rock gate)
leads, is the Urse Vale. The four rivers, in the next stanza, are the
Reus, the Rhine, the Tessin, and the Rhone.
[22] The everlasting glacier. See William Tell, act v, scene 2.
[23] This has been paraphrased by Coleridge.
[24] Ajax the Less.
[25] Ulysses.
[26] Achilles.
[27] Diomed.
[28] Cassandra.
[29] It may be scarcely necessary to treat, however briefly, of the
mythological legend on which this exquisite elegy is founded; yet we
venture to do so rather than that the forgetfulness of the reader should
militate against his enjoyment of the poem. Proserpine, according to the
Homeride (for the story is not without variations), when gathering
flowers with the Ocean-Nymphs, is carried off by Aidoneus, or Pluto. Her
mother, Ceres, wanders over the earth for her in vain, and refuses to
return to heaven till her daughter is restored to her. Finally, Jupiter
commissions Hermes to persuade Pluto to render up his bride, who rejoins
Ceres at Eleusis. Unfortunately she has swallowed a pomegranate seed in
the Shades below, and is thus mysteriously doomed to spend one-third of
the year with her husband in Hades, though for the remainder of the year
she is permitted to dwell with Ceres and the gods. This is one of the
very few mythological fables of Greece which can be safely interpreted
into an allegory. Proserpine denotes the seed-corn one-third of the year
below the earth; two-thirds (that is, dating from the appearance of the
ear) above it. Schiller has treated this story with admirable and
artistic beauty; and, by an alteration in its symbolical character has
preserved the pathos of the external narrative, and heightened the beauty
of the interior meaning--associating the productive principle of the
earth with the immortality of the soul. Proserpine here is not the
symbol of the buried seed, but the buried seed is the symbol of her--that
is, of the dead. The exquisite feeling of this poem consoled Schiller's
friend, Sophia La Roche, in her grief for her son's death.
[30] What a beautiful vindication of the shortness of human life!
[31] The corn-flower.
[32] For this story, see Herodotus, book iii, sections 40-43.
[33] President of Council of Five Hundred.
[34] We have already seen in "The Ring of Polycrates," Schiller's mode
of dealing with classical subjects. In the poems that follow, derived
from similar sources, the same spirit is maintained. In spite of
Humboldt, we venture to think that Schiller certainly does not narrate
Greek legends in the spirit of an ancient Greek. The Gothic sentiment,
in its ethical depth and mournful tenderness, more or less pervades all
that he translates from classic fable into modern pathos. The grief of
Hero in the ballad subjoined, touches closely on the lamentations of
Thekla, in "Wallenstein." The Complaint of Ceres, embodies Christian
grief and Christian hope. The Trojan Cassandra expresses the moral of
the Northern Faust. Even the "Victory Feast" changes the whole spirit of
Homer, on whom it is founded, by the introduction of the ethical
sentiment at the close, borrowed, as a modern would apply what he so
borrows from the moralizing Horace. Nothing can be more foreign to the
Hellenic genius, (if we except the very disputable intention of the
"Prometheus"), than the interior and typical design which usually exalts
every conception in Schiller. But it is perfectly open to the modern
poet to treat of ancient legends in the modern spirit. Though he selects
a Greek story, he is still a modern who narrates--he can never make
himself a Greek any more than Aeschylus in the "Persae" could make
himself a Persian. But this is still more the privilege of the poet in
narrative, or lyrical composition, than in the drama, for in the former
he does not abandon his identity, as in the latter he must--yet even this
must has its limits. Shakspeare's wonderful power of self-transfusion has
no doubt enabled him, in his plays from Roman history, to animate his
characters with much of Roman life. But no one can maintain that a Roman
would ever have written plays in the least resembling "Julius Caesar," or
"Coriolanus," or "Antony and Cleopatra." The portraits may be Roman, but
they are painted in the manner of the Gothic school. The spirit of
antiquity is only in them, inasmuch as the representation of human
nature, under certain circumstances, is accurately, though loosely
outlined. When the poet raises the dead, it is not to restore, but to
remodel.
[35] This notes the time of year--not the time of day--viz., about the
23d of September.--HOFFMEISTER.
[36] Hecate as the mysterious goddess of Nature.--HOFFMEISTER.
[37] This story, the heroes of which are more properly known to us under
the names of Damon and Pythias (or Phintias), Schiller took from Hyginus
in whom the friends are called Moerus and Selinuntius. Schiller has
somewhat amplified the incidents in the original, in which the delay of
Moerus is occasioned only by the swollen stream--the other hindrances are
of Schiller's invention. The subject, like "The Ring of Polycrates,"
does not admit of that rich poetry of description with which our author
usually adorns some single passage in his narratives. The poetic spirit
is rather shown in the terse brevity with which picture after picture is
not only sketched but finished--and in the great thought at the close.
Still it is not one of Schiller's best ballads. His additions to the
original story are not happy. The incident of the robbers is commonplace
and poor. The delay occasioned by the thirst of Moerus is clearly open
to Goethe's objection (an objection showing very nice perception of
nature)--that extreme thirst was not likely to happen to a man who had
lately passed through a stream on a rainy day, and whose clothes must
have been saturated with moisture--nor in the traveller's preoccupied
state of mind, is it probable that he would have so much felt the mere
physical want. With less reason has it been urged by other critics, that
the sudden relenting of the tyrant is contrary to his character. The
tyrant here has no individual character at all. He is the mere
personation of disbelief in truth and love--which the spectacle of
sublime self-abnegation at once converts. In this idea lies the deep
philosophical truth, which redeems all the defects of the piece--for
poetry, in its highest form, is merely this--"Truth made beautiful."
[38] The somewhat irregular metre of the original has been preserved
in this ballad, as in other poems; although the perfect anapaestic metre
is perhaps more familiar to the English ear.
[39] "Die Gestalt"--Form, the Platonic Archetype.
[40] More literally translated thus by the author of the article on
Schiller in the Foreign and Colonial Review, July, 1843--
"Thence all witnesses forever banished
Of poor human nakedness."
[41] The law, i. e., the Kantian ideal of truth and virtue. This stanza
and the next embody, perhaps with some exaggeration, the Kantian doctrine
of morality.
[42] "But in God's sight submission is command." "Jonah," by the Rev.
F. Hodgson. Quoted in Foreign and Colonial Review, July, 1843: Art.
Schiller, p. 21.
[43] It seems generally agreed that poetry is allegorized in these
stanzas; though, with this interpretation, it is difficult to
reconcile the sense of some of the lines--for instance, the last in
the first stanza. How can poetry be said to leave no trace when she
takes farewell?
[44] "I call the living--I mourn the dead--I break the lightning."
These words are inscribed on the great bell of the Minster of
Schaffhausen--also on that of the Church of Art near Lucerne. There was
an old belief in Switzerland that the undulation of air caused by the
sound of a bell, broke the electric fluid of a thunder-cloud.
[45] A piece of clay pipe, which becomes vitrified if the metal is
sufficiently heated.
[46] The translator adheres to the original, in forsaking the rhyme in
these lines and some others.
[47] Written in the time of the French war.
[48] Literally, "the manners." The French word moeurs corresponds best
with the German.
[49] The epithet in the first edition is ruhmlose.
[50] For this interesting story, see Cox's "House of Austria," vol i,
pp. 87-98 (Bohn's Standard Library).
[51] See "Piccolomini," act ii., scene 6; and "The Death of
Wallenstein," act v., scene 3.
[52] This poem is very characteristic of the noble ease with which
Schiller often loves to surprise the reader, by the sudden introduction
of matter for the loftiest reflection in the midst of the most familiar
subjects. What can be more accurate and happy than the poet's description
of the national dance, as if such description were his only object--the
outpouring, as it were, of a young gallant intoxicated by the music, and
dizzy with the waltz? Suddenly and imperceptibly the reader finds himself
elevated from a trivial scene. He is borne upward to the harmony of the
sphere. He bows before the great law of the universe--the young gallant
is transformed into the mighty teacher; and this without one hard conceit
--without one touch of pedantry. It is but a flash of light; and where
glowed the playful picture shines the solemn moral.
[53] The first five verses in the original of this poem are placed as
a motto on Goethe's statue in the Library at Weimar. The poet does not
here mean to extol what is vulgarly meant by the gifts of fortune; he
but develops a favorite idea of his, that, whatever is really sublime
and beautiful, comes freely down from heaven; and vindicates the seeming
partiality of the gods, by implying that the beauty and the genius given,
without labor, to some, but serve to the delight of those to whom they are
denied.
[54] Achilles.
[55] "Nur ein Wunder kann dich tragen
In das schoene Wunderland."--SCHILLER, Sehnsucht.
[56] This simile is nobly conceived, but expressed somewhat obscurely.
As Hercules contended in vain against Antaeus, the Son of Earth--so long
as the earth gave her giant offspring new strength in every fall,--so
the soul contends in vain with evil--the natural earth-born enemy, while
the very contact of the earth invigorates the enemy for the struggle.
And as Antaeus was slain at last, when Hercules lifted him from the earth,
and strangled him while raised aloft, so can the soul slay the enemy (the
desire, the passion, the evil, the earth's offspring), when bearing it
from earth itself, and stifling it in the higher air.
[57] By this Schiller informs us elsewhere that he does not mean death
alone; but that the thought applies equally to every period of life when
we can divest ourselves of the body and perceive or act as pure spirits;
we are truly then under the influence of the sublime.
[58] Duke Bernard of Weimar, one of the heroes of the Thirty Years' war.
[59] These verses were sent by Schiller to the then Electoral High
Chancellor, with a copy of his "William Tell."
[60] Addressed in the original to Mdlle. Slevoigt, on her marriage to
Dr. Sturm.
[61] This was the title of the publication in which many of the finest
of Schiller's "Poems of the Third Period" originally appeared.
[62] A pointless satire upon Klopstock and his Messias.
[63] Schiller, who is not very particular about the quantities of
classical names, gives this word with the o long--which is, of course,
the correct quantity--in The Gods of Greece.
[64] A well-known general, who died in 1783.
[65] See the play of The Robbers.
[66] Written in consequence of the ill-treatment Schiller experienced
at the hands of the Grand Duke Charles of Wirtemberg.
[67] Written in the Suabian dialect.
[68] An allusion to the appointment of regimental surgeon, conferred
upon Schiller by the Grand Duke Charles in 1780, when he was twenty-one
years of age.
[69] The Landlord on the Mountain.
[70] The year.
AESTHETICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS
by Frederick Schiller
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
VOCABULARY OF TERMINOLOGY
LETTERS ON THE AESTHETICAL EDUCATION OF MAN
AESTHETICAL ESSAYS:--
THE MORAL UTILITY OF AESTHETIC MANNERS
ON THE SUBLIME
THE PATHETIC
ON GRACE AND DIGNITY
ON DIGNITY
ON THE NECESSARY LIMITATIONS IN THE USE OF BEAUTY AND FORM
REFLECTIONS ON THE USE OF THE VULGAR AND LOW ELEMENTS IN WORKS OF ART
DETACHED REFLECTIONS ON DIFFERENT QUESTIONS OF AESTHETICS
ON SIMPLE AND SENTIMENTAL POETRY
THE STAGE AS A MORAL INSTITUTION
ON THE TRAGIC ART
OF THE CAUSE OF THE PLEASURE WE DERIVE FROM TRAGIC OBJECTS
SCHILLER'S PHILOSOPHICAL LETTERS:--
PREFATORY REMARKS
THEOSOPHY OF JULIUS
ON THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE SPIRITUAL NATURE IN MAN
PHYSICAL CONNECTION
PHILOSOPHICAL CONNECTION
INTRODUCTION.
The special subject of the greater part of the letters and essays of
Schiller contained in this volume is Aesthetics; and before passing to
any remarks on his treatment of the subject it will be useful to offer a
few observations on the nature of this topic, and on its treatment by the
philosophical spirit of different ages.
First, then, aesthetics has for its object the vast realm of the
beautiful, and it may be most adequately defined as the philosophy of art
or of the fine arts. To some the definition may seem arbitrary, as
excluding the beautiful in nature; but it will cease to appear so if it
is remarked that the beauty which is the work of art is higher than
natural beauty, because it is the offspring of the mind. Moreover, if,
in conformity with a certain school of modern philosophy, the mind be
viewed as the true being, including all in itself, it must be admitted
that beauty is only truly beautiful when it shares in the nature of mind,
and is mind's offspring.
Viewed in this light, the beauty of nature is only a reflection of the
beauty of the mind, only an imperfect beauty, which as to its essence is
included in that of the mind. Nor has it ever entered into the mind of
any thinker to develop the beautiful in natural objects, so as to convert
it into a science and a system. The field of natural beauty is too
uncertain and too fluctuating for this purpose. Moreover, the relation
of beauty in nature and beauty in art forms a part of the science of
aesthetics, and finds again its proper place.
But it may be urged that art is not worthy of a scientific treatment.
Art is no doubt an ornament of our life and a charm to the fancy; but has
it a more serious side? When compared with the absorbing necessities of
human existence, it might seem a luxury, a superfluity, calculated to
enfeeble the heart by the assiduous worship of beauty, and thus to be
actually prejudicial to the true interest of practical life. This view
seems to be largely countenanced by a dominant party in modern times, and
practical men, as they are styled, are only too ready to take this
superficial view of the office of art.
Many have indeed undertaken to defend art on this score, and to show
that, far from being a mere luxury, it has serious and solid advantages.
It has been even apparently exaggerated in this respect, and represented
as a kind of mediator between reason and sense, between inclination and
duty, having as its mission the work of reconciling the conflicting
elements in the human heart. A strong trace of this view will be found
in Schiller, especially in all that he says about the play-instinct in
his "Aesthetical Letters."
Nevertheless, art is worthy of science; aesthetics is a true science, and
the office of art is as high as that assigned to it in the pages of
Schiller. We admit that art viewed only as an ornament and a charm is no
longer free, but a slave. But this is a perversion of its proper end.
Science has to be considered as free in its aim and in its means, and it
is only free when liberated from all other considerations; it rises up to
truth, which is its only real object, and can alone fully satisfy it.
Art in like manner is alone truly art when it is free and independent,
when it solves the problem of its high destination--that problem whether
it has to be placed beside religion and philosophy as being nothing else
than a particular mode or a special form of revealing God to
consciousness, and of expressing the deepest interests of human nature
and the widest truths of the human mind.
For it is in their works of art that the nations have imprinted their
favorite thoughts and their richest intuitions, and not unfrequently the
fine arts are the only means by which we can penetrate into the secrets
of their wisdom and the mysteries of their religion.
It is made a reproach to art that it produces its effects by appearance
and illusion; but can it be established that appearance is objectionable?
The phenomena of nature and the acts of human life are nothing more than
appearances, and are yet looked upon as constituting a true reality; for
this reality must be sought for beyond the objects perceived immediately
by the sense, the substance and speech and principle underlying all
things manifesting itself in time and space through these real
existences, but preserving its absolute existence in itself. Now, the
very special object and aim of art is to represent the action and
development of this universal force. In nature this force or principle
appears confounded with particular interests and transitory
circumstances, mixed up with what is arbitrary in the passions and in
individual wills. Art sets the truth free from the illusory and
mendacious forms of this coarse, imperfect world, and clothes it in a
nobler, purer form created by the mind itself. Thus the forms of art,
far from being mere appearances, perfectly illusory, contain more reality
and truth than the phenomenal existences of the real world. The world of
art is truer than that of history or nature.
Nor is this all: the representations of art are more expressive and
transparent than the phenomena of the real world or the events of
history. The mind finds it harder to pierce through the hard envelop of
nature and common life than to penetrate into works of art.
Two more reflections appear completely to meet the objection that art or
aesthetics is not entitled to the name of science.
It will be generally admitted that the mind of man has the power of
considering itself, of making itself its own object and all that issues
from its activity; for thought constitutes the essence of the mind. Now
art and its work, as creations of the mind, are themselves of a spiritual
nature. In this respect art is much nearer to the mind than nature. In
studying the works of art the mind has to do with itself, with what
proceeds from itself, and is itself.
Thus art finds its highest confirmation in science.
Nor does art refuse a philosophical treatment because it is dependent on
caprice, and subject to no law. If its highest aim be to reveal to the
human consciousness the highest interest of the mind, it is evident that
the substance or contents of the representations are not given up to the
control of a wild and irregular imagination. It is strictly determined
by the ideas that concern our intelligence and by the laws of their
development, whatever may be the inexhaustible variety of forms in which
they are produced. Nor are these forms arbitrary, for every form is not
fitted to express every idea. The form is determined by the substance
which it has to suit.
A further consideration of the true nature of beauty, and therefore of
the vocation of the artist, will aid us still more in our endeavor to
show the high dignity of art and of aesthetics. The history of
philosophy presents us with many theories on the nature of the beautiful;
but as it would lead us too far to examine them all, we shall only
consider the most important among them. The coarsest of these theories
defines the beautiful as that which pleases the senses. This theory,
issuing from the philosophy of sensation of the school of Locke and
Condillac, only explains the idea and the feeling of the beautiful by
disfiguring it. It is entirely contradicted by facts. For it converts
it into desire, but desire is egotistical and insatiable, while
admiration is respectful, and is its own satisfaction without seeking
possession.
Others have thought the beautiful consists in proportion, and no
doubt this is one of the conditions of beauty, but only one. An
ill-proportioned object cannot be beautiful, but the exact correspondence
of parts, as in geometrical figures, does not constitute beauty.
A noted ancient theory makes beauty consist in the perfect suitableness
of means to their end. In this case the beautiful is not the useful, it
is the suitable; and the latter idea is more akin to that of beauty. But
it has not the true character of the beautiful. Again, order is a less
mathematical idea than proportion, but it does not explain what is free
and flowing in certain beauties.
The most plausible theory of beauty is that which makes it consist in two
contrary and equally necessary elements--unity and variety. A beautiful
flower has all the elements we have named; it has unity, symmetry, and
variety of shades of color. There is no beauty without life, and life is
movement, diversity. These elements are found in beautiful and also in
sublime objects. A beautiful object is complete, finished, limited with
symmetrical parts. A sublime object whose forms, though not out of
proportion, are less determined, ever awakens in us the feeling of the
infinite. In objects of sense all qualities that can produce the feeling
of the beautiful come under one class called physical beauty. But above
and beyond this in the region of mind we have first intellectual beauty,
including the laws that govern intelligence and the creative genius of
the artist, the poet, and the philosopher. Again, the moral world has
beauty in its ideas of liberty, of virtue, of devotion, the justice of
Aristides, the heroism of Leonidas.
We have now ascertained that there is beauty and sublimity in nature, in
ideas, in feelings, and in actions. After all this it might be supposed
that a unity could be found amidst these different kinds of beauty. The
sight of a statue, as the Apollo of Belvedere, of a man, of Socrates
expiring, are adduced as producing impressions of the beautiful; but the
form cannot be a form by itself, it must be the form of something.
Physical beauty is the sign of an interior beauty, a spiritual and moral
beauty which is the basis, the principle, and the unity of the beautiful.
Physical beauty is an envelop to intellectual and to moral beauty.
Intellectual beauty, the splendor of the true, can only have for
principle that of all truth.
Moral beauty comprehends two distinct elements, equally beautiful,
justice and charity. Thus God is the principle of the three orders of
beauty, physical, intellectual, and moral. He also construes the two
great powers distributed over the three orders, the beautiful and the
sublime. God is beauty par excellence; He is therefore perfectly
beautiful; He is equally sublime. He is to us the type and sense of the
two great forms of beauty. In short, the Absolute Being as absolute
unity and absolute variety is necessarily the ultimate principle, the
extreme basis, the finished ideal of all beauty. This was the marvellous
beauty which Diotimus had seen, and which is described in the Banquet of
Socrates.
It is our purpose after the previous discussion to attempt to elucidate
still further the idea of art by following its historic development.
Many questions bearing on art and relating to the beautiful had been
propounded before, even as far back as Plotinus, Plato, and Socrates, but
recent times have been the real cradle of aesthetics as a science.
Modern philosophy was the first to recognize that beauty in art is one of
the means by which the contradictions can be removed between mind
considered in its abstract and absolute existence and nature constituting
the world of sense, bringing back these two factors to unity.
Kant was the first who felt the want of this union and expressed it, but
without determining its conditions or expressing it scientifically. He
was impeded in his efforts to effect this union by the opposition between
the subjective and the objective, by his placing practical reason above
theoretical reason, and he set up the opposition found in the moral
sphere as the highest principle of morality. Reduced to this difficulty,
all that Kant could do was to express the union under the form of the
subjective ideas of reason, or as postulates to be deduced from the
practical reason, without their essential character being known, and
representing their realization as nothing more than a simple you ought,
or imperative "Du sollst."
In his teleological judgment applied to living beings, Kant comes, on the
contrary, to consider the living organism in such wise that, the general
including the particular, and determining it as an end, consequently the
idea also determines the external, the compound of the organs, not by an
act springing from without but issuing from within. In this way the end
and the means, the interior and exterior, the general and particular, are
confounded in unity. But this judgment only expresses a subjective act
of reflection, and does not throw any light on the object in itself.
Kant has the same view of the aesthetic judgment. According to him the
judgment does not proceed either from reason, as the faculty of general
ideas, or from sensuous perception, but from the free play of the reason
and of the imagination. In this analysis of the cognitive faculty, the
object only exists relatively to the subject and to the feeling of
pleasure or the enjoyment that it experiences.
The characteristics of the beautiful are, according to Kant:--
1. The pleasure it procures is free from interest.
2. Beauty appears to us as an object of general enjoyment, without
awakening in us the consciousness of an abstract idea and of a category
of reason to which we might refer our judgment.
3. Beauty ought to embrace in itself the relation of conformity to its
end, but in such a way that this conformity may be grasped without the
idea of the end being offered to our mind.
4. Though it be not accompanied by an abstract idea, beauty ought to be
acknowledged as the object of a necessary enjoyment.
A special feature of all this system is the indissoluble unity of what is
supposed to be separated in consciousness. This distinction disappears
in the beautiful, because in it the general and the particular, the end
and the means, the idea and the object, mentally penetrate each other
completely. The particular in itself, whether it be opposed to itself or
to what is general, is something accidental. But here what may be
considered as an accidental form is so intimately connected with the
general that it is confounded and identified with it. By this means the
beautiful in art presents thought to us as incarnate. On the other hand,
matter, nature, the sensuous as themselves possessing measure, end, and
harmony, are raised to the dignity of spirit and share in its general
character. Thought not only abandons its hostility against nature, but
smiles in her. Sensation and enjoyment are justified and sanctified, so
that nature and liberty, sense and ideas, find their justification and
their sanctification in this union. Nevertheless this reconciliation,
though seemingly perfect, is stricken with the character of
subjectiveness. It cannot constitute the absolutely true and real.
Such is an outline of the principal results of Kant's criticism, and
Hegel passes high praise on the profoundly philosophic mind of Schiller,
who demanded the union and reconciliation of the two principles, and who
tried to give a scientific explanation of it before the problem had been
solved by philosophy. In his "Letters on Aesthetic Education," Schiller
admits that man carries in himself the germ of the ideal man which is
realized and represented by the state. There are two ways for the
individual man to approach the ideal man; first, when the state,
considered as morality, justice, and general reason, absorbs the
individualities in its unity; secondly, when the individual rises to the
ideal of his species by the perfecting of himself. Reason demands unity,
conformity to the species; nature, on the other hand, demands plurality
and individuality; and man is at once solicited by two contrary laws. In
this conflict, aesthetic education must come in to effect the
reconciliation of the two principles; for, according to Schiller, it has
as its end to fashion and polish the inclinations and passions so that
they may become reasonable, and that, on the other hand, reason and
freedom may issue from their abstract character, may unite with nature,
may spiritualize it, become incarnate, and take a body in it. Beauty is
thus given as the simultaneous development of the rational and of the
sensuous, fused together, and interpenetrated one by the other, an union
that constitutes in fact true reality.
This unity of the general and of the particular, of liberty and necessity
of the spiritual and material, which Schiller understood scientifically
as the spirit of art, and which he tried to make appear in real life by
aesthetic art and education, was afterwards put forward under the name of
idea as the principle of all knowledge and existence. In this way,
through the agency of Schelling, science raised itself to an absolute
point of view. It was thus that art began to claim its proper nature and
dignity. From that time its proper place was finally marked out for it
in science, though the mode of viewing it still labored under certain
defects. Its high and true distinction were at length understood.
In viewing the higher position to which recent philosophical systems have
raised the theory of art in Germany, we must not overlook the advantages
contributed by the study of the ideal of the ancients by such men as
Winckelmann, who, by a kind of inspiration, raised art criticism from a
carping about petty details to seek the true spirit of great works of
art, and their true ideas, by a study of the spirit of the originals.
It has appeared expedient to conclude this introduction with a summary of
the latest and highest theory of art and aesthetics issuing from Kant and
Schiller, and developed in the later philosophy of Hegel.
Our space only allows us to give a glance, first, at the metaphysics of
the beautiful as developed by Hegel in the first part of his 'Aesthetik,'
and then at the later development of the same system in recent writers
issuing from his school.
Hegel considers, first, the abstract idea of the beautiful; secondly,
beauty in nature; thirdly, beauty in art or the ideal; and he winds up
with an examination of the qualities of the artist.
His preliminary remarks are directed to show the relations of art to
religion and philosophy, and he shows that man's destination is an
infinite development. In real life he only satisfies his longing
partially and imperfectly by limited enjoyments. In science he finds a
nobler pleasure, and civil life opens a career for his activity; but he
only finds an imperfect pleasure in these pursuits. He cannot then find
the ideal after which he sighs. Then he rises to a higher sphere, where
all contradictions are effaced and the ideas of good and happiness are
realized in perfect accord and in constant harmony. This deep want of
the soul is satisfied in three ways: in art, in religion, and in
philosophy.
Art is intended to make us contemplate the true and the infinite in forms
of sense. Yet even art does not fully satisfy the deepest need of the
soul. The soul wants to contemplate truth in its inmost consciousness.
Religion is placed above the dominion of art.
First, as to idea of the beautiful, Hegel begins by giving its
characteristics. It is infinite, and it is free; the contemplation of
the beautiful suffices to itself, it awakens no desire. The soul
experiences something like a godlike felicity and is transported into a
sphere remote from the miseries of life. This theory of the beautiful
comes very near that of Plato.
Secondly, as to beauty in nature. Physical beauty, considered
externally, presents itself successively under the aspects of regularity
and of symmetry, of conformity with a law, and of harmony, also of purity
and simplicity of matter.
Thirdly, beauty in art or the ideal is beauty in a higher degree of
perfection than real beauty. The ideal in art is not contrary to the
real, but the real idealized, purified, and perfectly expressed. The
ideal is also the soul arrived at the consciousness of itself, free and
fully enjoying its faculties; it is life, but spiritual life and spirit.
Nor is the ideal a cold abstraction, it is the spiritual principle under
the form of a living individuality freed from the laws of the finite.
The ideal in its highest form is the divine, as expressed in the Greek
divinities; the Christian ideal, as expressed in all its highest purity
in God the Father, the Christ, the Virgin. Its essential features are
calm, majesty, serenity.
At a lower degree the ideal is in man the victory of the eternal
principles that fill the human heart, the triumph of the nobler part of
the soul, the moral and divine principle.
But the ideal manifested in the world becomes action, and action implies
a form of society, a determinate situation with collision, and an action
properly so called. The heroic age is the best society for the ideal in
action; in its determinate situation the ideal in action must appear as
the manifestation of moral power, and in action, properly so called, it
must contain three points in the ideal: first, general principles;
secondly, personages; thirdly, their character and their passions. Hegel
winds up by considering the qualities necessary in an artist:
imagination, genius, inspiration, originality, etc.
A recent exponent of Hegel's aesthetical ideas further developed
expresses himself thus on the nature of beauty:--
"After the bitterness of the world, the sweetness of art soothes and
refreshes us. This is the high value of the beautiful--that it solves
the contradiction of mind and matter, of the moral and sensuous world, in
harmony. Thus the beautiful and its representation in art procures for
intuition what philosophy gives to the cognitive insight and religion to
the believing frame of mind. Hence the delight with which Schiller's
wonderful poem on the Bell celebrates the accord of the inner and outer
life, the fulfilment of the longing and demands of the soul by the events
in nature. The externality of phenomena is removed in the beautiful; it
is raised into the circle of ideal existence; for it is recognized as the
revelation of the ideal, and thus transfigured it gives to the latter
additional splendor."
"Thus the beautiful is active, living unity, full existence without
defect, as Plato and Schelling have said, or as recent writers describe
it; the idea that is quite present in the appearance, the appearance
which is quite formed and penetrated by the idea."
"Beauty is the world secret that invites us in image and word," is the
poetical expression of Plato; and we may add, because it is revealed in
both. We feel in it the harmony of the world; it breaks forth in a
beauty, in a lovely accord, in a radiant point, and starting thence we
penetrate further and yet further, and find as the ground of all
existence the same charm which had refreshed us in individual forms.
Thus Christ pointed to the lilies of the field to knit His followers'
reliance on Providence with the phenomena of nature: and could they jet
forth in royal beauty, exceeding that of Solomon, if the inner ground of
nature were not beauty?
We may also name beauty in a certain sense a mystery, as it mediates to
us in a sensuous sign a heavenly gift of grace, that it opens to us a
view into the eternal Being, teaching us to know nature in God and God in
nature, that it brings the divine even to the perception of sense, and
establishes the energy of love and freedom as the ground, the bond, and
the end of the world.
In the midst of the temporal the eternal is made palpable and present to
us in the beautiful, and offers itself to our enjoyment. The separation
is suppressed, and the original unity, as it is in God, appears as the
first, as what holds together even the past in the universe, and what
constitutes the aim of the development in a finite accord.
The beautiful not only presents itself to us as mediator of a foreign
excellence or of a remote divinity, but the ideal and the godlike are
present in it. Hence aesthetics requires as its basis the system in
which God is known as indwelling in the world, that He is not far distant
from any one of us, but that He animates us, and that we live in Him.
Aesthetics requires the knowledge that mind is the creative force and
unity of all that is extended and developed in time and space.
The beautiful is thus, according to these later thinkers, the revelation
of God to the mind through the senses; it is the appearance of the idea.
In the beautiful spirit reveals itself to spirit through matter and the
senses; thus the entire man feels himself raised and satisfied by it. By
the unity of the beautiful with us we experience with delight that
thought and the material world are present for our individuality, that
they utter tones and shine forth in it, that both penetrate each other
and blend in it and thus become one with it. We feel one with them and
one in them.
This later view was to a great extent expressed by Schiller in his
"Aesthetical Letters."
But art and aesthetics, in the sense in which these terms are used and
understood by German philosophical writers, such as Schiller, embrace a
wider field than the fine arts. Lessing, in his "Laocoon," had already
shown the point of contrast between painting and poetry; and aesthetics,
being defined as the science of the beautiful, must of necessity embrace
poetry. Accordingly Schiller's essays on tragic art, pathos, and
sentimental poetry, contained in this volume, are justly classed under
his aesthetical writings.
This being so, it is important to estimate briefly the transitions of
German poetry before Schiller, and the position that he occupied in its
historic development.
The first classical period of German poetry and literature was contained
between A. D. 1190 and 1300. It exhibits the intimate blending of the
German and Christian elements, and their full development in splendid
productions, for this was the period of the German national epos, the
"Nibelungenlied," and of the "Minnegesang."
This was a period which has nothing to compare with it in point of
art and poetry, save perhaps, and that imperfectly, the heroic and
post-Homeric age of early Greece.
The poetical efforts of that early age may be grouped under--(1) national
epos: the "Nibelungenlied;" (2) art epos: the "Rolandslied," "Percival,"
etc.; (3) the introduction of antique legends: Veldeck's "Aeneide," and
Konrad's "War of Troy;" (4) Christian legends "Barlaam," "Sylvester,"
"Pilatus," etc.; (5) poetical narratives: "Crescentia," "Graf Rudolf,"
etc.; (6) animal legends; "Reinecke Vos;" (7) didactic poems: "Der
Renner;" (8) the Minne-poetry, and prose.
The fourth group, though introduced from a foreign source, gives the
special character and much of the charm of the period we consider. This
is the sphere of legends derived from ecclesiastical ground. One of the
best German writers on the history of German literature remarks: "If the
aim and nature of all poetry is to let yourself be filled by a subject
and to become penetrated with it; if the simple representation of
unartificial, true, and glowing feelings belongs to its most beautiful
adornments; if the faithful direction of the heart to the invisible and
eternal is the ground on which at all times the most lovely flowers of
poetry have sprouted forth, these legendary poems of early Germany, in
their lovely heartiness, in their unambitious limitation, and their pious
sense, deserve a friendly acknowledgment. What man has considered the
pious images in the prayer-books of the Middle Ages, the unadorned
innocence, the piety and purity, the patience of the martyrs, the calm,
heavenly transparency of the figures of the holy angels, without being
attracted by the simple innocence and humility of these forms, the
creation of pious artists' hands? Who has beheld them without tranquil
joy at the soft splendor poured, over them, without deep sympathy, nay,
without a certain emotion and tenderness? And the same spirit that
created these images also produced those poetical effusions, the same
spirit of pious belief, of deep devotion, of heavenly longing. If we
make a present reality of the heroic songs of the early German popular
poetry, and the chivalrous epics of the art poetry, the military
expeditions and dress of the Crusades, this legendary poetry appears as
the invention of humble pilgrims, who wander slowly on the weary way to
Jerusalem, with scollop and pilgrim's staff, engaged in quiet prayer,
till they are all to kneel at the Saviour's sepulchre; and thus
contented, after touching the holy earth with their lips, they return,
poor as they were, but full of holy comfort, to their distant home.
"While the knightly poetry is the poetry of the splendid secular life,
full of cheerful joy, full of harp-tones and song, full of tournaments
and joyous festivals, the poetry of the earthly love for the earthly
bride, the poetry of the legends is that of the spontaneous life of
poverty, the poetry of the solitary cloister cell, of the quiet,
well-walled convent garden, the poetry of heavenly brides, who without
lamenting the joys of the world, which they need not, have their joy in
their Saviour in tranquil piety and devout resignation--who attend at the
espousals of Anna and Joachim, sing the Magnificat with the Holy Mother
of God, stand weeping beneath the cross, to be pierced also by the sword,
who hear the angel harp with St. Cecilia, and walk with St. Theresa in
the glades of Paradise. While the Minne-poetry was the tender homage
offered to the beauty, the gentleness, the grace, and charm of noble
women of this world, legendary poetry was the homage given to the Virgin
Mother, the Queen of Heaven, transfiguring earthly love into a heavenly
and eternal love."