No More Learning

Amen. »
- LUTHER at the Diet of Worms.
I
SHALL never cease to protest against the infatuations that in
our day exercise a kind of tyranny in literature. To raise
personal preferences to the dignity of a creed is not enough.
A cult once established, a dogma once accepted,- no more free-
dom of analysis, no more independent criticism, no more per-
missible dissent: the order is to "admire like a beast. " Mental
indolence is of course at the bottom of this fashion: it is easier
to accept an opinion than to form one. But these habits of
mind are an exceedingly curious study, for the reason that never
has the tendency to slavish partisanship been more general, nor
the despotism of ready-made judgments more absolute, than in
these times of pretended emancipation and so-called individual-
ism. Doubtless it is the same with enfranchised intelligence as
with political rights: great efforts are made to secure them, and
when they are secured we no longer care for their exercise.
I will cite the cult of which Goethe is the object in Germany.
as an example of the propensity that I have in mind. This cult
has all the characteristics of superstition. The Germans long
since exhausted their critical acumen upon the Trinity; of the
infallibility of the Church or the Holy Scriptures they have left
standing not a stone: but they have overleaped themselves in
the case of Goethe. They have made a seer, nay, a divinity,
of him. His works have become, beyond the Rhine, the Bible
of cultivated men: a Bible in twenty volumes, but a true Bible,
treated with the superstitious care that befits the study of an
inspired text. If we do not put all the writings of this author
on the same plane, if we admit preferences, we thereby relin-
quish the idea that all are divine, that none of them may be
rejected or deprecated, that we need penetrate only a little fur-
ther to find depths in what looked flat, hidden meanings in what
seemed commonplace or tedious.
Instead of Goethe read Molière, and you will realize that
France is not far from falling into the same habit as Germany.
Among us, admiration for Molière is tending to that state of
orthodoxy outside of which there is no salvation. We read little
nowadays; we read badly, inattentively, without reflecting, without
analyzing, without tasting.


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SCHILLER.


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12877
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
(1759-1805)
BY E. P. EVANS
J
OHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER was born November
10th, 1759, at Marbach, a small town of Würtemberg situated
near the junction of the Murr and the Neckar. He was the
second child and only son of Johann Caspar Schiller, a worthy man
of humble origin, but of sterling character and superior abilities; who
began his career as barber and cupper, was advanced to surgeon in a
Bavarian regiment of hussars, received the rank of captain and finally
of major, and died as landscape gardener in the service of the Duke
of Würtemberg. Schiller's mother, Elizabeth Dorothea Kodweiss, the
daughter of an innkeeper in Marbach, was a woman of warm affec-
tions, as well as a person of uncommon intelligence and fine taste,
with a special fondness for poetry, in which she showed a discrimi-
nation rare in people of her class. Both parents were sincerely and
even fervently pious, and wished that their son should study theology;
and this desire corresponded to his own early inclinations. He after-
wards abandoned divinity for jurisprudence, and then exchanged law
for medicine, before finding his true vocation in literature.
The dull military drill and preceptorial pedantry of the school
founded by Duke Karl, and entered by Schiller at the age of four-
teen, were extremely irksome to him, and tended to repress and
stunt rather than to cherish and develop the natural propensities
and powers of his mind. His love of letters, and especially his pas-
sion for poetry, could be gratified only by stealth, or by the feint of
a headache or a sore throat, which enabled him to evade for a few
hours the stern eye of the pedagogical task-master and to devote
himself to his favorite pursuits in his own room. But notwithstand-
ing these depressing circumstances, his genius kept its native bent
with laudable firmness, and he succeeded in cultivating the best
literature of his day,- Klopstock's 'Messias,' Goethe's 'Götz von
Berlichingen' and 'Werther,' Miller's 'Siegwart,' Müller's Faust,'
Gerstenberg's 'Ugolino,' Leisewitz's Julius von Tarent,' Lessing's
dramas, Klinger's tragedies, and other products of the "storm and
stress" period; and Shakespeare, through the somewhat imperfect
medium of Wieland's translation. To his over-intense and effusive


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12878
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
sentimentalism the ruggedly healthy English poet seemed cold and
cynical, and the introduction of clowns and fools with their jests in
the most pathetic scenes of 'Hamlet' and 'King Lear' jarred upon
his sensibilities; but as he afterwards confesses, this indignation had
its source in his own limited knowledge of human nature.
He left the Ducal Academy December 14th, 1780, as a doctor of
medicine, and even practiced this profession for a time as assistant
surgeon in a grenadier regiment at a salary of eighteen florins ($7. 50)
a month. Meanwhile, when he was scarcely eighteen years of age,
he had written The Robbers'; the existence of which he prudently
kept secret until after his graduation, and then, not being able to
find a publisher, printed it at his own expense, and even borrowed
the money for this purpose. This play, in which not only his hatred
of the galling personal restraints and daily vexations he had suffered,
but also the restless and impetuous spirit of the storm and stress
movement, found vigorous expression, excited great enthusiasm in
Germany, and was soon translated into the principal languages of
Europe. It also made a strong but by no means favorable impression
on the mind of the Duke of Würtemberg, who punished the author
with a fortnight's arrest for going clandestinely to Mannheim to see
it performed in January 1782, and forbade him "henceforth and for-
ever to compose comedies or anything of the sort. " Having before
his eyes the fate of the poet Schubart, whom for a less heinous
offense the same paternal sovereign had confined for ten years in the
fortress of Hohenasperg, he took advantage of some public festivity
on September 17th, 1782, to slip out of the gates of Stuttgart and flee
to Mannheim, beyond the reach of Würtemberg bailiffs.
"The Robbers' is a work of unquestionable but undisciplined gen-
ius; a generous wine in the first stages of fermentation. The char-
acters are the mental creations of an ardent and enthusiastic youth,
taking shape and color in a great measure from the dramatic litera-
ture on which his imagination had fed. As Schiller himself confessed,
it was an attempt to portray men by one who had not the slightest
knowledge of mankind. Its power and popularity, in spite of all de-
fects, and the firm hold it still has of each rising generation, are due
to the sincere spirit of revolt against social, political, and intellectual
tyranny that permeates it, and is the sole source of its verity and
vitality.
Not feeling himself safe from ducal catchpolls at Mannheim,
Schiller went to Bauerbach near Meiningen, where he was hospitably
received by Frau von Wolzogen, the mother of one of his school-
fellows; and remained for several months under the name of Dr.
Ritter. In this friendly retreat and place of refuge he finished 'The
Conspiracy of Fiesco,' brought in a rough draught from Stuttgart;


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JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12879
and wrote 'Cabal and Love,' or 'Luise Miller' as it was originally
called. The first of these plays marks a decided advance in artistic
execution: the situations are more probable and the characters truer
to life; indeed, the ambitions, intrigues, loves, hatreds, pomp and
pageantry of the Genoese nobility in the sixteenth century are viv-
idly and vigorously delineated, although a certain crudeness in laying
on the glowing colors, and a conspicuous lack of delicacy in blend-
ing them, still betray the hand of the novice. 'Cabal and Love' is
a bold exposure of the selfish greed, corruption, and cruelty of con-
temporary court life in Germany; and puts the Hessian landgrave
(who sold his subjects to England as soldiers to fight against Amer-
ican independence, to get money to squander on his mistresses) in
the pillory forever. The plan of this tragedy formed itself in his
mind while undergoing the fourteen days' arrest already referred to,
and this circumstance doubtless added to the impressiveness of his
protest against the oppression of the middle and lower classes by.
arbitrary power; the enthusiastic applause with which it was received,
proved that it dared to utter the thoughts and feelings timorously
concealed in the bosom of every citizen.
During his stay at Bauerbach he began a new drama, 'Don Carlos,'
based chiefly on a historical novel with the same title published by
the Abbé de Saint-Réal at Paris in 1672. This partially finished piece
he took with him to Mannheim, whither he went as poet to the thea-
tre in July 1783; but he did not complete and print it until 1786,
when he was living with Körner at Loschwitz near Dresden. This is
his first drama in blank verse, and it is in every respect maturer
than the earlier ones, which are all in prose; it follows them also in
its tendency as a fit and logical sequence. In the three former plays
he inveighs vehemently against existing evils; in 'Don Carlos' he
sets forth his own ideas of humanity and liberty, in the utterances of
the Infante and especially of Marquis Posa. Schiller's intention was
to make the prince the hero of the piece, and he did so in the first
three acts: but as the composition was delayed, the marquis gradually
usurped this place in the poet's imagination, and finally overshadowed
Carlos altogether; and although this change may mar the artistic
unity of the plot, it adds immensely to the energy of the action in
the last two acts and to the impressiveness of the whole.
The poet now turned his attention to historical and philosophical
studies, as the best means of correcting the defects — arising from
inadequate acquaintance with human nature and human affairs, and
from imperfect knowledge of æsthetic principles-that had hitherto
characterized his dramatic productions. In 1787 he went to Weimar,
where he enjoyed the friendship of Herder and Wieland. In 1788 he
published The History of the Revolt of the United Netherlands,'


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12880
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
and in the following year was appointed to a professorship in the
philosophical faculty of Jena. From 1790 to 1793 appeared his 'His-
tory of the Thirty Years' War,' in three volumes. These works,
while showing careful and conscientious research, are most remark-
able for the vivid descriptions of events and lifelike delineations of
individual characters, congenial to the pre-eminently plastic taste and
talent of the dramatist. In the province of æsthetics he wrote a
series of thoughtful and readable dissertations bearing throughout the
visible stamp of Kantean criticism and speculation: 'On Tragic Art,'
'On Grace and Dignity,' On the Sublime,' 'Letters on Man's Æs-
thetic Education,' and finally a less abstract and more distinctively
literary essay On Naïve and Sentimental Poetry. ' Meanwhile he
did not cease his devotion to the Muses; although exchanging for a
time the service of the buskined Melpomene for that of Euterpe the
delightful goddess of the softly breathing flute, and Erato with the
lyre. Besides some occasional poems and amatory odes to Laura,
evidently suggested by Petrarch's canzoni, he wrote at this time the
exalted and exultant hymn To Joy,' subsequently set to music in
Beethoven's ninth symphony. This was followed by numerous lyrics
and ballads, the most noteworthy of which are 'The Gods of Greece,'
The Artists, The Knight Toggenburg,' The Sharing of the Earth,'
'The Visit (dithyramb), The Power of Song,' 'Worth of Women,'
'German Art,' The Fight with the Dragon,' The Glove,' The
Maiden from Afar,' 'Resignation,' and The Song of the Bell. ' As
a purely lyrical poet Schiller is decidedly inferior to Goethe; and
the best of his minor poems are those in which the qualities of
the historian, the philosopher, and the poet are combined, and epic
narration and didactic meditation are blended and fused with lyrical
emotion, as in The Song of the Bell. '
(
It is the historical drama for which Schiller showed a strong pre-
dilection and peculiar talent, and in which he stands pre-eminent.
While engaged in his 'History of the Thirty Years' War' he was
irresistibly attracted by the imposing form of Wallenstein, and re-
solved to make him the hero of a drama; which was originally
conceived as a single piece in five acts, but was gradually expanded
into three parts: Wallenstein's Camp' (one act), 'The Piccolomini'
(five acts), and Wallenstein's Death' (five acts). In the following
year (1800) appeared 'Maria Stuart'; then 'The Maid of Orleans'
(1801), The Bride of Messina' (1803), and William Tell' (1804),—
of which the last mentioned surpasses all the others in dramatic con-
tinuity and creative power: the individuals are admirably portrayed,
and the idyllic life and occupations of the honest, fearless, freedom-
loving Swiss peasants brought out with wonderful fidelity, in contrast
to the blind brutality of their Austrian oppressors. Indeed, the very


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JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12881
fact (which some critics have regarded as defect) that there is no
outward connection between the deed of Tell and the oath of the
men of Rütli, so far from disturbing the unity of the plot, renders it
more effective; since they both work together, like unconscious forces
of nature, for the attainment of the same noble end. The first part
of 'Wallenstein' is a masterpiece of its kind; in the second part
the action drags somewhat, but in the third moves on with the force
and irresistibility of fate, in a tumult of conflicting aims and inter-
ests, and with touches of tender pathos, as in the relations of Max
to Thekla, to its tragical conclusion. Maria Stuart' violates to some
extent the truth of history, by making the conflict chiefly a matter of
personal animosity instead of an antagonism of political principles
and religious systems; but is distinguished for depth of psychological
insight in the delineation of the characters of the rival queens and
the principal statesmen and courtiers, -Burleigh, Talbot, Leicester,
Mortimer, and Shrewsbury. In 'The Maid of Orleans' the heroine is
the pure-souled and patriotic representative of her people, and the
Divinely chosen defender of her country; and the contest is between
nations. She is here no longer the devil's satellite and sorceress of
her English foes and of Shakespeare, and her memory is cleansed of
the filth with which Voltaire defiled it. In this "romantic tragedy,"
as Schiller called it, he images forth with wonderful accuracy the
romantic spirit of the age, which rendered such apparitions and super-
natural agencies credible. Touchingly human and true is the scene
with Lionel, in which the invincible and inexorable virgin is suddenly
transformed into a tender-hearted and weak-handed woman through
the power of earthly love. The fable of 'The Bride of Messina,' the
fatal enmity of two brothers, rivals in love, was the theme of Greek
tragedy, and forms the plots of Klinger's 'The Twins' and Leisewitz's
'Julius of Tarentum. ' The dialogue is interspersed with choral odes,
suitable to the action and summing up the supposed reflections of
the spectators; and the traditional idea of fate pervades the whole,
although Schiller gives larger scope to free-will, and makes the indi-
vidual in reality the author of his own destiny through the inevita-
ble sequence of cause and effect. The poet comprises it all in the
concluding verse: "Life is not the chief good, and the greatest of
evils is guilt. " Schiller's dramatic style is the grand style, and rather
ornate and oratorical. He is truly eloquent, and in the glittering coils
of his rhetoric there is no pinchbeck; but his speeches are often too
long, and in the mouths of second-rate actors are apt to degenerate
into rant. It would be unjust, however, to hold the poet responsible
for the deficiencies of the player.
While holding his professorship at Jena, Schiller married, on Feb-
ruary 22d, 1790, Charlotte von Lengefeld; by whom he had two sons
(Carl and Ernst) and two daughters (Caroline and Emilie), and who
XXII-806


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12882
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
died at Bonn July 9th, 1826, thus surviving her husband more than
twenty-one years. In 1799 he settled permanently in Weimar; in
1802 he was raised to the nobility,- a distinction for which he cared
little himself, but which he thought might be of some advantage to
his children. Personally he prized far more highly the honorary
citizenship of the French Republic, which had been conferred upon
him by the National Convention in 1793. In 1797 he was chosen a
member of the Academy of Sciences in Stockholm. In 1791 he had a
severe attack of catarrhal fever, from the effects of which he never
wholly recovered. Fortunately his pecuniary anxieties were partially
relieved by the Danish poet Jens Baggesen, who induced the Duke
of Holstein-Augustenburg, and the Danish minister Count von Schim-
melmann, to grant him pension of a thousand speciesdaler (equiva-
lent to about $1000), with the injunction to take care of his health
and not overwork. In the spring of 1804 he went to Berlin to a rep-
resentation of William Tell,' but the exertion caused a recurrence of
his old malady. He grew better, however; translated Racine's 'Phè-
dre' in twenty-six days, and completed two acts of a new play, 'The
False Demetrius,' when a return of catarrhal fever ended his days
on May 9th, 1805.
―
During the last ten years of his life, Schiller's relations to Goethe
were those of cordial friendship and literary co-operation; one of the
most important results of which was the joint production of a series
of satirical epigrams called 'Xenien,' and published in the Musenal-
manach in 1797. The more philosophic and less personal, or what
Schiller called the "harmless" ones, were also collected and printed
under the title of Tabulæ Votivæ (Votive Tablets). 'Xenia' (§ɛívia,
gifts to guests) is the title of the thirteenth book of the epigrams
of the Roman poet Martial, from whom the term was borrowed by
Goethe, who first mentioned it in a letter to Schiller dated December
23d, 1795; Schiller immediately replied that the idea is splendid,
and must be carried out. " The epigrams contain many happy hits at
the isms and ologies of the day, as well as at individual foibles.
They were evidently thrown off hastily, and are not always perfect in
form; but they are full of pointed wit and pungency, and made an im-
mense sensation. Some writers by whom they were fiercely resented,
ought to have been gratified and grateful, since the allusions to them
in these distichs have alone saved their names from oblivion.
In the ordinary relations of life Schiller was a simple-hearted,
noble-minded, and clear-sighted man, all alive with enthusiasm and
full of delicate sensibility, but free from every sort of affectation.
He was endowed with an intellect of high order, which he spared no
pains to cultivate by assiduous and systematic study. The versatility
of his genius was remarkable; and he might have excelled as a phi-
losopher or historian, had it not been for the predominance of his


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JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12883
(
poetic gifts, to which he made all acquisitions of learning subordi
nate and contributory. Perhaps the least conspicuous of his mental
powers was humor; but the scenes in Wallenstein's Camp,' 'The
Famous Wife, an Epistle from One Husband to Another,' and some
of his epigrams and parables, show that he was by no means des-
titute of this rare faculty. Remembering that he died before he was
forty-six, and suffered severely from sickness during the last decade
of his life, one cannot but wonder at the extent and brilliancy of his
achievements as a poet and scholar.
Е. Р. Егот
TO LAURA
(RAPTURE)
AURA, above this world methinks I fly,
L
And feel the glow of some May-lighted sky,
When thy looks beam on mine!
And my soul drinks a more ethereal air,
When mine own shape I see reflected there
In those blue eyes of thine!
A lyre sound from the Paradise afar,
A harp note trembling from some gracious star,
Seems the wild ear to fill;
And my Muse feels the Golden Shepherd hours,
When from thy lips the silver music pours
Slow, as against its will.
I see the young Loves flutter on the wing —
Move the charmed trees, as when the Thracian's string
Wild life to forests gave;
Swifter the globe's swift circle seems to fly,
When in the whirling dance thou glidest by,
Light as a happy wave.
Thy looks, when there Love's smiles their gladness
wreathe,
Could life itself to lips of marble breathe,
Lend rocks a pulse divine;
Reading thine eyes, my veriest life but seems
Made up and fashioned from my wildest dreams,-
Laura, sweet Laura, mine!
Bulwer's Translation.


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12884
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
THE KNIGHT TOGGENBURG
NIGHT, a sister's quiet love
Gives my heart to thee!
Ask me not for other love,
For it paineth me!
Calmly couldst thou greet me now.
"K
Calmly from me go;
Calmly ever,-why dost thou
Weep in silence so? »
Sadly - not a word he said –
To the heart she wrung,
Sadly clasped he once the maid,
On his steed he sprung!
"Up, my men of Switzerland! »
Up, awake the brave!
Forth they go-the Red-Cross band-
To the Savior's grave!
High your deeds, and great your fame,
Heroes of the tomb!
Glancing through the carnage came
Many a dauntless plume.
Terror of the Moorish foe,
Toggenburg, thou art!
But thy heart is heavy! oh,
Heavy is thy heart!
Heavy was the load his breast
For a twelvemonth bore:
Never can his trouble rest!
And he left the shore.
Lo! a ship on Joppa's strand,
Breeze and billow fair,-
On to that beloved land
Where she breathes the air!
Knocking at the castle gate
Was the pilgrim heard;
Woe the answer from the grate!
Woe the thunder-word!
"She thou seekest lives-a Nun!
To the world she died
When, with yester-morning's sun,
Heaven received a Bride! "


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JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12885
From that day his father's hall
Ne'er his home may be;
Helm and hauberk, steed and all,
Evermore left he!
Where his castle-crownèd height
Frowns the valley down,
Dwells unknown the hermit knight,
In a sackcloth gown.
Rude the hut he built him there,
Where his eyes may view
Wall and cloister glisten fair
Dusky lindens through.
There when dawn was in the skies,
Till the eve-star shone,
Sate he with mute wistful eyes,
Sate he there alone!
Looking to the cloister still,
Looking forth afar,
Looking to her lattice till
Clinked the lattice bar.
Tilla passing glimpse allowed-
Paused her image pale,
Calm and angel-mild, and bowed
Meekly towards the vale.
Then the watch of day was o'er;
Then, consoled awhile,
Down he lay, to greet once more
Morning's early smile.
Days and years are gone, and still
Looks he forth afar,
Uncomplaining, hoping-till
Clinks the lattice bar;
a passing glimpse allowed-
Paused her image pale,
Calm and angel-mild, and bowed
Meekly towards the vale.
So upon that lonely spot
Sate he, dead at last,
With the look where life was not,
Towards the casement cast.
Till
-
Bulwer's Translation.


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12886
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
THE SHARING OF THE EARTH
AKE the world," cried the God from his heaven
To men-"I proclaim you its heirs;
To divide it amongst you 'tis given:
You have only to settle the shares. "
"TAKE
Each takes for himself as it pleases,
Old and young have alike their desire:
The harvest the husbandman seizes;
Through the wood and the chase sweeps the squire.
The merchant his warehouse is locking;
The abbot is choosing his wine;
Cries the monarch, the thoroughfare blocking,
"Every toll for the passage is mine! "
All too late, when the sharing was over,
Comes the poet,— he came from afar;
Nothing left can the laggard discover,
Not an inch but its owners there are.
"Woe is me! is there nothing remaining
For the son who best loves thee alone! "
Thus to Jove went his voice in complaining,
As he fell at the Thunderer's throne.
"In the land of thy dreams if abiding,"
Quoth the God, "Canst thou murmur at me?
Where wert thou when the earth was dividing? "
"I was," said the poet, "by thee!
"Mine eye by thy glory was captured,
Mine ear by thy music of bliss:
Pardon him whom thy world so enraptured
As to lose him his portion in this! "
"Alas," said the God, "earth is given!
Field, forest, and market, and all!
What say you to quarters in heaven?
We'll admit you whenever you call! "
Bulwer's Translation.


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JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12887
THE BEST STATE
HOW
ow the best state to know? It is found out:
Like the best woman-that least talked about.
Bulwer's Translation.
Y NO kind Augustus reared,
To no Medici endeared,
German Art arose:
Β΄
GERMAN ART
Fostering glory smiled not on her;
Ne'er with kingly smiles to sun her,
Did her blooms unclose.
No, she went by monarchs slighted,
Went unhonored, unrequited,
From high Frederick's throne;
Praise and pride be all the greater,
That man's genius did create her
From man's worth alone.
Therefore, all from loftier mountains,
Purer wells and richer fountains,
Streams our poet-art:
So no rule to curb its rushing;
All the fuller flows it gushing
From its deep,- the heart.
THE MAIDEN'S LAMENT
THE
HE wind rocks the forest,
The clouds gather o'er;
The maiden sits lonely
Beside the green shore;
The breakers are dashing with might, with might:
And she mingles her sighs with the gloomy night,
And her eyes are dim with tears.
"The earth is a desert,
And broken my heart,
Nor aught to my wishes
The world can impart.
Bulwer's Translation.


## p. 12888 (#314) ##########################################

12888
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
Thou Holy One, call now thy child from below;
I have known all the joys that the world can bestow-
I have lived and have loved. " —
"In vain, oh how vainly,
Flows tear upon tear!
Human woe never waketh
Dull Death's heavy ear!
Yet say what can soothe for the sweet vanished love,
And I, the Celestial, will shed from above
The balm for thy breast. "
Let ever, though vainly,
Flow tear upon tear;
Human woe never waketh
Dull Death's heavy ear:
Yet still when the heart mourns the sweet vanished love,
No balm for its wound can descend from above
Like Love's sorrows and tears.
Bulwer's Translation.
THE MAIDEN FROM AFAR
ITHIN a vale each infant year,
When earliest larks first carol free,
To humble shepherds doth appear
A wondrous maiden fair to see.
WITH
Not born within that lowly place;
From whence she wandered, none could tell;
Her parting footsteps left no trace,
When once the maiden sighed farewell.
And blessed was her presence there:
Each heart, expanding, grew more gay;
Yet something loftier still than fair
Kept man's familiar looks away.
From fairy gardens known to none
She brought mysterious fruits and flowers;
The products of a brighter sun,
Of nature more benign than ours.
With each, her gifts the maiden shared,—
To some the fruits, the flowers to some:


## p. 12889 (#315) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12889
Alike the young, the aged, fared:
Each bore a blessing back to home.
Though every guest was welcome there,
Yet some the maiden held more dear;
And culled her rarest sweets whene'er
She saw two loving hearts draw near.
PUNCH SONG
F
OUR elements joined in
An emulous strife
Fashion the world and
Constitute life.
From the sharp citron
The starry juice pour:
Acid to life is
The innermost core.
Now let the sugar
The bitter one meet:
Still be life's bitter
Bulwer's Translation.
Tamed down to the sweet.
Let the bright water
Flow into the bowl:
Water, the calm one,
Embraces the whole.
Drops from the spirit
Pour quickening within:
Life but its life from
The spirit can win.
Haste while it gloweth,
Your vessel to bring:
The wave has but virtue
Drunk hot from the spring.
Bulwer's Translation.


## p. 12890 (#316) ##########################################

12890
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
WORTH OF WOMEN
ONOR to Woman! To her it is given
To garden the earth with the roses of Heaven!
All blessed, she linketh the Loves in their choir,-
In the veil of her Graces her beauty concealing,
She tends on each altar that's hallowed to Feeling,
And keeps ever living the fire!
HⓇ
From the bounds of Truth careering,
Man's strong spirit wildly sweeps,
With each hasty impulse veering,
Down to Passion's troubled deeps.
And his heart, contented never,
Greeds to grapple with the far,
Chasing his own dream forever
On through many a distant Star!
But Woman, with looks that can charm and enchain,
Lureth back at her beck that wild truant again
By the spell of her presence beguiled;
In the home of the Mother her modest abode,
And modest the manners by Nature bestowed
On Nature's most exquisite child.
Bruised and worn, but fiercely breasting,
Foe to foe, the angry strife,—
Man the Wild One, never resting,
Roams along the troubled life:
What he planneth, still pursuing;
Vainly as the hydra bleeds,
Crest the severed crest renewing,
Wish to withered wish succeeds.
But Woman at peace with all being reposes,
And seeks from the Moment to gather the roses,
Whose sweets to her culture belong.
Ah! richer than he, though his soul reigneth o'er
The mighty dominion of Genius and Lore,
And the infinite Circle of Song.
Strong and proud and self-depending,
Man's cold bosom beats alone:
Heart with heart divinely blending
In the love that Gods have known,


## p. 12891 (#317) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12891
Soul's sweet interchange of feeling,
Melting tears, - he never knows;
Each hard sense the hard one steeling,
Arms against a world of foes.
Alive as the wind-harp, how lightly soever
If wooed by the Zephyr, to music will quiver,
Is Woman to Hope and to Fear;
Ah, tender one! still at the shadow of grieving,
How quiver the chords - how thy bosom is heaving-
How trembles thy glance through the tear!
Man's dominion, war and labor,
Might to right the Statute gave;
Laws are in the Scythian's sabre;
Where the Mede reigned, see the Slave!
Peace and Meekness grimly routing,
Prowls the War lust, rude and wild;
Eris rages, hoarsely shouting,
Where the vanished Graces smiled.
But Woman, the Soft One, persuasively prayeth;
Of the mild realm of manners the sceptre she swayeth;
She lulls, as she looks from above,
The Discord whose hell for its victims is gaping,
And blending awhile the forever-escaping,
Whispers Hate to the Image of Love.
RIDDLES
I
THE RAINBOW
Bulwer's Translation.
F
ROM pearls her lofty bridge she weaves,
A gray sea arching proudly over;
A moment's toil the work achieves,
And on the height behold her hover!
Beneath that arch securely go
The tallest barks that ride the seas;
No burthen e'er the bridge may know,
And as thou seek'st to near-it flees!
N
·


## p. 12892 (#318) ##########################################

12892
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
First with the floods it came, to fade
As rolled the waters from the land;
Say where that wondrous arch is made,
And whose the artist's plastic hand?
II
THE MOON AND STARS
Bulwer's Translation.
O'ER a spacious pasture go
Sheep in thousands, silver-white;
As to-day we see them, so
In the oldest grandsire's sight.
They drink, never waxing old,
Life from an unfailing brook;
There's a shepherd to their fold,
With a silver-hornèd crook.
From a gate of gold let out,
Night by night he counts them over;
Wide the field they rove about,
Never hath he lost a rover.
True the Dog that helps to lead them,
One gay Ram in front we see:
What the flock, and who doth heed them,
Sheep and shepherd,- tell to me?
Bulwer's Translation.
THE POWER OF SONG
A
RAIN-FLOOD from the mountain riven,
It leaps in thunder forth to-day;
Before its rush the crags are driven,
The oaks uprooted whirled away!
Awed yet in awe all wildly gladdening-
The startled wanderer halts below;
He hears the rock-born waters maddening,
Nor wits the source from whence they go:
So, from their high, mysterious founts, along,
Stream on the silenced world the waves of song!


## p. 12893 (#319) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12893
Knit with th threads of life forever,
By those dread powers that weave the woof,-
Whose art the singer's spell can sever?
Whose breast has mail to music proof?
Lo, to the bard a wand of wonder
The herald of the gods has given;
He sinks the soul the death-realm under,
Or lifts it breathless up to heaven,-
Half sport, half earnest, rocking its devotion
Upon the tremulous ladder of emotion.
As when in hours the least unclouded,
Portentous, strides upon the scene
Some fate before from wisdom shrouded,
And awes the startled souls of men,-
Before that stranger from another,
Behold how this world's great ones bow;
Mean joys their idle clamor smother,
The mask is vanished from the brow:
And from truth's sudden, solemn flag unfurled
Fly all the craven falsehoods of the world!
―
So Song-like Fate itself—is given
To scare the idler thoughts away,
To lift the earthly up to heaven,
To wake the spirit from the clay!
One with the gods the bard: before him
All things unclean and earthly fly;
Hushed are all meaner powers, and o'er him
The dark fate swoops unharming by:
And while the soother's magic measures flow,
Smoothed every wrinkle on the brows of woe!
Even as a child, that after pining
For the sweet absent mother, hears
Her voice, and round her neck entwining
Young arms, vents all its soul in tears:
So by harsh custom far estranged,
Along the glad and guileless track,
To childhood's happy home unchanged
The swift song wafts the wanderer back,—
Snatched from the cold and formal world, and prest
By the great mother to her glowing breast!
Bulwer's Translation.
I


## p. 12894 (#320) ##########################################

12894
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
HYMN TO JOY
SPAR
PARK from the fire that gods have fed —
Joy-thou elysian child divine,
Fire-drunk, our airy footsteps tread,
O Holy One! thy holy shrine.
Strong custom rends us from each other,
Thy magic all together brings;
And man in man but hails a brother,
Wherever rest thy gentle wings.
Chorus - Embrace, ye millions-let this kiss,
Brothers, embrace the earth below!
Yon starry worlds that shine on this,
One common Father know!
He who this lot from fate can grasp,—
Of one true friend the friend to be,
He who one faithful maid can clasp,-
Shall hold with us his jubilee;
Yes, each who but one single heart
In all the earth can claim his own!
Let him who cannot, stand apart,
And weep beyond the pale, alone!
Chorus Homage to holy Sympathy,
―――
Ye dwellers in our mighty ring;
Up to yon star pavilions - she
Leads to the Unknown King!
All being drinks the mother dew
Of joy from Nature's holy bosom;
And Vice and Worth alike pursue
Her steps that strew the blossom.
Joy in each link: to us the treasure
Of Wine and Love; beneath the sod,
The worm has instincts fraught with pleasure;
In heaven the Cherub looks on God!
Chorus - Why bow ye down-why down-ye millions?
O World, thy Maker's throne to see,
Look upward - search the star pavilions:
There must his mansion be!


## p. 12895 (#321) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12895
Joy is the mainspring in the whole.
Of endless Nature's calm rotation;
Joy moves the dazzling wheels that roll
In the great Timepiece of Creation;
Joy breathes on buds, and flowers they are;
Joy beckons suns come forth from heaven;
Joy rolls the spheres in realms afar,—
Ne'er to thy glass, dim Wisdom, given!
Chorus - Joyous as suns careering gay
Along their paths on high,
Joy from Truth's pure and lambent fires,
Smiles out upon the ardent seeker;
Joy leads to virtue man's desires,
And cheers as Suffering's step grows weaker.
High from the sunny slopes of Faith,
The gales her waving banners buoy;
And through the shattered vaults of Death,
Lo, 'mid the choral Angels - Joy!
Chorus
March, brothers, march your dauntless way,
As chiefs to victory!
-
- Bear this life, millions, bravely bear
Bear this life for the better one!
See the stars! a life is there,
Where the reward is won.
Men like the Gods themselves may be,
Though men may not the Gods requite;
Go soothe the pangs of Misery,
Go share the gladness with delight.
Revenge and hatred both forgot,
Have naught but pardon for thy foe;
May sharp repentance grieve him not,
No curse one tear of ours bestow!
Chorus - Let all the world be peace and love,
Cancel thy debt-book with thy brother;
For God shall judge of us above,
As we shall judge each other!
Joy sparkles to us from the bowl:
Behold the juice whose golden color
To meekness melts the savage soul,
And gives Despair a hero's valor.


## p. 12896 (#322) ##########################################

12896
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
Up, brothers! Lo, we crown the cup!
Lo, the wine flashes to the brim!
Let the bright fount spring heavenward! Up!
To the Good Spirit this glass! To him!
Chorus Praised by the ever-whirling ring
Of stars, and tuneful Seraphim,—
To the Good Spirit, the Father-King
In heaven! This glass to him!
Firm mind to bear what fate bestows;
Comfort to tears in sinless eyes;
Faith kept alike with friends and foes;
Man's oath eternal as the skies;
Manhood, the thrones of Kings to girth,
Though bought by life or limb the prize;
Success to merit's honest worth;
Perdition to the brood of lies!
---
Chorus-Draw closer in the holy ring;
YⓇ
Swear by the wine-cup's golden river,
Swear by the stars, and by their King,
To keep this vow forever.
THE GODS OF GREECE
Bulwer's Translation.
E IN the age gone by,
Who ruled the world a world how lovely then!
And guided still the steps of happy men
In the light leading-strings of careless joy!
Ah, flourished then your service of delight!
How different, oh how different, in the day
When thy sweet fanes with many a wreath were bright,
O Venus Amathusia!
Then, through a veil of dreams
Woven by song, truth's youthful beauty glowed,
And life's redundant and rejoicing streams
Gave to the soulless, soul-where'er they flowed.
Man gifted Nature with divinity
To lift and link her to the breast of love;
All things betrayed to the initiate eye
The track of gods above!


## p. 12897 (#323) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12897
Where lifeless- fixed afar-
A flaming ball to our dull sense is given,
Phoebus Apollo in his golden car
In silent glory swept the fields of heaven!
On yonder hill the Oread was adored;
―
In yonder tree the Dryad held her home;
And from her urn the gentle Naiad poured
The wavelet's silver foam.
Yon bay chaste Daphne wreathed;
Yon stone was mournful Niobe's mute cell;
Low through yon sedges pastoral Syrinx breathed,
And through those groves wailed the sweet Philomel,
The tears of Ceres swelled in yonder rill—
Shed for Proserpina to Hades borne;
And for her lost Adonis, yonder hill
Heard Cytherea mourn!
Heaven's shapes were charmed unto
The mortal race of old Deucalion:
Pyrrha's fair daughter humanly to woo,
Came down, in shepherd's guise, Latona's son;
Between men, heroes, gods, harmonious then,
Love wove sweet links and sympathies divine,
Blest Amathusia,-heroes, gods, and men,
Equals before thy shrine!
Not to that culture gay,
Stern self-denial or sharp penance wan!
Well might each heart be happy in that day,
For gods, the happy ones, were kin to man!
The beautiful alone the holy there!
No pleasure shamed the gods of that young race;
So that the chaste Camenæ favoring were,
And the subduing Grace!
A palace every shrine;
Your very sports heroic;-yours the crown
Of contests hallowed to a power divine,
As rushed the chariots thundering to renown.
Fair round the altar where the incense breathed,
Moved your melodious dance inspired; and fair
Above victorious brows, the garland wreathed
Sweet leaves round odorous hair!
XXII-807


## p. 12898 (#324) ##########################################

12898
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
The lively Thyrsus-swinger,
And the wild car the exulting panthers bore,
Announced the presence of the rapture-bringer;
Bounded the satyr and blithe faun before;
And Mænads, as the frenzy stung the soul,
Hymned in their madding dance the glorious wine,
As ever beckoned to the lusty bowl
The ruddy host divine!
Before the bed of death
No ghastly spectre stood; but from the porch
Of life-the lip-one kiss inhaled the breath,
And the mute graceful genius lowered a torch.
The judgment balance of the realms below,
A judge himself of mortal lineage held;
The very Furies, at the Thracian's woe,
Were moved and music-spelled.
In the Elysian grove
The shades renewed the pleasures life held dear:
The faithful spouse rejoined remembered love,
And rushed along the meads the charioteer;
There Linus poured the old accustomed strain;
Admetus there Alcestis still could greet; won
Orestes hath his faithful friend again,
His arrows Poeas's son.
More glorious then the meeds
That in their strife with labor nerved the brave,
To the great doer of renowned deeds,
The Hebe and the heaven the Thunderer gave.
Before the rescued rescuer of the dead,
Bowed down the silent and immortal host;
And the twin stars their guiding lustre shed
On the bark tempest-tost!
Art thou, fair world, no more?
Return, thou virgin bloom on nature's face;-
Ah, only on the minstrel's magic shore,
Can we the footstep of sweet fable trace!
The meadows mourn for the old hallowing life;
Vainly we search the earth, of gods bereft;
Where once the warm and living shapes were rife,
Shadows alone are left!


## p. 12899 (#325) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12899
Cold from the north has gone
Over the flowers the blast that killed their May;
And to enrich the worship of the One,
A universe of gods must pass away!
Mourning, I search on yonder starry steeps,
But thee no more, Selene, there I see!
And through the woods I call, and o'er the deeps,
And-Echo answers me!
Deaf to the joys she gives,
Blind to the pomp of which she is possessed,
Unconscious of the spiritual power that lives
Around and rules her, by our bliss unblessed,
Dull to the art that colors or creates,-
Like the dead timepiece, godless nature creeps
Her plodding round, and by the leaden weights
The slavish motion keeps.
To-morrow to receive
New life, she digs her proper grave to-day;
And icy moons with weary sameness weave
From their own light their fullness and decay.
Home to the poets' land the gods are flown;
Light use in them that later world discerns,
Which, the diviner leading-strings outgrown,
On its own axle turns.
Home! and with them are gone
The hues they gazed on and the tones they heard;
Life's beauty and life's melody; - alone
Broods o'er the desolate void the lifeless word:
Yet rescued from Time's deluge, still they throng
Unseen the Pindus they were wont to cherish:
Ah, that which gains immortal life in song,
To mortal life must perish!
Bulwer's Translation.


## p. 12900 (#326) ##########################################

12900
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
THE ARTISTS
[Only the concluding lines of this long and beautiful poem are given, in
which Schiller embodies his conceptions of the mission of art (in its broadest
sense, including poetry and all creations of the imagination), and of its rela-
tions to philosophy and science. ]
IT
F ON the course of Thought, now barrier-free,
Sweeps the glad search of bold Philosophy;
And with self-pæans and a vain renown
Would claim the praise and arrogate the crown,
Holding but as a soldier in her band
The nobler Art that did in truth command;
And grants, beneath her visionary throne,
To Art, her queen, the slave's first rank alone,—
Pardon the vaunt! For you Perfection all
Her star-gems weaves in one bright coronal!
With you, the first blooms of the spring, began
Awakening Nature in the soul of man!
With you fulfilled, when Nature seeks repose,
Autumn's exulting harvests ripely close.
If Art rose plastic from the stone and clay,
To mind from matter ever sweeps its sway;
Silent, but conquering in its silence, lo,
How o'er the spiritual world its triumphs go!
What in the land of knowledge, wide and far,
Keen science teaches, for you discovered are:
First in your arms the wise their wisdom learn,—
They dig the mine you teach them to discern;
And when that wisdom ripens to the flower
And crowning time of Beauty,-to the power
From whence it rose new stores it must impart,
The toils of science swell the wealth of art.
When to one height the sage ascends with you,
And spreads the vale of matter round his view
In the mild twilight of serene repose,-
The more the artist charms, the more the thinker knows.
The more the shapes in intellectual joy
Linked by the genii which your spells employ,
The more the thought with the emotion blends,-
The more upbuoyed by both the soul ascends
To loftier harmonies and heavenlier things,
And tracks the stream of beauty to its springs.


## p. 12901 (#327) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12901
The lovely members of the mighty whole,
Till then confused and shapeless to his soul,
Distinct and glorious grow upon his sight;
The fair enigmas brighten from the night;
More rich the universe his thoughts inclose,
More wide the ocean with whose wave he flows;
The wrath of fate grows feebler to his fears,
As from God's scheme Chance wanes and disappears;
And as each straining impulse soars above,
How his pride lessens, how augments love!
So, scattering blooms, the still guide Poetry
Leads him through paths, though hid, that mount on high,
Through forms and tones more pure and more sublime,—
Alp upon Alp of beauty,- till the time
When what we long as poetry have nurst,
Shall às God's own swift inspiration burst,
And flash in glory, on that youngest day,—
One with the truth to which it wings the way!
O sons of Art! into your hands consigned,
O heed the trust, O heed it and revere!
The liberal dignity of human-kind!
With you to sink, with you to reappear.
The hallowed melody of Magian song
Does to creation as a link belong,
Blending its music with God's harmony,
As rivers melt into the mighty sea.
Truth, when the age she would reform expels,
Flies for safe refuge to the Muses' cells.
More fearful for the veil of charms she takes,
From song the fullness of her splendor breaks;
And o'er the foe that persecutes and quails
Her vengeance thunders, as the bard prevails.
Rise, ye free sons of the free Mother, rise:
Still on the light of Beauty sun your eyes;
Still to the heights that shine afar aspire,
Nor meaner meads than those she gives, desire.
If here the sister Art forsake awhile,
Elude the clasp, and vanish from the toil:
Go seek and find her at the mother's heart;
Go search for Nature - and arrive at Art!
Ever the Perfect dwells in whatsoe'er
Fair souls conceive and recognize as fair!
Borne on your daring pinions, soar sublime
Above the shoal and eddy of the time.


## p. 12902 (#328) ##########################################

12902
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
Far-glimmering on your wizard mirror, see
The silent shadow of the age to be.
Through all life's thousandfold entangled maze,
One godlike bourne your gifted sight surveys;
Through countless means one solemn end foreshown,
The labyrinth closes at a single Throne.
As in seven tints of variegated light
Breaks the lone shimmer of the lucid white,
As the seven tints that paint the Iris bow
Into the lucid white dissolving flow,-
-
So truth in many-colored splendor plays:
Now on the eye enchanted with the rays;
Now in one lustre gathers every beam,
And floods the world with light—a single stream!
Bulwer's Translation.
EXTRACTS FROM THE SONG OF THE BELL'
SEE
EE the mold of clay, well heated,
In the earth walled firmly, stand.
Be the bell to-day created!
Come, my comrades, be at hand!
From the glowing brow
Sweat must freely flow,
So the work the master showeth;
Yet the blessing Heaven bestoweth.
The work we earnestly are doing
Befitteth well an earnest word;
Then toil goes on, more briskly flowing,
When good discourse is also heard.
So let us then with care now ponder
What through weak strength originates:
To him no reverence can we render,
Who never heeds what he creates.
'Tis this indeed that man most graceth,
For this 'tis his to understand,-
That in his inner heart he traceth
What he produces with his hand.
See how brown the pipes are getting!
This little rod I dip it in;
If it show a glazèd coating,
Then the casting may begin.


## p. 12903 (#329) ##########################################

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
12903
Now my lads, enough!
Prove me now the stuff,
The brittle with the tough combining,
See if they be rightly joining.
For when the strong and mild are pairing,
The manly with the tender sharing,
Then is the concord good and strong.
See ye, who join in endless union,
If heart with heart be in communion!
For fancy's brief, repentance long.
Be the casting now beginning;
Finely jagged is the grain.
But before we set it running,
Let us breathe a pious strain.
Let the metal go!
God protect us now!
Through the bending handle hollow
Smoking shoots the fire-brown billow.
Benignant is the might of flame,
When man keeps watch and makes it tame;
In what he fashions, what he makes,
Help from this heaven's force he takes:
But fearful is this heaven's force
When all unfettered in its course;
It steps forth on its own fierce way,
Thy daughter, Nature, wild and free.
Woe! when once emancipated,
With naught her power to withstand,
Through the streets thick populated,
Waves she high her monstrous brand!
By the elements is hated
What is formed by mortal hand.
From the tower,
Heavy and slow,
Tolls the funeral
Note of woe,
Sad and solemn, with its knell attending
Some new wanderer on the last way wending.
•
Ah! the wife it is, the dear one,
Ah! it is the faithful mother,
Whom the angel dark is tearing
From the husband's arms endearing,


## p. 12904 (#330) ##########################################

12904
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER
From the group of children, far,
Whom she, blooming, to him bare,
Whom she on her faithful breast
Saw with joy maternal rest;
Ah! the household ties so tender
Broken are for evermore,
For the shadow-land now holds her,
Who the household rulèd o'er!
For her faithful guidance ceases;
No more keepeth watch her care;
In the void and orphaned places
Rules the stranger, loveless there.
•
Woe! if, heaped up, the fire-tinder
Should the still heart of cities fill,
Their fetters rending all asunder,
The people work then their own will!
Then at the bell-ropes tuggeth riot;
The bell gives forth a wailing sound,-
Sacred to peace alone and quiet,
For blood it rings the signal round.
"Equality and Freedom" howling,
Rushes to arms the citizen,
And bloody-minded bands are prowling,
And streets and halls are filled with men;
Then women, to hyenas changing,
On bloody horrors feast and laugh,
And with the thirst of panthers ranging.
The blood of hearts yet quivering quaff.
Naught sacred is there more, for breaking
Are all the bands of pious awe;
The good man's place the bad are taking,
And vice acknowledges no law.
'Tis dangerous to rouse the lion,
Deadly to cross the tiger's path,
But the most terrible of terrors
Is man himself in his wild wrath.
Alas! when to the ever blinded
The heavenly torch of light is lent!
It guides him not,-it can but kindle
Whole States in flames and ruin blent.
Translation of William H. Furness.