Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805) German Dramatist.



PHANTASY -- TO LAURA

Name, my Laura, name the whirl-compelling
Bodies to unite in one blest whole--
Name, my Laura, name the wondrous magic
By which Soul rejoins its kindred Soul!

See! it teaches yonder roving Planets
Round the sun to fly in endless race;
And as children play around their mother,
Checker'd circles round the orb to trace.

Every rolling star, by thirst tormented,
Drinks with joy its bright and golden rain--
Drinks refreshment from its fiery chalice,
As the limbs are nourish'd by the brain.

'Tis through Love that atom pairs with atom,
In a harmony eternal, sure;
And 'tis Love that links the spheres together--
Through her only, systems can endure.

Were she but effaced from Nature's clockwork,
Into dust would fly the mighty world;
O'er thy systems thou wouldst weep, great Newton,
When with giant force to Chaos hurl'd!

Blot the Goddess from the Spirit Order,
It would sink in death, and ne'er arise.
Were Love absent, spring would glad us never;
Were Love absent, none their God would prize!

What is that, which, when my Laura kisses,
Dyes my cheek with flames of purple hue,
Bids my bosom bound with swifter motion,
Like a fever wild my veins runs through?

Ev'ry nerve from out its barriers rises,
O'er its banks the blood begins to flow;
Body seeks to join itself to Body,
Spirits kindle in one blissful glow.

Powerful as in the dead creations
That eternal impulses obey,
O'er the web Arachnine-like of Nature,--
Living Nature,--Love exerts her sway.

Laura, see how Joyousness embraces
E'en the overflow of sorrows wild!
How e'en rigid desperation kindles
On the loving breast of Hope so mild.

Sisterly and blissful raptures softens
Gloomy Melancholy's fearful night,
And, deliver'd of its golden Children,
Lo, the eye pours forth its radiance bright!

Does not awful Sympathy rule over
E'en the realms that Evil calls its own?
For 'tis Hell our crimes are ever wooing,
While they bear a grudge 'gainst Heaven alone!

Shame, Repentance, pair Eumenides-like,
Weave round sin their fearful serpent-coils:
While around the eagle-wings of Greatness
Treach'rous danger winds its dreaded toils.

Ruin oft with Pride is wont to trifle,
Envy upon Fortune loves to cling;
On her brother, Death, with arms extended,
Lust, his sister, oft is wont to spring.

On the wings of Love the Future hastens
In the arms of ages past to lie;
And Saturnus, as he onwards speeds him,
Long hath sought his bride -- Eternity!

Soon Saturnus will his bride discover,--
So the mighty Oracle hath said;
Blazing Worlds will turn to marriage torches
When Eternity with Time shall wed!

Then a fairer, far more beauteous morning,
Laura, on our Love shall also shine,
Long as their blest bridal-night enduring:--
So rejoice thee, Laura -- Laura mine!





RAPTURE -- TO LAURA


From earth I seem to wing my flight,
And sun myself in Heaven's pure light,
When thy sweet gaze meets mine
I dream I quaff ethereal dew,
When mine own form I mirror'd view
In those blue eyes divine!

Blest notes from Paradise afar,
Or strains from some benignant star
Enchant my ravish'd ear;
My Muse feels then the shepherd's hour
When silv'ry tones of magic power
Escape those lips so dear!

Young Loves around thee fan their wings --
Behind, the madden'd fir-tree springs,
As when by Orpheus fir'd;
The poles whirl round with swifter motion,
When in the dance, like waves o'er Ocean,
Thy footsteps float untir'd!

Thy look, if it but beam with love,
Could make the lifeless marble move,
And hearts in rocks enshrine;
My visions to reality
Will turn, if, Laura, in thine eye
I read -- that thou art mine!




THE SECRET

The sought to breathe one word, but vainly--
Too many listeners were nigh;
And yet my timid glance read plainly
The language of her speaking eye.

Thy silent glades my footstep presses,
Thou fair and leaf-embosom'd grove!
Conceal within thy green recesses
From mortal eye our sacred love!

Afar with strange discordant noises,
The busy day is echoing;
And, 'mid the hollow hum of voices,
I hear the heavy hammer ring.
'Tis thus that man, with toil ne'er-ending,
Extorts from Heaven his daily bread;
Yet oft unseen the Gods are sending
The gifts of fortune on his head!

Oh, let mankind discover never
How true love fills with bliss our hearts!
They would but crush our joy forever,
For joy to them no glow imparts.
Thou ne'er wilt from the world obtain it--
'Tis never captured save as prey;
Thou needs must strain each nerve to gain it,
E'er Envy dark asserts her sway.

The hours of night and stillness loving,
It comes upon us silently--
Away with hasty footsteps moving
Soon as it sees a treach'rous eye.
Thou gentle stream, soft circlets weaving,
A wat'ry barrier cast around,
And, with thy waves in anger heaving,
Guard from each foe this holy ground!





THE GLOVE

Before his lion-court
Impatient for the sport,
King Francis sat one day;
The peers of his realm sat around,
And in balcony high from the ground
Sat the ladies in beauteous array.
And when with his finger he beckoned,
The gate opened wide in a second
And in, with deliberate tread,
Enters a lion dread,
And looks around
Yet utters no sound;
Then long he yawns
And shakes his mane,
And, stretching each limb,
Down lies he again.

Again signs the king,--
The next gate open flies,
And, lo! with a wild spring,
A tiger out hies.
When the lion he sees, loudly roars he about,
And a terrible circle his tail traces out.
Protruding his tongue, past the lion he walks,
And, snarling with rage, round him warily stalks
Then, growling anew,
On one side lies down too.

Again signs the king,--
And two gates open fly,
And, lo! with one spring,
Two leopards out hie.
On the tiger they rush, for the fight nothing loth,
But he with his paws seizes hold of them both
And the lion, with roaring, gets up, - then all's still,
The fierce beasts stalk around, madly thirsting to kill.

From the balcony raised high above
A fair hand lets fall down a glove
Into the lists, where 'tis seen
The lion and tiger between.

To the knight, Sir Delorges, in tone of jest,
Then speaks young Cunigund fair;
"Sir Knight, if the love that thou feel'st in thy breast
Is as warm as thou'rt wont at each moment to swear,
Pick up, I pray thee, the glove that lies there!"

And the knight, in a moment, with dauntless tread,
Jumps into the lists, nor seeks to linger,
And, from out the midst of those monsters dread,
Picks up the glove with a daring finger.

And the knights and ladies of high degree
With wonder and horror the action see,
While he quietly brings in his hand the glove,
The praise of his courage each mouth employs;
Meanwhile, with a tender look of love,
The promise to him of coming joys,
Fair Cunigund welcomes him back to his place.
But he threw the glove point-blank in her face:
"Lady, no thanks from thee I'll receive!"
And that selfsame hour he took his leave.