"[This fine piece, written originally in 1805, on Schiller's death, was altered and recast by Goethe in 1815, on the occasion of the performance on the stage of the Song of the Bell. Hence the allusion in the last verse.]
To this city joy reveal it!
Peace as its first signal peal it!
(Song of the Bell--concluding lines.)
AND so it proved! The nation felt, ere long,That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught, A new-born joy appear'd; in gladsome songTo hail the youthful princely pair we sought;While in a living, ever-swelling throngMingled the crowds from ev'ry region brought, And on the stage, in festal pomp array'd The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS * we saw displayed.
(* The title of a lyric piece composed by Schiller in honour of the marriage of the hereditary Prince of Weimar to the Princess Maria of Russia, and performed in 1804.)When, lo! a fearful midnight sound I hear,That with a dull and mournful echo rings.
And can it be that of our friend so dearIt tells, to whom each wish so fondly clings?
Shall death overcome a life that all revere?
How such a loss to all confusion brings!
How such a parting we must ever rue!
The world is weeping,--shall not we weep too?
He was our own! How social, yet how greatSeem'd in the light of day his noble mind!
How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate,Now for glad converse joyously incline, Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught, elate,Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it design'd, Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed!
This have we proved, this tasted, in our need.
He was our own! O may that thought so blestOvercome the voice of wailing and of woe He might have sought the Lasting, safe at restIn harbour, when the tempest ceased to blow.
Meanwhile his mighty spirit onward press'dWhere goodness, beauty, truth, for ever grow;And in his rear, in shadowy outline, lay The vulgar, which we all, alas, obey!
Now doth he deck the garden-turret fairWhere the stars' language first illuded his soul, As secretly yet clearly through the airOn the eterne, the living sense it stole;And to his own, and our great profit, thereExchangeth he the seasons as they roll;Thus nobly doth he vanquish, with renown, The twilight and the night that weigh us down.
Brighter now glow'd his cheek, and still more bright.
With that unchanging, ever-youthful glow,--That courage which overcomes, in hard-fought fight,Sooner or later, ev'ry earthly foe--That faith which, soaring to the realms of light,Now boldly Presseth on, now bendeth low, So that the good may work, wax, thrive amain, So that the day the noble may attain.
Yet, though so skill'd, of such transcendent worth,This boarded scaffold doth he not despise;The fate that on its axis turns the earthFrom day to night, here shows he to our eyes, Raising, through many a work of glorious birth,Art and the artist's fame up tow'rd the skies.
He fills with blossoms of the noblest strife, With life itself, this effigy of life.
His giant-step, as ye full surely knew,Measured the circle of the will and deed, Each country's changing thoughts and morals too,The darksome book with clearness could he read;Yet how he, breathless 'midst his friends so true,Despaired in sorrow, scarce from pain was freed,--All this have we, in sadly happy years, For he was ours, bewailed with feeling tears.
When from the agonizing weight of griefHe raised his eyes upon the world again, We show'd him how his thoughts might find reliefFrom the uncertain present's heavy chain, Gave his fresh-kindled mind a respite brief,With kindly skill beguiling ev'ry pain, And e'en at eve, when setting was his sun, From his wan cheeks a gentle smile we won.
Full early had he read the stern decree,Sorrow and death to him, alas, were known;Ofttimes recovering, now departed he,--
Dread tidings, that our hearts had fear'd to own!
Yet his transfigured being now can seeItself, e'en here on earth, transfigured grown.
What his own age reproved, and deem'd a crime, Hath been ennobled now by death and time.
And many a soul that with him strove in fight,And his great merit grudged to recognise, Now feels the impress of his wondrous might,And in his magic fetters gladly lies;E'en to the highest bath he winged his flight,In close communion link'd with all we prize.
Extol him then! What mortals while they live But half receive, posterity shall give.
Thus is he left us, who so long ago,--
Ten years, alas, already!--turn'd from earth;We all, to our great joy, his precepts know,Oh may the world confess their priceless worth!
In swelling tide tow'rd every region flowThe thoughts that were his own peculiar birth;He gleams like some departing meteor bright, Combining, with his own, eternal light.
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