In all that now around him breathes,
Proportion sweet is ever rife;
And beauty's golden girdle wreathes
With mildness round his path through life;
Perfection blest, triumphantly,
Before him in your works soars high;
Wherever boisterous rapture swells,
Wherever silent sorrow flees,
Where pensive contemplation dwells,
Where he the tears of anguish sees,
Where thousand terrors on him glare,
Harmonious streams are yet behind—
He sees the Graces sporting there,
With feeling silent and refined.
Gentle as beauty's lines together linking,
As the appearances that round him play,
In tender outline in each other sinking,
The soft breath of his life thus fleets away.
His spirit melts in the harmonious sea,
That, rich in rapture, round his senses flows,
And the dissolving thought all silently
To omnipresent Cytherea grows.
Joining in lofty union with the Fates,
On Graces and on Muses calm relying,
With freely-offered bosom he awaits
The shaft that soon against him will be flying
From the soft bow necessity creates.
Favorites beloved of blissful harmony,
Welcome attendants on life's dreary road,
The noblest and the dearest far that she,
Who gave us life, to bless that life bestowed!
That unyoked man his duties bears in mind,
And loves the fetters that his motions bind,
That Chance with brazen sceptre rules him not,—
For this eternity is now your lot,
Your heart has won a bright reward for this.
That round the cup where freedom flows,
Merrily sport the gods of bliss,—
The beauteous dream its fragrance throws,
For this, receive a loving kiss!
The spirit, glorious and serene,
Who round necessity the graces trains,—
Who bids his ether and his starry plains
Upon us wait with pleasing mien,—
Who, 'mid his terrors, by his majesty gives joy,
And who is beauteous e'en when seeking to destroy,—
Him imitate, the artist good!
As o'er the streamlet's crystal flood
The banks with checkered dances hover,
The flowery mead, the sunset's light,—
Thus gleams, life's barren pathway over,
Poesy's shadowy world so bright.
In bridal dress ye led us on
Before the terrible Unknown,
Before the inexorable fate,
As in your urns the bones are laid,
With beauteous magic veil ye shade
The chorus dread that cares create.
Thousands of years I hastened through
The boundless realm of vanished time
How sad it seems when left by you—
But where ye linger, how sublime!
She who, with fleeting wing, of yore
From your creating hand arose in might,
Within your arms was found once more,
When, vanquished by Time's silent flight,
Life's blossoms faded from the cheek,
And from the limbs all vigor went,
And mournfully, with footstep weak,
Upon his staff the gray-beard leant.
Then gave ye to the languishing,
Life's waters from a new-born spring;
Twice was the youth of time renewed,
Twice, from the seeds that ye had strewed.
When chased by fierce barbarian hordes away,
The last remaining votive brand ye tore
From Orient's altars, now pollution's prey,
And to these western lands in safety bore.
The fugitive from yonder eastern shore,
The youthful day, the West her dwelling made;
And on Hesperia's plains sprang up once more
Ionia's flowers, in pristine bloom arrayed.
Over the spirit fairer Nature shed,
With soft refulgence, a reflection bright,
And through the graceful soul with stately tread
Advanced the mighty Deity of light.
Millions of chains were burst asunder then,
And to the slave then human laws applied,
And mildly rose the younger race of men,
As brethren, gently wandering side by side,
With noble inward ecstasy,
The bliss imparted ye receive,
And in the veil of modesty,
With silent merit take your leave.
If on the paths of thought, so freely given,
The searcher now with daring fortune stands,
And, by triumphant Paeans onward driven,
Would seize upon the crown with dauntless hands—
If he with grovelling hireling's pay
Thinks to dismiss his glorious guide—
Or, with the first slave's-place array
Art near the throne his dream supplied—
Forgive him!—O'er your head to-day
Hovers perfection's crown in pride,
With you the earliest plant Spring had,
Soul-forming Nature first began;
With you, the harvest-chaplet glad,
Perfected Nature ends her plan.
The art creative, that all-modestly arose
From clay and stone, with silent triumph throws
Its arms around the spirit's vast domain.
What in the land of knowledge the discoverer knows,
He knows, discovers, only for your gain
The treasures that the thinker has amassed,
He will enjoy within your arms alone,
Soon as his knowledge, beauty-ripe at last.
To art ennobled shall have grown,—
Soon as with you he scales a mountain-height,
And there, illumined by the setting sun,
The smiling valley bursts upon his sight.
The richer ye reward the eager gaze
The higher, fairer orders that the mind
May traverse with its magic rays,
Or compass with enjoyment unconfined—
The wider thoughts and feelings open lie
To more luxuriant floods of harmony.
To beauty's richer, more majestic stream,—
The fair members of the world's vast scheme,
That, maimed, disgrace on his creation bring,
He sees the lofty forms then perfecting—
The fairer riddles come from out the night—
The richer is the world his arms enclose,
The broader stream the sea with which he flows—
The weaker, too, is destiny's blind might—
The nobler instincts does he prove—
The smaller he himself, the greater grows his love.
Thus is he led, in still and hidden race,
By poetry, who strews his path with flowers,
Through ever-purer forms, and purer powers,
Through ever higher heights, and fairer grace.
At length, arrived at the ripe goal of time,—
Yet one more inspiration all-sublime,
Poetic outburst of man's latest youth,
And—he will glide into the arms of truth!
Herself, the gentle Cypria,
Illumined by her fiery crown,
Then stands before her full-grown son
Unveiled—as great Urania;
The sooner only by him caught,
The fairer he had fled away!
Thus stood, in wonder rapture-fraught,
Ulysses' noble son that day,
When the sage mentor who his youth beguiled;
Herself transfigured as Jove's glorious child!
Man's honor is confided to your hand,—
There let it well protected be!
It sinks with you! with you it will expand!
Poesy's sacred sorcery
Obeys a world-plan wise and good;
In silence let it swell the flood
Of mighty-rolling harmony.
By her own time viewed with disdain,
Let solemn truth in song remain,
And let the Muses' band defend her!
In all the fullness of her splendor,
Let her survive in numbers glorious,
More dread, when veiled her charms appear,
And vengeance take, with strains victorious,
On her tormentor's ear!
The freest mother's children free,
With steadfast countenance then rise
To highest beauty's radiancy,
And every other crown despise!
The sisters who escaped you here,
Within your mother's arms ye'll meet;
What noble spirits may revere,
Must be deserving and complete.
High over your own course of time
Exalt yourselves with pinion bold,
And dimly let your glass sublime
The coming century unfold!
On thousand roads advancing fast
Of ever-rich variety,
With fond embraces meet at last
Before the throne of harmony!
As into seven mild rays we view
With softness break the glimmer white,
As rainbow-beams of sevenfold hue
Dissolve again in that soft light,
In clearness thousandfold thus throw
Your magic round the ravished gaze,—
Into one stream of light thus flow,—
One bond of truth that ne'er decays!
THE CELEBRATED WOMAN.
AN EPISTLE BY A MARRIED MAN—TO A FELLOW-SUFFERER.
[In spite of Mr. Carlyle's assertion of Schiller's "total deficiency in humor," [12] we think that the following poem suffices to show that he possessed the gift in no ordinary degree, and that if the aims of a genius so essentially earnest had allowed him to indulge it he would have justified the opinion of the experienced Iffland as to his capacities for original comedy.]
Can I, my friend, with thee condole?—
Can I conceive the woes that try men,
When late repentance racks the soul
Ensnared into the toils of hymen?
Can I take part in such distress?—
Poor martyr,—most devoutly, "Yes!"
Thou weep'st because thy spouse has flown
To arms preferred before thine own;—
A faithless wife,—I grant the curse,—
And yet, my friend, it might be worse!
Just hear another's tale of sorrow,
And, in comparing, comfort borrow!
What! dost thou think thyself undone,
Because thy rights are shared with one!
O, happy man—be more resigned,
My wife belongs to all mankind!
My wife—she's found abroad—at home;
But cross the Alps and she's at Rome;
Sail to the Baltic—there you'll find her;
Lounge on the Boulevards—kind and kinder:
In short, you've only just to drop
Where'er they sell the last new tale,
And, bound and lettered in the shop,
You'll find my lady up for sale!
She must her fair proportions render
To all whose praise can glory lend her;—
Within the coach, on board the boat,
Let every pedant "take a note;"
Endure, for public approbation,
Each critic's "close investigation,"
And brave—nay, court it as a flattery—
Each spectacled Philistine's battery.
Just as it suits some scurvy carcase
In which she hails an Aristarchus,
Ready to fly with kindred souls,
O'er blooming flowers or burning coals,
To fame or shame, to shrine or gallows,
Let him but lead—sublimely callous!
A Leipsic man—(confound the wretch!)
Has made her topographic sketch,
A kind of map, as of a town,
Each point minutely dotted down;
Scarce to myself I dare to hint
What this d——d fellow wants to print!
Thy wife—howe'er she slight the vows—
Respects, at least, the name of spouse;
But mine to regions far too high
For that terrestrial name is carried;
My wife's "The famous Ninon!"—I
"The gentleman that Ninon married!"
It galls you that you scarce are able
To stake a florin at the table—
Confront the pit, or join the walk,
But straight all tongues begin to talk!
O that such luck could me befall,
Just to be talked about at all!
Behold me dwindling in my nook,
Edged at her left,—and not a look!
A sort of rushlight of a life,
Put out by that great orb—my wife!
Scarce is the morning gray—before
Postman and porter crowd the door;
No premier has so dear a levee—
She finds the mail-bag half its trade;
My God—the parcels are so heavy!
And not a parcel carriage-paid!
But then—the truth must be confessed—
They're all so charmingly addressed:
Whate'er they cost, they well requite her—
"To Madame Blank, the famous writer!"
Poor thing, she sleeps so soft! and yet
'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber;
"Madame—from Jena—the Gazette—
The Berlin Journal—the last number!"
Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue
(Sweet eyes!) fall straight—on the Review!
I by her side—all undetected,
While those cursed columns are inspected;
Loud squall the children overhead,
Still she reads on, till all is read:
At last she lays that darling by,
And asks—"What makes the baby cry?"
Already now the toilet's care
Claims from her couch the restless fair;
The toilet's care!—the glass has won
Just half a glance, and all is done!
A snappish—pettish word or so
Warns the poor maid 'tis time to go:—
Not at her toilet wait the Graces
Uncombed Erynnys takes their places;
So great a mind expands its scope
Far from the mean details of—soap!
Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster—
Now round my muse her votaries cluster;
Spruce Abbe Millefleurs—Baron Herman—
The English Lord, who don't know German,—
But all uncommonly well read
From matchless A to deathless Z!
Sneaks in the corner, shy and small,
A thing which men the husband call!
While every fop with flattery fires her,
Swears with what passion he admires her.—
"'Passion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?"
Lord bless your soul, the worst's to come:—
I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,—
And hope—the rogue will stay to dinner!
But oh, at dinner!—there's the sting;
I see my cellar on the wing!
You know if Burgundy is dear?—
Mine once emerged three times a year;—
And now to wash these learned throttles,
In dozens disappear the bottles;
They well must drink who well do eat
(I've sunk a capital on meat).
Her immortality, I fear, a
Death-blow will prove to my Madeira;
It has given, alas! a mortal shock
To that old friend—my Steinberg hock! [13]
If Faust had really any hand
In printing, I can understand
The fate which legends more than hint;—
The devil take all hands that print!
And what my thanks for all?—a pout—
Sour looks—deep sighs; but what about?
About! O, that I well divine—
That such a pearl should fall to swine—
That such a literary ruby
Should grace the finger of a booby!
Spring comes;—behold, sweet mead and lea
Nature's green splendor tapestries o'er;
Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree;
Larks sing—the woodland wakes once more.
The woodland wakes—but not for her!
From Nature's self the charm has flown;
No more the Spring of earth can stir
The fond remembrance of our own!
The sweetest bird upon the bough
Has not one note of music now;
And, oh! how dull the grove's soft shade,
Where once—(as lovers then)—we strayed!
The nightingales have got no learning—
Dull creatures—how can they inspire her?
The lilies are so undiscerning,
They never say—"how they admire her!"
In all this jubilee of being,
Some subject for a point she's seeing—
Some epigram—(to be impartial,
Well turned)—there may be worse in Martial!
But, hark! the goddess stoops to reason:—
"The country now is quite in season,
I'll go!"—"What! to our country seat?"
"No!—Travelling will be such a treat;
Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear;
But Carlsbad's quite the rage this year!"
Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces;
Nature is gay—in watering-places!
Those pleasant spas—our reigning passion—
Where learned Dons meet folks of fashion;
Where—each with each illustrious soul
Familiar as in Charon's boat,
All sorts of fame sit cheek-by-jowl,
Pearls in that string—the table d'hote!
Where dames whom man has injured—fly,
To heal their wounds or to efface, them;
While others, with the waters, try
A course of flirting,—just to brace them!
Well, there (O man, how light thy woes
Compared with mine—thou need'st must see!)
My wife, undaunted, greatly goes—
And leaves the orphans (seven!!!) to me!
O, wherefore art thou flown so soon,
Thou first fair year—Love's honeymoon!
All, dream too exquisite for life!
Home's goddess—in the name of wife!
Reared by each grace—yet but to be
Man's household Anadyomene!
With mind from which the sunbeams fall,
Rejoice while pervading all;
Frank in the temper pleased to please—
Soft in the feeling waked with ease.
So broke, as native of the skies,
The heart-enthraller on my eyes;
So saw I, like a morn of May,
The playmate given to glad my way;
With eyes that more than lips bespoke,
Eyes whence—sweet words—"I love thee!" broke!
So—Ah, what transports then were mine!
I led the bride before the shrine!
And saw the future years revealed,
Glassed on my hope—one blooming field!
More wide, and widening more, were given
The angel-gates disclosing heaven;
Round us the lovely, mirthful troop
Of children came—yet still to me
The loveliest—merriest of the group
The happy mother seemed to be!
Mine, by the bonds that bind us more
Than all the oaths the priest before;
Mine, by the concord of content,
When heart with heart is music-blent;
When, as sweet sounds in unison,
Two lives harmonious melt in one!
When—sudden (O the villain!)—came
Upon the scene a mind profound!—
A bel esprit, who whispered "Fame,"
And shook my card-house to the ground.
What have I now instead of all
The Eden lost of hearth and hall?
What comforts for the heaven bereft?
What of the younger angel's left?
A sort of intellectual mule,
Man's stubborn mind in woman's shape,
Too hard to love, too frail to rule—
A sage engrafted on an ape!
To what she calls the realm of mind,
She leaves that throne, her sex, to crawl,
The cestus and the charm resigned—
A public gaping-show to all!
She blots from beauty's golden book
A name 'mid nature's choicest few,
To gain the glory of a nook
In Doctor Dunderhead's Review.
WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM.
Sweet friend, the world, like some fair infant blessed,
Radiant with sportive grace, around thee plays;
Yet 'tis not as depicted in thy breast—
Not as within thy soul's fair glass, its rays
Are mirrored. The respectful fealty
That my heart's nobleness hath won for thee,
The miracles thou workest everywhere,
The charms thy being to this life first lent,—
To it, mere charms to reckon thou'rt content,
To us, they seem humanity so fair.
The witchery sweet of ne'er-polluted youth,
The talisman of innocence and truth—
Him I would see, who these to scorn can dare!
Thou revellest joyously in telling o'er
The blooming flowers that round thy path are strown,—
The glad, whom thou hast made so evermore,—
The souls that thou hast conquered for thine own.
In thy deceit so blissful be thou glad!
Ne'er let a waking disenchantment sad
Hurl thee despairing from thy dream's proud flight!
Like the fair flowerets that thy beds perfume,
Observe them, but ne'er touch them as they bloom,—
Plant them, but only for the distant sight.
Created only to enchant the eye,
In faded beauty at thy feet they'll lie,
The nearer thee, the nearer their long night!
FOOTNOTES:
[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.