The Poems of Schiller — Third period

THE FORUM OF WOMAN

 
   Woman, never judge man by his individual actions;
   But upon man as a whole, pass thy decisive decree.
 

THE GLOVE.
A TALE

 
   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.
 

THE CIRCLE OF NATURE

 
   All, thou gentle one, lies embraced in thy kingdom; the graybeard
   Back to the days of his youth, childish and child-like, returns.
 

THE VEILED STATUE AT SAIS

 
   A youth, impelled by a burning thirst for knowledge
   To roam to Sais, in fair Egypt's land,
   The priesthood's secret learning to explore,
   Had passed through many a grade with eager haste,
   And still was hurrying on with fond impatience.
   Scarce could the Hierophant impose a rein
   Upon his headlong efforts. "What avails
   A part without the whole?" the youth exclaimed;
   "Can there be here a lesser or a greater?
   The truth thou speak'st of, like mere earthly dross,
   Is't but a sum that can be held by man
   In larger or in smaller quantity?
   Surely 'tis changeless, indivisible;
   Deprive a harmony of but one note,
   Deprive the rainbow of one single color,
   And all that will remain is naught, so long
   As that one color, that one note, is wanting."
 
 
   While thus they converse held, they chanced to stand
   Within the precincts of a lonely temple,
   Where a veiled statue of gigantic size
   The youth's attention caught. In wonderment
   He turned him toward his guide, and asked him, saying,
   "What form is that concealed beneath yon veil?"
   "Truth!" was the answer. "What!" the young man cried,
   "When I am striving after truth alone,
   Seekest thou to hide that very truth from me?"
 
 
   "The Godhead's self alone can answer thee,"
   Replied the Hierophant. "'Let no rash mortal
   Disturb this veil,' said he, 'till raised by me;
   For he who dares with sacrilegious hand
   To move the sacred mystic covering,
   He' — said the Godhead — " "Well?" — "'will see the truth.'"
   "Strangely oracular, indeed! And thou
   Hast never ventured, then, to raise the veil?"
   "I? Truly not! I never even felt
   The least desire." — "Is't possible? If I
   Were severed from the truth by nothing else
   Than this thin gauze — " "And a divine decree,"
   His guide broke in. "Far heavier than thou thinkest
   Is this thin gauze, my son. Light to thy hand
   It may be — but most weighty to thy conscience."
 
 
   The youth now sought his home, absorbed in thought;
   His burning wish to solve the mystery
   Banished all sleep; upon his couch he lay,
   Tossing his feverish limbs. When midnight came,
   He rose, and toward the temple timidly,
   Led by a mighty impulse, bent his way.
   The walls he scaled, and soon one active spring
   Landed the daring boy beneath the dome.
 
 
   Behold him now, in utter solitude,
   Welcomed by naught save fearful, deathlike silence, —
   A silence which the echo of his steps
   Alone disturbs, as through the vaults he paces.
   Piercing an opening in the cupola,
   The moon cast down her pale and silvery beams,
   And, awful as a present deity,
   Glittering amid the darkness of the pile,
   In its long veil concealed, the statue stands.
 
 
   With hesitating step, he now draws near —
   His impious hand would fain remove the veil —
   Sudden a burning chill assails his bones
   And then an unseen arm repulses him.
   "Unhappy one, what wouldst thou do?" Thus cries
   A faithful voice within his trembling breast.
   "Wouldst thou profanely violate the All-Holy?"
   "'Tis true the oracle declared, 'Let none
   Venture to raise the veil till raised by me.'
   But did the oracle itself not add,
   That he who did so would behold the truth?
   Whate'er is hid behind, I'll raise the veil."
   And then he shouted: "Yes! I will behold it!"
             "Behold it!"
   Repeats in mocking tone the distant echo.
 
 
   He speaks, and, with the word, lifts up the veil.
   Would you inquire what form there met his eye?
   I know not, — but, when day appeared, the priests
   Found him extended senseless, pale as death,
   Before the pedestal of Isis' statue.
   What had been seen and heard by him when there
   He never would disclose, but from that hour
   His happiness in life had fled forever,
   And his deep sorrow soon conducted him
   To an untimely grave. "Woe to that man,"
   He warning said to every questioner,
   "Woe to that man who wins the truth by guilt,
   For truth so gained will ne'er reward its owner."
 

THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH

 
   "Take the world!" Zeus exclaimed from his throne in the skies
    To the children of man — "take the world I now give;
   It shall ever remain as your heirloom and prize,
    So divide it as brothers, and happily live."
 
 
   Then all who had hands sought their share to obtain,
    The young and the aged made haste to appear;
   The husbandman seized on the fruits of the plain,
    The youth through the forest pursued the fleet deer.
 
 
   The merchant took all that his warehouse could hold,
    The abbot selected the last year's best wine,
   The king barred the bridges, — the highways controlled,
    And said, "Now remember, the tithes shall be mine!"
 
 
   But when the division long-settled had been,
    The poet drew nigh from a far distant land;
   But alas! not a remnant was now to be seen,
    Each thing on the earth owned a master's command.
 
 
   "Alas! shall then I, of thy sons the most true, —
    Shall I, 'mongst them all, be forgotten alone?"
   Thus loudly he cried in his anguish, and threw
    Himself in despair before Jupiter's throne.
 
 
   "If thou in the region of dreams didst delay,
    Complain not of me," the Immortal replied;
   "When the world was apportioned, where then wert thou, pray?"
    "I was," said the poet, "I was — by thy side!"
 
 
   "Mine eye was then fixed on thy features so bright,
    Mine ear was entranced by thy harmony's power;
   Oh, pardon the spirit that, awed by thy light,
    All things of the earth could forget in that hour!"
 
 
   "What to do?" Zeus exclaimed, — "for the world has been given;
    The harvest, the market, the chase, are not free;
   But if thou with me wilt abide in my heaven,
    Whenever thou comest, 'twill be open to thee!"
 

THE FAIREST APPARITION

 
   If thou never hast gazed upon beauty in moments of sorrow,
    Thou canst with truth never boast that thou true beauty hast seen.
   If thou never hast gazed upon gladness in beauteous features,
    Thou canst with truth never boast that thou true gladness hast seen.
 

THE IDEAL AND THE ACTUAL LIFE

 
   Forever fair, forever calm and bright,
   Life flies on plumage, zephyr-light,
    For those who on the Olympian hill rejoice —
   Moons wane, and races wither to the tomb,
   And 'mid the universal ruin, bloom
    The rosy days of Gods — With man, the choice,
   Timid and anxious, hesitates between
    The sense's pleasure and the soul's content;
   While on celestial brows, aloft and sheen,
    The beams of both are blent.
 
 
   Seekest thou on earth the life of gods to share,
   Safe in the realm of death? — beware
    To pluck the fruits that glitter to thine eye;
   Content thyself with gazing on their glow —
   Short are the joys possession can bestow,
    And in possession sweet desire will die.
   'Twas not the ninefold chain of waves that bound
    Thy daughter, Ceres, to the Stygian river —
   She plucked the fruit of the unholy ground,
    And so — was hell's forever!
   The weavers of the web — the fates — but sway
   The matter and the things of clay;
    Safe from change that time to matter gives,
   Nature's blest playmate, free at will to stray
   With gods a god, amidst the fields of day,
    The form, the archetype ²⁵, serenely lives.
   Would'st thou soar heavenward on its joyous wing?
    Cast from thee, earth, the bitter and the real,
   High from this cramped and dungeon being, spring
    Into the realm of the ideal!
 
 
   Here, bathed, perfection, in thy purest ray,
   Free from the clogs and taints of clay,
    Hovers divine the archetypal man!
   Dim as those phantom ghosts of life that gleam
   And wander voiceless by the Stygian stream, —
    Fair as it stands in fields Elysian,
   Ere down to flesh the immortal doth descend: —
    If doubtful ever in the actual life
   Each contest — here a victory crowns the end
    Of every nobler strife.
 
 
   Not from the strife itself to set thee free,
   But more to nerve — doth victory
    Wave her rich garland from the ideal clime.
   Whate'er thy wish, the earth has no repose —
   Life still must drag thee onward as it flows,
    Whirling thee down the dancing surge of time.
   But when the courage sinks beneath the dull
    Sense of its narrow limits — on the soul,
   Bright from the hill-tops of the beautiful,
    Bursts the attained goal!
 
 
   If worth thy while the glory and the strife
   Which fire the lists of actual life —
    The ardent rush to fortune or to fame,
   In the hot field where strength and valor are,
   And rolls the whirling thunder of the car,
    And the world, breathless, eyes the glorious game —
   Then dare and strive — the prize can but belong
    To him whose valor o'er his tribe prevails;
   In life the victory only crowns the strong —
    He who is feeble fails.
 
 
   But life, whose source, by crags around it piled,
   Chafed while confined, foams fierce and wild,
    Glides soft and smooth when once its streams expand,
   When its waves, glassing in their silver play,
   Aurora blent with Hesper's milder ray,
    Gain the still beautiful — that shadow-land!
   Here, contest grows but interchange of love,
    All curb is but the bondage of the grace;
   Gone is each foe, — peace folds her wings above
    Her native dwelling-place.
 
 
   When, through dead stone to breathe a soul of light,
   With the dull matter to unite
    The kindling genius, some great sculptor glows;
   Behold him straining, every nerve intent —
   Behold how, o'er the subject element,
    The stately thought its march laborious goes!
   For never, save to toil untiring, spoke
    The unwilling truth from her mysterious well —
   The statue only to the chisel's stroke
    Wakes from its marble cell.
 
 
   But onward to the sphere of beauty — go
   Onward, O child of art! and, lo!
    Out of the matter which thy pains control
   The statue springs! — not as with labor wrung
   From the hard block, but as from nothing sprung —
    Airy and light — the offspring of the soul!
   The pangs, the cares, the weary toils it cost
    Leave not a trace when once the work is done —
   The Artist's human frailty merged and lost
    In art's great victory won! ²⁶
   If human sin confronts the rigid law
   Of perfect truth and virtue ²⁷, awe
    Seizes and saddens thee to see how far
   Beyond thy reach, perfection; — if we test
   By the ideal of the good, the best,
    How mean our efforts and our actions are!
   This space between the ideal of man's soul
    And man's achievement, who hath ever past?
   An ocean spreads between us and that goal,
    Where anchor ne'er was cast!
 
 
   But fly the boundary of the senses — live
   The ideal life free thought can give;
    And, lo, the gulf shall vanish, and the chill
   Of the soul's impotent despair be gone!
   And with divinity thou sharest the throne,
    Let but divinity become thy will!
   Scorn not the law — permit its iron band
    The sense (it cannot chain the soul) to thrall.
   Let man no more the will of Jove withstand ²⁸,
    And Jove the bolt lets fall!
 
 
   If, in the woes of actual human life —
   If thou could'st see the serpent strife
    Which the Greek art has made divine in stone —
   Could'st see the writhing limbs, the livid cheek,
   Note every pang, and hearken every shriek,
    Of some despairing lost Laocoon,
   The human nature would thyself subdue
    To share the human woe before thine eye —
   Thy cheek would pale, and all thy soul be true
    To man's great sympathy.
 
 
   But in the ideal realm, aloof and far,
   Where the calm art's pure dwellers are,
    Lo, the Laocoon writhes, but does not groan.
   Here, no sharp grief the high emotion knows —
   Here, suffering's self is made divine, and shows
    The brave resolve of the firm soul alone:
   Here, lovely as the rainbow on the dew
    Of the spent thunder-cloud, to art is given,
   Gleaming through grief's dark veil, the peaceful blue
    Of the sweet moral heaven.
 
 
   So, in the glorious parable, behold
   How, bowed to mortal bonds, of old
    Life's dreary path divine Alcides trod:
   The hydra and the lion were his prey,
   And to restore the friend he loved to-day,
    He went undaunted to the black-browed god;
   And all the torments and the labors sore
    Wroth Juno sent — the meek majestic one,
   With patient spirit and unquailing, bore,
    Until the course was run —
 
 
   Until the god cast down his garb of clay,
   And rent in hallowing flame away
    The mortal part from the divine — to soar
   To the empyreal air! Behold him spring
   Blithe in the pride of the unwonted wing,
    And the dull matter that confined before
   Sinks downward, downward, downward as a dream!
    Olympian hymns receive the escaping soul,
   And smiling Hebe, from the ambrosial stream,
    Fills for a god the bowl!