Pale, at its ghastly noon,
 Pauses above the death-still wood the moon;
 The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;
 The clouds descend in rain;
 Mourning, the wan stars wane,
 Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!
 Haggard as spectres vision-like and dumb,
 Dark with the pomp of death, and moving slow,
 Towards that sad lair the pale procession come
 Where the grave closes on the night below.

 With dim, deep-sunken eye,
 Crutched on his staff, who trembles tottering by?
 As wrung from out the shattered heart, one groan
 Breaks the deep hush alone!
 Crushed by the iron fate, he seems to gather
 All life's last strength to stagger to the bier,
 And hearken Do these cold lips murmur "Father?"
 The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear,
 Pierces the bones gnawed fleshless by despair,
 And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair.

 Fresh bleed the fiery wounds
 Through all that agonizing heart undone
 Still on the voiceless lips "my Father" sounds,
 And still the childless Father murmurs "Son!"
 Ice-cold ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies
 Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanished there
 The sweet and golden name of "Father" dies
 Into thy curse, ice-cold ice-cold he lies!
 Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were!

 Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora,
 While the air like Elysium is smiling above,
 Steeped in rose-breathing odors, the darling of Flora
 Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.
 So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss,
 The silver wave mirrored the smile of his face;
 Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss,
 And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.

 Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world,
 As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs;
 As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurled,
 Swept his hope round the heaven on its limitless wings.
 Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein,
 That, kingly, exults in the storm of the brave;
 That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane,
 Strode he forth by the prince and the slave!

 Life like a spring day, serene and divine,
 In the star of the morning went by as a trance;
 His murmurs he drowned in the gold of the wine,
 And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance.

 Worlds lay concealed in the hopes of his youth!
 When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame!
 Fond father exult! In the germs of his youth
 What harvests are destined for manhood and fame!

 Not to be was that manhood! The death-bell is knelling,
 The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears
 How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling!
 Not to be was that manhood! Flow on, bitter tears!
 Go, beloved, thy path to the sun,
 Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest;
 Go quaff the delight which thy spirit has won,
 And escape from our grief in the Halls of the Blest.

 Again (in that thought what a healing is found!)
 To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!
 Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound,
 And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead.
 And we cling to each other! O Grave, he is thine!
 The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears
 And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign,
 Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears.
 Pale at its ghastly noon,
 Pauses above the death-still wood the moon!
 The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs:
 The clouds descend in rain;
 Mourning, the wan stars wane,
 Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres.
 The dull clods swell into the sullen mound;
 Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave!
 The grave locks up the treasure it has found;
 Higher and higher swells the sullen mound
 Never gives back the grave!

A Funeral Fantasie

Let none resemble another; let each resemble the highest!
How can that happen? let each be all complete in itself.

A Problem

Thy wife is destined to deceive thee!
She'll seek another's arms and leave thee,
And horns upon thy head will shortly sprout!
How dreadful that when bathing thou shouldst see me
(No ether-bath can wash the stigma out),
And then, in perfect innocence, shouldst flee me!

Actaeon

Angel-fair, Walhalla's charms displaying,
 Fairer than all mortal youths was he;
 Mild his look, as May-day sunbeams straying
 Gently o'er the blue and glassy sea.

 And his kisses! what ecstatic feeling!
 Like two flames that lovingly entwine,
 Like the harp's soft tones together stealing
 Into one sweet harmony divine,

 Soul and soul embraced, commingled, blended,
 Lips and cheeks with trembling passion burned,
 Heaven and earth, in pristine chaos ended,
 Round the blissful lovers madly turn'd.

 He is gone and, ah! with bitter anguish
 Vainly now I breathe my mournful sighs;
 He is gone in hopeless grief I languish
 Earthly joys I ne'er again can prize!

Amalia

APPENDIX.

The following variations appear in the first two verses of Hector's
Farewell, as given in The Robbers, act ii. scene 2.


ANDROMACHE.
Wilt thou, Hector, leave me? leave me weeping,
Where Achilles' murderous blade is heaping
Bloody offerings on Patroclus' grave?
Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly
Spears to hurl, the gods to honor duly,
When thou'rt buried 'neath dark Xanthus' wave?

HECTOR.
Dearest wife, go, fetch my death-spear glancing,
Let me join the battle-dance entrancing,
For my shoulders bear the weight of Troy!
Heaven will be our Astyanax' protector!
Falling as his country's savior, Hector
Soon will greet thee in the realms of joy.


The following additional verse is found in Amalia's Song, as sung in The
Robbers, act iii. scene 1. It is introduced between the first and second
verses, as they appear in poems.

His embrace what maddening rapture bound us!
Bosom throbbed 'gainst bosom with wild might;
Mouth and ear were chained night reigned around us
And the spirit winged toward heaven its flight.


From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.

CHORUS OF ROBBERS.
What so good for banishing sorrow
As women, theft, and bloody affray?
We must dance in the air to-morrow,
Therefore let's be right merry to-day!

A free and jovial life we've led,
Ever since we began it.
Beneath the tree we make our bed,
We ply our task when the storm's o'erhead
And deem the moon our planet.
The fellow we swear by is Mercury,
A capital hand at our trade is he.

To-day we become the guests of a priest,
A rich farmer to-morrow must feed us;
And as for the future, we care not the least,
But leave it to heaven to heed us.

And when our throats with a vintage rare
We've long enough been supplying,
Fresh courage and strength we drink in there,
And with the evil one friendship swear,
Who down in hell is frying.

The groans o'er fathers reft of breath,
The sorrowing mothers' cry of death,
Deserted brides' sad sobs and tears.
Are sweetest music to our ears.

Ha! when under the axe each one quivering lies,
When they bellow like calves, and fall round us like flies,
Naught gives such pleasure to our sight,
It fills our ears with wild delight.
 And when arrives the fatal day
 The devil straight may fetch us!
 Our fee we get without delay
 They instantly Jack-Ketch us.
One draught upon the road of liquor bright and clear,
And hip! hip! hip; hurrah! we're seen no longer here!


From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.

    MOOR'S SONG.

BRUTUS.
Ye are welcome, peaceful realms of light!
Oh, receive Rome's last-surviving son!
From Philippi, from the murderous fight,
Come I now, my race of sorrow run.
Cassius, where art thou? Rome overthrown!
All my brethren's loving band destroyed!
Safety find I at death's door alone,
And the world to Brutus is a void!

CAESAR.
Who now, with the ne'er-subdued-one's tread,
Hither from yon rocks makes haste to come?
Ha! if by no vision I'm misled,
'Tis the footstep of a child of Rome.
Son of Tiber whence dost thou appear?
Stands the seven-hilled city as of yore
Oft her orphaned lot awakes my tear,
For alas, her Caesar is no more?

BRUTUS.
Ha! thou with the three-and-twenty wounds!
Who hath, dead one, summoned thee to light?
Back to gaping Orcus' fearful bonds,
Haughty mourner! triumph not to-night!
On Philippi's iron altar, lo!
Reeks now freedom's final victim's blood;
Rome o'er Brutus' bier feels her death-throe,
He seeks Minos. Back to thy dark flood!

CAESAR.
Oh, the death-stroke Brutus' sword then hurled!
Thou, too Brutus thou? Could this thing be?
Son! It was thy father! Son! the world
Would have fallen heritage to thee!
Go 'mongst Romans thou art deemed immortal,
For thy steel hath pierced thy father's breast.
Go and shout it even to yon portal:
"Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal,
For his steel hath pierced his father's breast."
Go thou knowest now what on Lethe's strand
Made me a prisoner stand.
Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land!

BRUTUS.
Father, stay! In all earth's realms so fair,
It hath been my lot to know but one,
Who with mighty Caesar could compare;
And of yore thou called'st him thy son.
None but Caesar could a Rome o'erthrow,
Brutus only made great Caesar fear;
Where lives Brutus, Caesar's blood must flow;
If thy path lies yonder, mine is here.


From Wallenstein's Camp, scene 1.

 RECRUIT'S SONG.

How sweet the wild sound
 Of drum and of fife!
To roam o'er earth's round,
 Lead a wandering life,
 With steed trained aright,
 And bold for the fight,
 With a sword by the side,
 To rove far and wide,
 Quick, nimble, and free
 As the finch that we see
 On bushes and trees,
 Or braving the breeze,
Huzza, then! the Friedlander's banner for me!


From Wallenstein's Camp, scene the last.

SECOND CUIRASSIER sings.
Up, up, my brave comrades! to horse! to horse!
Let us haste to the field and to freedom!
To the field, for 'tis there that is proved our hearts' force,
'Tis there that in earnest we need 'em!
None other can there our places supply,
Each must stand alone, on himself must

Appendix Of Poems Etc. In Schiller's Dramatic Works

To Archimedes once a scholar came,
"Teach me," he said, "the art that won thy fame; 
The godlike art which gives such boons to toil,
And showers such fruit upon thy native soil; 
The godlike art that girt the town when all
Rome's vengeance burst in thunder on the wall!"
"Thou call'st art godlike it is so, in truth,
And was," replied the master to the youth,
"Ere yet its secrets were applied to use 
Ere yet it served beleaguered Syracuse: 
Ask'st thou from art, but what the art is worth?
The fruit? for fruit go cultivate the earth. 
He who the goddess would aspire unto,
Must not the goddess as the woman woo!"

Archimedes

Oh, how infinite, how unspeakably great, are the heavens!
Yet by frivolity's hand downwards the heavens are pulled!

Astronomical Writings

Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb
 Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the cane so troublesome!
Sprigs of fashion by the dozen
Thou dost bring to book, good cousin.
Cousin, thou art not in clover;
Many a head that's filled with smoke
Thou hast twirled and well-nigh broke,
Many a clever one perplexed,
Many a stomach sorely vexed,
Turning it completely over;
Many a hat put on awry,
Many a lamb chased cruelly,
Made streets, houses, edges, trees,
Dance around us fools with ease.
Therefore thou are not in clover,
Therefore thou, like other folk,
Hast thy head filled full of smoke,
Therefore thou, too, art perplexed,
And thy stomach's sorely vexed,
For 'tis turned completely over;
Therefore thou art not in clover.

Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb
 Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the carle so troublesome!
Seest thou how our tongues and wits
Thou hast shivered into bits
Seest thou this, licentious wight?
How we're fastened to a string,
Whirled around in giddy ring,
Making all like night appear,
Filling with strange sounds our ear?
Learn it in the stocks aright!
When our ears wild noises shook,
On the sky we cast no look,
Neither stock nor stone reviewed,
But were punished as we stood.
Seest thou now, licentious wight?
That, to us, yon flaring sun
Is the Heidelbergers' tun;
Castles, mountains, trees, and towers,
Seem like chopin-cups of ours.
Learn'st thou now, licentious wight?
Learn it in the stocks aright!

Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb,
 Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the carle so troublesome!
Kinsman, once so full of glee,
Kinsman, where's thy drollery,
Where thy tricks, thou cunning one?
All thy tricks are spent and past,
To the devil gone at last
Like a silly fop thou'lt prate,
Like a washerwoman rate.
Thou art but a simpleton.
Now thou mayest more shame to thee
Run away, because of me;
Cupid, that young rogue, may glory
Learning wisdom from thy story;
Haste, thou sluggard, hence to flee
As from glass is cut our wit,
So, like lightning, 'twill be split;
If thou won't be chased away,
Let each folly also stay
Seest my meaning? Think of me!
Idle one, away with thee!

Bacchus In The Pillory

Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one, art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever;
If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.

Beauteous Individuality

Naught is for man so important as rightly to know his own purpose;
For but twelve groschen hard cash 'tis to be bought at my shop!

Friedrich Schiller