The Poems of Schiller — First period. Friedrich von Schiller

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         Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain,

         Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain,

                Stalks Peleus' ruthless son?

         Who, when thou glid'st amid the dark abodes,

         To hurl the spear and to revere the gods,

                Shall teach thine orphan one?

         Woman and wife beloved — cease thy tears;

         My soul is nerved — the war-clang in my ears!

                Be mine in life to stand

         Troy's bulwark! — fighting for our hearths, to go

         In death, exulting to the streams below,

                Slain for my fatherland!

         No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall —

         Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall —

                Fallen the stem of Troy!

         Thou goest where slow Cocytus wanders — where

         Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air

                Is dark to light and joy!

         Longing and thought — yes, all I feel and think

         May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink,

                But my love not!

         Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls! — I hear!

         Gird on my sword — Beloved one, dry the tear —

                Lethe for love is not!

         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!

         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, СКАЧАТЬ