The Bride of Messina, and On the Use of the Chorus in Tragedy. Friedrich von Schiller

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         I can no more; my prayers – my tears are vain: —

         'Tis well! obey the demon in your hearts!

         Fulfil your dread intent, and stain with blood

         The holy altars of your household gods; —

         These halls that gave you birth, the stage where murder

         Shall hold his festival of mutual carnage

         Beneath a mother's eye! – then, foot to foot,

         Close, like the Theban pair, with maddening gripe,

         And fold each other in a last embrace!

         Each press with vengeful thrust the dagger home,

         And "Victory!" be your shriek of death: – nor then

         Shall discord rest appeased; the very flame

         That lights your funeral pyre shall tower dissevered

         In ruddy columns to the skies, and tell

         With horrid image – "thus they lived and died!"

            How have her words with soft control

            Resistless calmed the tempest of my soul!

             No guilt of kindred blood be mine!

            Thus with uplifted hands I prey;

            Think, brothers, on the awful day,

             And tremble at the wrath divine!

         Thou art my elder – speak – without dishonor

         I yield to thee.

                  One gracious word, an instant,

         My tongue is rival in the strife of love!

         I am the guiltier – weaker —

                        Say not so!

         Who doubts thy noble heart, knows thee not well;

         The words were prouder, if thy soul were mean.

         It burns indignant at the thought of wrong —

         But thou – methinks – in passion's fiercest mood,

         'Twas aught but scorn that harbored in thy breast.

         Oh! had I known thy spirit thus to peace

         Inclined, what thousand griefs had never torn

         A mother's heart!

                   I find thee just and true:

         Men spoke thee proud of soul.

                         The curse of greatness!

         Ears ever open to the babbler's tale.

         Thou art too proud to meanness – I to falsehood!

         We are deceived, betrayed!

                       The sport of frenzy!

         And said my mother true, false is the world?

         Believe her, false as air.

                       Give me thy hand!

         And thine be ever next my heart!

                          I gaze

         Upon thy brow, and still behold my mother

         In some dear lineament.

                      Her image looks

         From thine, and wondrous in my bosom wakes

         Affection's springs.

                    And is it thou? – that smile

         Benignant on thy face? – thy lips that charm

         With gracious sounds of love and dear forgiveness?

         Is this my brother, this the hated foe?

         His mien all gentleness and truth, his voice,

         Whose soft prevailing accents breathe of friendship!

         Shall aught divide us?

                     We are one forever!

            Why stand we thus, and coldly gaze,

             While Nature's holy transports burn?

            No dear embrace of happier days

             The pledge – that discord never shall return!

            Brothers are they by kindred band;

            We own the ties of home and native land.

         Rejoice, my prince, thy messenger returns

         And mark that beaming smile! the harbinger

         Of happy tidings.

                   Health to me, and health

         To this delivered state! Oh sight of bliss,

         That lights mine eyes with rapture! I behold

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