The Piccolomini. Friedrich von Schiller

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         The army? Doubtless!

                     What delight to observe

         How he incites and strengthens all around him,

         Infusing life and vigor. Every power

         Seems as it were redoubled by his presence

         He draws forth every latent energy,

         Showing to each his own peculiar talent,

         Yet leaving all to be what nature made them,

         And watching only that they be naught else

         In the right place and time; and he has skill

         To mould the power's of all to his own end.

         But who denies his knowledge of mankind,

         And skill to use it? Our complaint is this:

         That in the master he forgets the servant,

         As if he claimed by birth his present honors.

         And does he not so? Is he not endowed

         With every gift and power to carry out

         The high intents of nature, and to win

         A ruler's station by a ruler's talent?

         So then it seems to rest with him alone

         What is the worth of all mankind beside!

         Uncommon men require no common trust;

         Give him but scope and he will set the bounds.

         The proof is yet to come.

                       Thus are ye ever.

         Ye shrink from every thing of depth, and think

         Yourselves are only safe while ye're in shallows.

         'Twere best to yield with a good grace, my friend;

         Of him there you'll make nothing.

                           In their fear

         They call a spirit up, and when he comes,

         Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him

         More than the ills for which they called him up.

         The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be

         Like things of every day. But in the field,

         Ay, there the Present Being makes itself felt.

         The personal must command, the actual eye

         Examine. If to be the chieftain asks

         All that is great in nature, let it be

         Likewise his privilege to move and act

         In all the correspondences of greatness.

         The oracle within him, that which lives,

         He must invoke and question – not dead books,

         Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.

         My son! of those old narrow ordinances

         Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights

         Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind,

         Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.

         For always formidable was the League

         And partnership of free power with free will.

         The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,

         Is yet no devious path. Straight forward goes

         The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path

         Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies, and rapid;

         Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches,

         My son, the road the human being travels,

         That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow

         The river's course, the valley's playful windings,

         Curves round the cornfield and the hill of vines,

         Honoring the holy bounds of property!

         And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

         Oh, hear your father, noble youth! hear him

         Who is at once the hero and the man.

         My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!

         A war of fifteen years

         Hath been thy education and thy school.

         Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists

         An higher than the warrior's excellence.

         In war itself war is no ultimate purpose,

         The vast and sudden deeds of violence,

         Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,

         These are not they, my son, that generate

         The calm, the blissful, and the enduring mighty!

         Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect!

         Builds his light town of canvas, and at once

         The whole scene moves and bustles momently.

         With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel

         The motley market fills; the roads, the streams

         Are crowded with new freights; trade stirs and hurries,

         But on some morrow morn, all suddenly,

         The tents drop down, the horde renews its march.

         Dreary, and solitary as a churchyard;

         The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,

         And the year's harvest is gone utterly.

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