The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03. Коллектив авторов

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        Across their loins the dark robe clinging,

        In fleshless hands the torches swinging,

        Now to and fro, with dark red glow—

        No blood that lives the dead cheeks know!

        Where flow the locks that woo to love

          On human temples—ghastly dwell

        The serpents, coil'd the brow above,

          And the green asps with poison swell.

        Thus circling, horrible, within

        That space—doth their dark hymn begin,

        And round the sinner as they go,

        Cleave to the heart their words of woe.

        Dismally wails, the senses chilling,

          The hymn—the FURIES' solemn song;

        And froze the very marrow thrilling

          As roll'd the gloomy sounds along.

        And weal to him—from crime secure—

        Who keeps his soul as childhood's pure;

        Life's path he roves, a wanderer free—

        We near him not-THE AVENGERS, WE,

        But woe to him for whom we weave

          The doom for deeds that shun the light:

        Fast to the murderer's feet we cleave,

          The fearful Daughters of the Night.

        "And deems he flight from us can hide him?

        Still on dark wings We sail beside him!

        The murderer's feet the snare enthralls—

        Or soon or late, to earth he falls!

        Untiring, hounding on, we go;

          For blood can no remorse atone I

        On, ever—to the Shades below,

          And there—we grasp him, still our own!"

        So singing, their slow dance they wreathe,

        And stillness, like a silent death,

        Heavily there lay cold and drear,

        As if the Godhead's self were near.

        Then, true to those strange rites of old,

          Pacing the circle's solemn round,

        In long and measured strides—behold,

          They vanish in the hinder ground!

        Confused and doubtful—half between

        The solemn truth and phantom scene,

        The crowd revere the Power, presiding

        O'er secret deeps, to justice guiding—

        The Unfathom'd and Inscrutable

          By whom the web of doom is spun,

        Whose shadows in the deep heart dwell,

          Whose form is seen not in the sun!

        Just then, amidst the highest tier,

         Breaks forth a voice that starts the ear;

        "See there—see there, Timotheus,

         Behold the Cranes of Ibycus!"

         A sudden darkness wraps the sky;

           Above the roofless building hover

         Dusk, swarming wings; and heavily

           Sweep the slow Cranes, hoarse-murmuring, over!

        "Of Ibycus?"—that name so dear

         Thrills through the hearts of those who hear!

         Like wave on wave in eager seas,

         From mouth to mouth the murmur flees—

        "Of Ibycus, whom we bewail!

           The murder'd one! What mean those words?

         Who is the man—knows he the tale?

           Why link that name with those wild birds?"

         Questions on questions louder press—

         Like lightning flies the inspiring guess—

         Leaps every heart—"The truth we seize;

         Your might is here, EUMENIDES!

         The murderer yields himself confest—

           Vengeance is near—that voice the token—

         Ho!-him who yonder spoke, arrest!

           And him to whom the words were spoken!"

         Scarce had the wretch the words let fall,

         Than fain their sense he would recall

         In vain; those whitening lips—behold!

         The secret have already told.

         Into their Judgment Court sublime

           The Scene is changed;—their doom is seal'd!

         Behold the dark unwitness'd Crime,

           Struck by the lightning that reveal'd!

      THE WORDS OF BELIEF (1797)