The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03. Коллектив авторов
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СКАЧАТЬ the lips of the good, on the lips of the best;

        But empty their meaning and hollow their sound—

          And slight is the comfort they bring to the breast.

        The fruits of existence escape from the clasp

        Of the seeker who strives but those shadows to grasp—

        So long as Man dreams of some Age in this life

          When the Right and the Good will all evil subdue;

        For the Right and the Good lead us ever to strife,

          And wherever they lead us, the Fiend will pursue.

        And (till from the earth borne, and stifled at length)

        The earth that he touches still gifts him with strength![10]

        So long as Man fancies that Fortune will live,

          Like a bride with her lover, united with Worth;

        For her favors, alas! to the mean she will give—

          And Virtue possesses no title to earth!

        That Foreigner wanders to regions afar,

        Where the lands of her birthright immortally are!

        So long as Man dreams that, to mortals a gift,

          The Truth in her fulness of splendor will shine;

        The veil of the goddess no earth-born may lift,

          And all we can learn is—to guess and divine I

        Dost thou seek, in a dogma, to prison her form?

        The spirit flies forth on the wings of the storm!

        O, Noble Soul! fly from delusions like these,

          More heavenly belief be it thine to adore;

        Where the Ear never hearkens, the Eye never sees,

          Meet the rivers of Beauty and Truth evermore!

        Not without thee the streams—there the Dull seek them;—No!

        Look within thee—behold both the fount and the flow!

* * * * *

      THE LAY OF THE BELL[11] (1799)

      "Vivos voco—Mortuos plango—Fulgura frango." [12]

I

          Fast in its prison-walls of earth,

            Awaits the mold of bakèd clay.

          Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth—

            THE BELL that shall be born today!

              Who would honor obtain,

              With the sweat and the pain,

        The praise that Man gives to the Master must buy!—

        But the blessing withal must descend from on high!

            And well an earnest word beseems

              The work the earnest hand prepares;

            Its load more light the labor deems,

              When sweet discourse the labor shares.

            So let us ponder—nor in vain—

              What strength can work when labor wills;

            For who would not the fool disdain

              Who ne'er designs what he fulfils?

            And well it stamps our Human Race,

              And hence the gift To UNDERSTAND,

            That Man within the heart should trace

              Whate'er he fashions with the hand.

II

            From the fir the faggot take,

              Keep it, heap it hard and dry,

            That the gathered flame may break

              Through the furnace, wroth and high.

                When the copper within

                Seethes and simmers—the tin

        Pour quick, that the fluid that feeds the Bell

        May flow in the right course glib and well.

            Deep hid within this nether cell,

                What force with Fire is molding thus

            In yonder airy tower shall dwell,

              And witness wide and far of us!

            It shall, in later days, unfailing,

              Rouse many an ear to rapt emotion;

            Its solemn voice with Sorrow wailing,

              Or choral chiming to Devotion.

            Whatever Fate to Man may bring,

              Whatever weal or woe befall,

            That metal tongue shall backward ring

              The warning moral drawn from all.

III

            See the silvery bubbles spring!

              Good! the mass is melting now!

            Let the salts we duly bring

              Purge the flood, and speed the flow.

                From the dross and the scum,

                Pure, the fusion must come;

        For perfect and pure we the metal must keep,

        That its voice may be perfect, and pure, and deep.

              That voice, with merry music rife,

                The cherished child shall welcome in,

              What time the rosy dreams of life

                In the first slumber's arms begin;

             As yet in Time's dark womb unwarning,

                Repose the days, or foul or fair,

             And watchful o'er that golden morning,

                The Mother-Love's untiring care!

             And swift the years like arrows fly—

                No more with girls content to play,

        Fast in its prison-walls of earth,

          Awaits the mold of bakèd clay.

        Up, comrades, up, and aid the birth—

          The BELL that shall be born to-day!

          Bounds the proud Boy upon his way,

            Storms through loud life's tumultuous pleasures,

            With pilgrim staff the wide world measures;

            And, wearied with the wish to roam,

            Again seeks, stranger-like, the Father-Home.

            And, lo, as some sweet СКАЧАТЬ