The Poems of Schiller — Third period. Friedrich von Schiller

a whisper died?

         No — 'twas the swan that gently broke

          In rings the silver tide!

         Soft to my ear there comes a music-flow;

          In gleesome murmur glides the waterfall;

         To zephyr's kiss the flowers are bending low;

          Through life goes joy, exchanging joy with all.

         Tempt to the touch the grapes — the blushing fruit, 2

        Voluptuous swelling from the leaves that bide;

         And, drinking fever from my cheek, the mute

          Air sleeps all liquid in the odor-tide!

         Hark! through the alley hear I now

          A footfall? Comes the maiden?

         No, — 'twas the fruit slid from the bough,

          With its own richness laden!

         Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death,

          And pale and paler wane his jocund hues,

         The flowers too gentle for his glowing breath,

          Ope their frank beauty to the twilight dews.

         The bright face of the moon is still and lone,

          Melts in vast masses the world silently;

         Slides from each charm the slowly-loosening zone;

          And round all beauty, veilless, roves the eye.

         What yonder seems to glimmer?

          Her white robe's glancing hues?

         No, — 'twas the column's shimmer

          Athwart the darksome yews!

         O, longing heart, no more delight-upbuoyed

          Let the sweet airy image thee befool!

         The arms that would embrace her clasp the void

          This feverish breast no phantom-bliss can cool,

         O, waft her here, the true, the living one!

          Let but my hand her hand, the tender, feel —

         The very shadow of her robe alone! —

          So into life the idle dream shall steal!

         As glide from heaven, when least we ween,

         The rosy hours of bliss,

         All gently came the maid, unseen: —

         He waked beneath her kiss!

      LONGING

         Could I from this valley drear,

          Where the mist hangs heavily,

         Soar to some more blissful sphere,

          Ah! how happy should I be!

         Distant hills enchant my sight,

          Ever young and ever fair;

         To those hills I'd take my flight

          Had I wings to scale the air.

         Harmonies mine ear assail,

          Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;

         And the gently-sighing gale

          Greets me with its fragrant balm.

         Peeping through the shady bowers,

          Golden fruits their charms display.

         And those sweetly-blooming flowers

          Ne'er become cold winter's prey.

         In you endless sunshine bright,

          Oh! what bliss 'twould be to dwell!

         How the breeze on yonder height

          Must the heart with rapture swell!

         Yet the stream that hems my path

          Checks me with its angry frown,

         While its waves, in rising wrath,

          Weigh my weary spirit down.

         See — a bark is drawing near,

          But, alas, the pilot fails!

         Enter boldly — wherefore fear?

          Inspiration fills its sails,

         Faith and courage make thine own, —

          Gods ne'er lend a helping-hand;

         'Tis by magic power alone

          Thou canst reach the magic land!

      EVENING.

      (AFTER A PICTURE.)

         Oh! thou bright-beaming god, the plains are thirsting,

         Thirsting for freshening dew, and man is pining;

              Wearily move on thy horses —

              Let, then, thy chariot descend!

         Seest thou her who, from ocean's crystal billows,

         Lovingly nods and smiles? — Thy heart must know her!

              Joyously speed on thy horses, —

              Tethys, the goddess, 'tis nods!

         Swiftly from out his flaming chariot leaping,

         Into her arms he springs, — the reins takes Cupid, —

              Quietly stand the horses,

              Drinking the cooling flood.

         Now from the heavens with gentle step descending,

         Balmy night appears, by sweet love followed;

              Mortals, rest ye, and love ye, —

              Phoebus, the loving one, rests!

      THE PILGRIM

        

2

The peach.