The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume I Part 38

A yearning long unfelt, each impulse swaying, To yon calm spirit-realm uplifts my soul; In faltering cadence, as when Zephyr playing, Fans the aeolian harp, my numbers roll; Tear follows tear, my steadfast heart obeying The tender impulse, loses its control; What I possess as from afar I see; Those I have lost become realities to me.

PROLOGUE FOR THE THEATRE

MANAGER. DRAMATIC POET. MERRYMAN

MANAGER Ye twain, in trouble and distress True friends whom I so oft have found, Say, for our scheme on German ground, What prospect have we of success?

Fain would I please the public, win their thanks; They live and let live, hence it is but meet.

The posts are now erected, and the planks, And all look forward to a festal treat.

Their places taken, they, with eyebrows rais'd, Sit patiently, and fain would be amaz'd.

I know the art to hit the public taste, Yet ne'er of failure felt so keen a dread; True, they are not accustomed to the best, But then appalling the amount they've read.

How make our entertainment striking, new, And yet significant and pleasing too?

For to be plain, I love to see the throng, As to our booth the living tide progresses; As wave on wave successive rolls along, And through heaven's narrow portal forceful presses; Still in broad daylight, ere the clock strikes four, With blows their way toward the box they take; And, as for bread in famine, at the baker's door, For tickets are content their necks to break.

Such various minds the bard alone can sway, My friend, oh work this miracle today!

POET

Oh of the motley throng speak not before me, At whose aspect the Spirit wings its flight!

Conceal the surging concourse, I implore thee, Whose vortex draws us with resistless might.

No, to some peaceful heavenly nook restore me, Where only for the bard blooms pure delight, Where love and friendship yield their choicest blessing, Our heart's true bliss, with G.o.dlike hand caressing.

What in the spirit's depths was there created, What shyly there the lip shaped forth in sound; A failure now, with words now fitly mated, In the wild tumult of the hour is drown'd; Full oft the poet's thought for years hath waited Until at length with perfect form 'tis crowned; What dazzles, for the moment born, must perish; What genuine is posterity will cherish.

MERRYMAN

This cant about posterity I hate; About posterity were I to prate, Who then the living would amuse? For they Will have diversion, ay, and 'tis their due.

A sprightly fellow's presence at your play, Methinks should also count for something too; Whose genial wit the audience still inspires, Knows from their changeful mood no angry feeling; A wider circle he desires, To their heart's depths more surely thus appealing.

To work, then! Give a master-piece, my friend; Bring Fancy with her choral trains before us, Sense, reason, feeling, pa.s.sion, but attend!

Let folly also swell the tragic chorus.

MANAGER

In chief, of incident enough prepare!

A show they want, they come to gape and stare.

Spin for their eyes abundant occupation, So that the mult.i.tude may wondering gaze, You by sheer bulk have won your reputation, The man you are all love to praise.

By ma.s.s alone can you subdue the ma.s.ses, Each then selects in time what suits his bent.

Bring much, you something bring for various cla.s.ses, And from the house goes every one content.

You give a piece, abroad in pieces send it!

'Tis a ragout--success must needs attend it; 'Tis easy to serve up, as easy to invent.

A finish'd whole what boots it to present!

Full soon the public will in pieces rend it.

POET

How mean such handicraft as this you cannot feel!

How it revolts the genuine artist's mind!

The sorry trash in which these c.o.xcombs deal, Is here approved on principle, I find.

MANAGER

Such a reproof disturbs me not a whit!

Who on efficient work is bent, Must choose the fittest instrument.

Consider! 'tis soft wood you have to split; Think too for whom you write, I pray!

One comes to while an hour away; One from the festive board, a sated guest; Others, more dreaded than the rest, From journal-reading hurry to the play.

As to a masquerade, with absent minds, they press, Sheer curiosity their footsteps winging; Ladies display their persons and their dress, Actors unpaid their service bringing.

What dreams beguile you on your poet's height?

What puts a full house in a merry mood?

More closely view your patrons of the night!

The half are cold, the half are rude.

One, the play over, craves a game of cards; Another a wild night in wanton joy would spend.

Poor fools the muses' fair regards Why court for such a paltry end?

I tell you, give them more, still more, 'tis all I ask, Thus you will ne'er stray widely from the goal; Your audience seek to mystify, cajole;-- To satisfy them--that's a harder task.

What ails thee? art enraptured or distressed?

POET

Depart! elsewhere another servant choose.

What! shall the bard his G.o.dlike power abuse?

Man's loftiest right, kind nature's high bequest, For your mean purpose basely sport away?

Whence comes his mastery o'er the human breast, Whence o'er the elements his sway, But from the harmony that, gushing from his soul, Draws back into his heart the wondrous whole?

With careless hand when round her spindle, Nature Winds the interminable thread of life; When 'mid the clash of Being every creature Mingles in harsh inextricable strife; Who deals their course unvaried till it falleth, In rhythmic flow to music's measur'd tone?

Each solitary note whose genius calleth, To swell the mighty choir in unison?

Who in the raging storm sees pa.s.sion low'ring?

Or flush of earnest thought in evening's glow?

Who every blossom in sweet spring-time flowering Along the loved one's path would strow?

Who, Nature's green familiar leaves entwining, Wreathes glory's garland, won on every field?

Makes sure Olympus, heavenly powers combining?

Man's mighty spirit, in the bard reveal'd!

MERRYMAN

Come then, employ your lofty inspiration, And carry on the poet's avocation, Just as we carry on a love affair.

Two meet by chance, are pleased, they linger there, Insensibly are link'd, they scarce know how; Fortune seems now propitious, adverse now, Then come alternate rapture and despair; And 'tis a true romance ere one's aware.

Just such a drama let us now compose.

Plunge boldly into life-its, depths disclose!

Each lives it, not to many is it known, 'Twill interest wheresoever seiz'd and shown; Bright pictures, but obscure their meaning: A ray of truth through error gleaming, Thus you the best elixir brew, To charm mankind, and edify them too.

Then youth's fair blossoms crowd to view your play, And wait as on an oracle; while they, The tender souls, who love the melting mood, Suck from your work their melancholy food; Now this one, and now that, you deeply stir, Each sees the working of his heart laid bare.

Their tears, their laughter, you command with ease, The lofty still they honor, the illusive love.

Your finish'd gentlemen you ne'er can please; A growing mind alone will grateful prove.

POET

Then give me back youth's golden prime, When my own spirit too was growing, When from my heart th' unbidden rhyme Gush'd forth, a fount for ever flowing; Then shadowy mist the world conceal'd, And every bud sweet promise made, Of wonders yet to be reveal'd, As through the vales, with blooms inlaid, Culling a thousand flowers I stray'd.

Naught had I, yet a rich profusion!

The thirst for truth, joy in each fond illusion.

Give me unquell'd those impulses to prove;-- Rapture so deep, its ecstasy was pain, The power of hate, the energy of love, Give me, oh give me back my youth again!

MERRYMAN