The Works of Frederick Schiller Part 512

"How far beneath me seems the earthly ball!

The pigmy race below I scarce can see; How does my art, the n.o.blest art of all, Bear me close up to heaven's bright canopy!"

So cries the slater from his tower's high top, And so the little would-be mighty man, Hans Metaphysicus, from out his critic-shop.

Explain, thou little would-be mighty man!

The tower from which thy looks the world survey, Whereof,--whereon is it erected, pray?

How didst thou mount it? Of what use to thee Its naked heights, save o'er the vale to see?

PEGASUS IN HARNESS.

Once to a horse-fair,--it may perhaps have been Where other things are bought and sold,--I mean At the Haymarket,--there the muses' horse A hungry poet brought--to sell, of course.

'The hippogriff neighed shrilly, loudly, And reared upon his hind-legs proudly; In utter wonderment each stood and cried: "The n.o.ble regal beast!" But, woe betide!

Two hideous wings his slender form deface, The finest team he else would not disgrace.

"The breed," said they, "is doubtless rare, But who would travel through the air?"

Not one of them would risk his gold.

At length a farmer grew more bold: "As for his wings, I of no use should find them, But then how easy 'tis to clip or bind them!

The horse for drawing may be useful found,-- So, friend, I don't mind giving twenty pound!"

The other glad to sell his merchandise, Cried, "Done!"--and Hans rode off upon his prize.

The n.o.ble creature was, ere long, put-to, But scarcely felt the unaccustomed load, Than, panting to soar upwards, off he flew, And, filled with honest anger, overthrew The cart where an abyss just met the road.

"Ho! ho!" thought Hans: "No cart to this mad beast I'll trust. Experience makes one wise at least.

To drive the coach to-morrow now my course is, And he as leader in the team shall go.

The lively fellow'll save me full two horses; As years pa.s.s on, he'll doubtless tamer grow."

All went on well at first. The nimble steed His partners roused,--like lightning was their speed.

What happened next? Toward heaven was turned his eye,-- Unused across the solid ground to fly, He quitted soon the safe and beaten course, And true to nature's strong resistless force, Ran over bog and moor, o'er hedge and pasture tilled; An equal madness soon the other horses filled-- No reins could hold them in, no help was near, Till,--only picture the poor travellers' fear!-- The coach, well shaken, and completely wrecked, Upon a hill's steep top at length was checked.

"If this is always sure to be the case,"

Hans cried, and cut a very sorry face, "He'll never do to draw a coach or wagon; Let's see if we can't tame the fiery dragon By means of heavy work and little food."

And so the plan was tried.--But what ensued?

The handsome beast, before three days had pa.s.sed, Wasted to nothing. "Stay! I see at last!"

Cried Hans. "Be quick, you fellows! yoke him now With my most st.u.r.dy ox before the plough."

No sooner said than done. In union queer Together yoked were soon winged horse and steer.

The griffin pranced with rage, and his remaining might Exerted to resume his old-accustomed flight.

'Twas all in vain--his partner stepped with circ.u.mspection, And Phoebus' haughty steed must follow his direction; Until at last, by long resistance spent, When strength his limbs no longer was controlling, The n.o.ble creature, with affliction bent, Fell to the ground, and in the dust lay rolling.

"Accursed beast!" at length with fury mad Hans shouted, while he soundly plied the lash,-- "Even for ploughing, then, thou art too bad!-- That fellow was a rogue to sell such trash!"

Ere yet his heavy blows had ceased to fly, A brisk and merry youth by chance came by.

A lute was tinkling in his hand, And through his light and flowing hair Was twined with grace a golden band.

"Whither, my friend, with that strange pair?"

From far he to the peasant cried.

"A bird and ox to one rope tied-- Was such a team e'er heard of, pray?

Thy horse's worth I'd fain essay; Just for one moment lend him me,-- Observe, and thou shalt wonders see!"

The hippogriff was loosened from the plough, Upon his back the smiling youth leaped now; No sooner did the creature understand That he was guided by a master-hand, Than 'ginst his bit he champed, and upward soared While lightning from his flaming eyes outpoured.

No longer the same being, royally A spirit, ay, a G.o.d, ascended he, Spread in a moment to the stormy wind His n.o.ble wings, and left the earth behind, And, ere the eye could follow him, Had vanished in the heavens dim.

KNOWLEDGE.

Knowledge to one is a G.o.ddess both heavenly and high,--to another Only an excellent cow, yielding the b.u.t.ter he wants.

THE POETRY OF LIFE.

"Who would himself with shadows entertain, Or gild his life with lights that shine in vain, Or nurse false hopes that do but cheat the true?-- Though with my dream my heaven should be resigned-- Though the free-pinioned soul that once could dwell In the large empire of the possible, This workday life with iron chains may bind, Yet thus the mastery o'er ourselves we find, And solemn duty to our acts decreed, Meets us thus tutored in the hour of need, With a more sober and submissive mind!

How front necessity--yet bid thy youth Shun the mild rule of life's calm sovereign, truth."

So speakest thou, friend, how stronger far than I; As from experience--that sure port serene-- Thou lookest;--and straight, a coldness wraps the sky, The summer glory withers from the scene, Scared by the solemn spell; behold them fly, The G.o.dlike images that seemed so fair!

Silent the playful Muse--the rosy hours Halt in their dance; and the May-breathing flowers Fall from the sister-graces' waving hair.

Sweet-mouthed Apollo breaks his golden lyre, Hermes, the wand with many a marvel rife;-- The veil, rose-woven, by the young desire With dreams, drops from the hueless cheeks of life.

The world seems what it is--a grave! and love Casts down the bondage wound his eyes above, And sees!--He sees but images of clay Where he dreamed G.o.ds; and sighs--and glides away.

The youngness of the beautiful grows old, And on thy lips the bride's sweet kiss seems cold; And in the crowd of joys--upon thy throne Thou sittest in state, and hardenest into stone.

TO GOETHE,

ON HIS PRODUCING VOLTAIRE'S "MAHOMET" ON THE STAGE.

Thou, by whom, freed from rules constrained and wrong, On truth and nature once again we're placed,-- Who, in the cradle e'en a hero strong, Stiffest the serpents round our genius laced,-- Thou whom the G.o.dlike science has so long With her unsullied sacred fillet graced,-- Dost thou on ruined altars sacrifice To that false muse whom we no longer prize?

This theatre belongs to native art, No foreign idols worshipped here are seen; A laurel we can show, with joyous heart, That on the German Pindus has grown green The sciences' most holy, hidden part The German genius dares to enter e'en, And, following the Briton and the Greek, A n.o.bler glory now attempts to seek.

For yonder, where slaves kneel, and despots hold The reins,--where spurious greatness lifts its head, Art has no power the n.o.ble there to mould, 'Tis by no Louis that its seed is spread; From its own fulness it must needs unfold, By earthly majesty 'tis never fed; 'Tis with truth only it can e'er unite, Its glow free spirits only e'er can light.

'Tis not to bind us in a worn-out chain Thou dost this play of olden time recall,-- 'Tis not to seek to lead us back again To days when thoughtless childhood ruled o'er all.

It were, in truth, an idle risk and vain Into the moving wheel of time to fall; The winged hours forever bear it on, The new arrives, and, lo! the old has gone.

The narrow theatre is now more wide, Into its s.p.a.ce a universe now steals; In pompous words no longer is our pride, Nature we love when she her form reveals; Fashion's false rules no more are deified; And as a man the hero acts and feels.

'Tis pa.s.sion makes the notes of freedom sound, And 'tis in truth the beautiful is found.

Weak is the frame of Thespis' chariot fair, Resembling much the bark of Acheron, That carries naught but shades and forms of air; And if rude life should venture to press on, The fragile bark its weight no more can bear, For fleeting spirits it can hold alone.

Appearance ne'er can reach reality,-- If nature be victorious, art must fly.

For on the stage's boarded scaffold here A world ideal opens to our eyes, Nothing is true and genuine save--a tear; Emotion on no dream of sense relies.

The real Melpomene is still sincere, Naught as a fable merely she supplies-- By truth profound to charm us is her care; The false one, truth pretends, but to ensnare.

Now from the scene, art threatens to retire, Her kingdom wild maintains still phantasy; The stage she like the world would set on fire, The meanest and the n.o.blest mingles she.

The Frank alone 'tis art can now inspire, And yet her archetype can his ne'er be; In bounds unchangeable confining her, He holds her fast, and vainly would she stir.