Фридрих Шиллер
The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems

EPITAPH

   Here lies a man cut off by fate
    Too soon for all good men;
   For sextons he died late — too late
    For those who wield the pen.

QUIRL

   You tell me that you feel surprise
   Because Quirl's paper's grown in size;
   And yet they're crying through the street
   That there's a rise in bread and meat.

THE PLAGUE.
A PHANTASY

   Plague's contagious murderous breath
    God's strong might with terror reveals,
   As through the dreary valley of death
    With its brotherhood fell it steals!

   Fearfully throbs the anguish-struck heart,
    Horribly quivers each nerve in the frame;
    Frenzy's wild laughs the torment proclaim,
   Howling convulsions disclose the fierce smart.

   Fierce delirium writhes upon the bed —
   Poisonous mists hang o'er the cities dead;
    Men all haggard, pale, and wan,
    To the shadow-realm press on.
   Death lies brooding in the humid air,
   Plague, in dark graves, piles up treasures fair,
    And its voice exultingly raises.
   Funeral silence — churchyard calm,
   Rapture change to dread alarm. —
    Thus the plague God wildly praises!

MONUMENT OF MOOR THE ROBBER.⁴

        'Tis ended!
       Welcome! 'tis ended
      Oh thou sinner majestic,
     All thy terrible part is now played!

      Noble abased one!
   Thou, of thy race beginner and ender!
   Wondrous son of her fearfulest humor,
    Mother Nature's blunder sublime!

   Through cloud-covered night a radiant gleam!
   Hark how behind him the portals are closing!
    Night's gloomy jaws veil him darkly in shade!
     Nations are trembling,
    At his destructive splendor afraid!
     Thou art welcome! 'Tis ended!
      Oh thou sinner majestic,
    All thy terrible part is now played!

        Crumble, — decay
    In the cradle of wide-open heaven!
    Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes,
       When the hot thirst for glory
   Raises its barriers over against the dread throne!
   See! to eternity shame has consigned thee!
      To the bright stars of fame
   Thou hast clambered aloft, on the shoulders of shame!
   Yet time will come when shame will crumble beneath thee,
    When admiration at length will be thine!

    With moist eye, by thy sepulchre dreaded,
      Man has passed onward —
    Rejoice in the tears that man sheddeth,
      Oh thou soul of the judged!
    With moist eye, by the sepulchre dreaded,
      Lately a maiden passed onward,
    Hearing the fearful announcement
    Told of thy deeds by the herald of marble;
    And the maiden — rejoice thee! rejoice thee!
      Sought not to dry up her tears.
    Far away I stood as the pearls were falling,
      And I shouted: Amalia!

      Oh, ye youths! Oh, ye youths! —
    With the dangerous lightning of genius
      Learn to play with more caution!
    Wildly his bit champs the charger of Phoebus;
      Though, 'neath the reins of his master,
    More gently he rocks earth and heaven,
      Reined by a child's hand, he kindles
    Earth and heaven in blazing destruction!
      Obstinate Phaeton perished,
      Buried beneath the sad wreck.

      Child of the heavenly genius!
     Glowing bosom all panting for action!
     Art thou charmed by the tale of my robber?
   Glowing like time was his bosom, and panting for action!
   He, like thee, was the child of the heavenly genius.
      But thou smilest and goest —
    Thy gaze flies through the realms of the world's long story,
      Moor, the robber, it finds not there —
       Stay, thou youth, and smile not!
     Still survive all his sins and his shame —
     Robber Moor liveth — in all but name.

THE BAD MONARCHS.⁵

   Earthly gods — my lyre shall win your praise,
   Though but wont its gentle sounds to raise
    When the joyous feast the people throng;
   Softly at your pompous-sounding names,
   Shyly round your greatness purple flames,
    Trembles now my song.

   Answer! shall I strike the golden string,
   When, borne on by exultation's wing,
    O'er the battle-field your chariots trail?
   When ye, from the iron grasp set free,
   For your mistress' soft arms, joyously
    Change your pond'rous mail? —

   Shall my daring hymn, ye gods, resound,
   While the golden splendor gleams around,
    Where, by mystic darkness overcome,
   With the thunderbolt your spleen may play,
   Or in crime humanity array,
    Till — the grave is dumb?

   Say! shall peace 'neath crowns be now my theme?
   Shall I boast, ye princes, that ye dream? —
    While the worm the monarch's heart may tear,
   Golden sleep twines round the Moor by stealth,
   As he, at the palace, guards the wealth,
    Guards — but covets ne'er.

   Show how kings and galley-slaves, my Muse,
   Lovingly one single pillow use, —
    How their lightnings flatter, when surpressed,
   When their humors have no power to harm,
   When their mimic minotaurs are calm,
    And — the lions rest!

   Up, thou Hecate! with thy magic seal
   Make the barred-up grave its wealth reveal, —
    Hark! its doors like thunder open spring;
   When death's dismal blast is heard to sigh,
   And the hair on end stands fearfully,
    Princes' bliss I sing!

   Do I hear the strand, the coast, detect
   Where your wishes' haughty fleet was wrecked,
    Where was stayed your greatness' proud career
   That they ne'er with glory may grow warm,
   Night, with black and terror-spreading arm,
    Forges monarchs here.

   On the death-chest sadly gleams the crown,
   With its heavy load of pearls weighed down,
    And the sceptre, needed now no more.
   In what splendor is the mould arrayed!
   Yet but worms are with the body paid,
    That — the world watched o'er.

   Haughty plants within that humble bed
   See how death their pomp decayed and fled
    With unblushing ribaldry besets!
   They who ruled o'er north and east and west
   Suffer now his ev'ry nauseous jest,
    And — no sultan threats?

   Leap for joy, ye stubborn dumb, to-day,
   And your heavy slumber shake away!
    From the battle, victory upsprings!
   Hearken to the trump's exulting song!
   Ye are worshipped by the shouting throng! —
    Rouse ye, then, ye kings!

   Seven sleepers! — to the clarion hark!
   How it rings, and how the fierce dogs bark!
    Shouts from out a thousand barrels whizz;
   Eager steeds are neighing for the wood, —
   Soon the bristly boar rolls in his blood, —
    Yours the triumph is!

   But what now? — Are even princes dumb?
   Tow'rd me scornful echoes ninefold come,
    Stealing through the vault's terrific gloom —
   Sleep assails the page by slow degrees,
   And Madonna gives to you the keys
    Of — her sleeping-room.

   Not an answer — hushed and still is all —
   Does the veil, then, e'en on monarchs fall,
    Which enshrouds their humble flatt'rers glance?
   And ye ask for worship in the dust,
   Since the blind jade, Fate, a world has thrust
    In your purse, perchance?

   And ye clatter, giant puppet troops,
   Marshalled in your proudly childish groups,
    Like the juggler on the opera scene? —
   Though the sound may please the vulgar ear,
   Yet the skilful, filled with sadness, jeer
    Powers so great, but mean.

   Let your towering shame be hid from sight
   In the garment of a sovereign's right,
    From the ambush of the throne outspring!
   Tremble, though, before the voice of song
   Through the purple, vengeance will, ere long,
    Strike down e'en a king!