The Poems of Schiller - Suppressed poems Part 10

From Turandot, act ii. scene 4.

RIDDLE.

The tree whereon decay All those from mortals sprung,-- Full old, and yet whose spray Is ever green and young; To catch the light, it rolls Each leaf upon one side; The other, black as coals, The sun has ne'er descried.

It places on new rings As often as it blows; The age, too, of all things To mortal gaze it shows.

Upon its bark so green A name oft meets the eye, Yet 'tis no longer seen, When it grows old and dry.

This tree--what can it mean?

I wait for thy reply. [70]

From Mary Stuart, act iii, scene 1.

SCENE--A Park. MARY advances hastily from behind some trees. HANNAH KENNEDY follows her slowly.

MARY.

Let me my newly-won liberty taste!

Let me rejoice as a child once again!

And, as on pinions, with airy foot hast Over the tapestried green of the plain!

Have I escaped from my prison so drear?

Shall I no more in my sad dungeon pine?

Let me in long and in thirsty draughts here Drink in the breezes, so free, so divine

Thanks, thanks, ye trees, in smiling verdure dressed, In that ye veil my prison-walls from sight!

I'll dream that I am free and blest Why should I waken from a dream so bright?

Do not the s.p.a.cious heavens encompa.s.s me?

Behold! my gaze, unshackled, free, Pierces with joy the trackless realms of light!

There, where the gray-tinged hills of mist project, My kingdom's boundaries begin; Yon clouds, that tow'rd the south their course direct, France's far-distant ocean seek to win.

Swiftly-flying clouds, hardy sailors through air!

Mortal hath roamed with ye, sailed with ye, ne'er!

Greetings of love to my youthful home bear!

I am a prisoner, I am in chains, Ah, not a herald, save ye, now remains, Free through the air hath your path ever been, Ye are not subject to England's proud queen!

Yonder's a fisherman tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his boat.

E'en that frail skiff from all danger might tear me, And to the dwellings of friends it might bear me.

Scarcely his earnings can keep life afloat.

Richly with treasures his lap I'd heap over,-- Oh! what a draught should reward him to-day!

Fortune held fast in his nets he'd discover, If in his bark he would take me away!

Hear'st thou the horn of the hunter resound, Wakening the echo through forest and plain?

Ah, on my spirited courser to bound!

Once more to join in the mirth-stirring train!

Hark! how the dearly-loved tones come again!

Blissful, yet sad, the remembrance they wake; Oft have they fallen with joy on mine ear, When in the highlands the bugle rang clear, Rousing the chase over mountain and brake.

From The Maid of Orleans, Prologue, scene 4.

JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).

Farewell, ye mountains, and ye pastures dear, Ye still and happy valleys, fare ye well!

No longer may Joan's footsteps linger here, Joan bids ye now a long, a last farewell!

Ye meadows that I watered, and each bush Set by my hands, ne'er may your verdure fail!

Farewell, ye grots, ye springs that cooling gush Thou echo, blissful voice of this sweet vale, So wont to give me back an answering strain,-- Joan must depart, and ne'er return again!

Ye haunts of all my silent joys of old, I leave ye now behind forevermore!

Disperse, ye lambs, far o'er the trackless wold!

She now hath gone who tended you of yore!

I must away to guard another fold, On yonder field of danger, stained with gore.

Thus am I bidden by a spirit's tone 'Tis no vain earthly longing drives me on.

For He who erst to Moses on the height Of h.o.r.eb, in the fiery bush came down, And bade him stand in haughty Pharaoh's sight, He who made choice of Jesse's pious son, The shepherd, as his champion in the fight,-- He who to shepherds grace hath ever shown, He thus addressed me from this lofty tree: "Go hence! On earth my witness thou shalt be!

"In rugged bra.s.s, then, clothe thy members now, In steel thy gentle bosom must be dressed!

No mortal love thy heart must e'er allow, With earthly pa.s.sion's sinful flame possessed.

Ne'er will the bridal wreath adorn thy brow, No darling infant blossom on thy breast; Yet thou with warlike honors shalt be laden, Raising thee high above each earthly maiden.

"For when the bravest in the fight despair, When France appears to wait her final blow, Then thou my holy oriflamme must bear; And, as the ripened corn the reapers mow, Hew down the conqueror as he triumphs there; His fortune's wheel thou thus wilt overthrow, To France's hero-sons salvation bring, Deliver Rheims once more, and crown thy king!"

The Lord hath promised to send down a sign A helmet he hath sent, it comes from Him,-- His sword endows mine arm with strength divine, I feel the courage of the cherubim; To join the battle-turmoil how I pine!

A raging tempest thrills through every limb; The summons to the field bursts on mine ear, My charger paws the ground, the trump rings clear.

From The Maid of Orleans, act iv. scene 1.

SCENE--A hall prepared for a festival. The pillars are covered with festoons of flowers; flutes and hautboys are heard behind the scene.

JOAN OF ARC (soliloquizing).

Each weapon rests, war's tumults cease to sound, While dance and song succeed the b.l.o.o.d.y fray; Through every street the merry footsteps bound, Altar and church are clad in bright array, And gates of branches green arise around, Over the columns twine the garlands gay; Rheims cannot hold the ever-swelling train That seeks the nation-festival to gain.

All with one joyous feeling are elate, One single thought is thrilling every breast; What, until now, was severed by fierce hate, Is by the general rapture truly blessed.

By each who called this land his parent-state, The name of Frenchman proudly is confessed; The glory is revived of olden days, And to her regal son France homage pays.

Yet I who have achieved this work of pride, I cannot share the rapture felt by all: My heart is changed, my heart is turned aside, It shuns the splendor of this festival; 'Tis in the British camp it seeks to hide,-- 'Tis on the foe my yearning glances fall; And from the joyous circle I must steal, My bosom's crime o'erpowering to conceal.

Who? I? What! in my bosom chaste Can mortal's image have a seat?

This heart, by heavenly glory graced,-- Dares it with earthly love to beat?

The saviour of my country, I,-- The champion of the Lord Most High, Own for my country's foe a flame-- To the chaste sun my guilt proclaim, And not be crushed beneath my shame?

(The music behind the scene changes into a soft, melting melody.)

Woe! oh woe! what strains enthralling!

How bewildering to mine ear Each his voice beloved recalling, Charming up his image dear!