The Poems of Schiller - Suppressed poems Part 4

I am a man; and if alone She sees me drawing near, I make the emperor's daughter run, Though ragged I appear.

This golden watchword wins the smile Of many a princess fair; They call--ye'd best look out the while, Ye gold-laced fellows there!

That I'm a man is fully shown Whene'er my lyre I sweep; It thunders out a glorious tone-- It otherwise would creep.

The spirit that my veins now hold, My manhood calls its brother!

And both command, like lions bold, And fondly greet each other.

From out this same creative flood From which we men have birth, Both G.o.dlike strength and genius bud, And everything of worth.

My talisman all tyrants hates, And strikes them to the ground; Or guides us gladly through life's gates To where the dead are found.

E'en Pompey, at Pharsalia's fight, My talisman o'erthrew; On German sand it hurled with might Rome's sensual children, too.

Didst see the Roman, proud and stern, Sitting on Afric's sh.o.r.e?

His eyes like Hecla seem to burn, And fiery flames outpour.

Then comes a frank and merry knave, And spreads it through the land: "Tell them that thou on Carthage's grave Hast seen great Marius stand!"

Thus speaks the son of Rome with pride, Still mighty in his fall; He is a man, and naught beside,-- Before him tremble all.

His grandsons afterwards began Their portions to o'erthrow, And thought it well that every man Should learn with grace to crow.

For shame, for shame,--once more for shame!

The wretched ones?--they've even Squandered the tokens of their fame, The choicest gifts of heaven.

G.o.d's counterfeit has sinfully Disgraced his form divine, And in his vile humanity Has wallowed like the swine.

The face of earth each vainly treads, Like gourds, that boys in sport Have hollowed out to human heads, With skulls, whose brains are--naught.

Like wine that by a chemist's art Is through retorts refined, Their spirits to the deuce depart, The phlegma's left behind.

From every woman's face they fly, Its very aspect dread,-- And if they dared--and could not--why, 'Twere better they were dead.

They shun all worthies when they can, Grief at their joy they prove-- The man who cannot make a man, A man can never love!

The world I proudly wander o'er, And plume myself and sing I am a man!--Whoe'er is more?

Then leap on high, and spring!

THE MESSIAD.

Religion 'twas produced this poem's fire; Perverted also?--prithee, don't inquire!

THOUGHTS ON THE 1ST OCTOBER, 1781.

What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height?

What the exulting Evoe? [63]

Why glows the cheek? Whom is't that I, with pinions light, Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?

Is it the genius whom the gladsome throng obeys?

Do I his numerous train descry?

In plenty's teeming horn the gifts of heaven he sways, And reels from very ecstacy!--

See how the golden grape in glorious beauty s.h.i.+nes, Kissed by the earliest morning-beams!

The shadow of yon bower, how lovingly it signs, As it with countless blessings teams!

Ha! glad October, thou art welcome unto me!-- October's first-born, welcome thou!

Thanks of a purer kind, than all who wors.h.i.+p thee, More heartfelt thanks I'm bringing now!

For thou to me the one whom I have loved so well, And love with fondness to the grave, Who merits in my heart forevermore to dwell,-- The best of friends in Rieger [64] gave.

'Tis true thy breath doth rock the leaves upon the trees, And sadly make their charms decay; Gently they fall:--and swift, as morning phantasies With those who waken, fly away.

'Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes, Who makes all Nature's chords resound With discord dull, and turns the plains and groves to wastes, So that they sadly mourn around.

See how the gloomy forms of years, as on they roll, Each joyous banquet overthrows, When, in uplifted hand, from out the foaming bowl, Joy's n.o.ble purple brightly flows!

See how they disappear, when friends sweet converse hold, And loving wander arm-in-arm; And, to revenge themselves on winter's north wind cold, Upon each other's b.r.e.a.s.t.s grow warm!

And when spring's children smile upon us once again, When all the youthful splendor bright, When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strain Awakens with it each delight:

How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!

What life from out our glances pours!

Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades, Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!

Oh, may this whisper breathe--(let Rieger bear in mind The storm by which in age we're bent!)-- His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kind Gleams softly from the firmament!

In silence be he led to yonder thundering height, And guided be his eye, that he, In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright.

And that, with growing ecstacy,

On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells, He may experience friends.h.i.+p's bliss, Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells, Conscious that all their love is his.

Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say: "And G--, too, is a friend of thine!

When silvery locks no more around his temples play, G-- still will be a friend of thine!"

"E'en yonder"--and now in his eye the crystal tear Will gleam--"e'en yonder he will love!

Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere, Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!"

EPITAPH.