Читать книгу The Poems of Schiller — Third period - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 18

   See, he sitteth on his mat

    Sitteth there upright,

   With the grace with which he sat

    While he saw the light.

   Where is now the sturdy gripe, —

    Where the breath sedate,

   That so lately whiffed the pipe

    Toward the Spirit great?

   Where the bright and falcon eye,

    That the reindeer's tread

   On the waving grass could spy,

    Thick with dewdrops spread?

   Where the limbs that used to dart

    Swifter through the snow

   Than the twenty-membered hart,

    Than the mountain roe?

   Where the arm that sturdily

    Bent the deadly bow?

   See, its life hath fleeted by, —

    See, it hangeth low!

   Happy he! — He now has gone

    Where no snow is found:

   Where with maize the fields are sown,

    Self-sprung from the ground;

   Where with birds each bush is filled,

   Where with game the wood;

   Where the fish, with joy unstilled,

   Wanton in the flood.

   With the spirits blest he feeds, —

    Leaves us here in gloom;

   We can only praise his deeds,

    And his corpse entomb.

   Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring,

    Sound the death-note sad!

   Bury with him everything

    That can make him glad!

   'Neath his head the hatchet hide

    That he boldly swung;

   And the bear's fat haunch beside,

    For the road is long;

   And the knife, well sharpened,

    That, with slashes three,

   Scalp and skin from foeman's head

    Tore off skilfully.

   And to paint his body, place

    Dyes within his hand;

   Let him shine with ruddy grace

    In the Spirit-land!