Читать книгу The Maid of Orleans - Фридрих Шиллер, Friedrich von Schiller - Страница 4

   Thy sisters, Joan, will soon be happy brides;

   I see them gladly; they rejoice my age;

   But thou, my youngest, giv'st me grief and pain.

   What is the matter? Why upbraid thy child?

   Here is this noble youth, the flower and pride

   Of all our village; he hath fixed on thee

   His fond affections, and for three long years

   Has wooed thee with respectful tenderness;

   But thou dost thrust him back with cold reserve.

   Nor is there one 'mong all our shepherd youths

   Who e'er can win a gracious smile from thee.

   I see thee blooming in thy youthful prime;

   Thy spring it is, the joyous time of hope;

   Thy person, like a tender flower, hath now

   Disclosed its beauty, but I vainly wait

   For love's sweet blossom genially to blow,

   And ripen joyously to golden fruit!

   Oh, that must ever grieve me, and betrays

   Some sad deficiency in nature's work!

   The heart I like not which, severe and cold,

   Expands not in the genial years of youth.

   Forbear, good father! Cease to urge her thus!

   A noble, tender fruit of heavenly growth

   Is my Johanna's love, and time alone

   Bringeth the costly to maturity!

   Still she delights to range among the hills,

   And fears descending from the wild, free heath,

   To tarry 'neath the lowly roofs of men,

   Where dwell the narrow cares of humble life.

   From the deep vale, with silent wonder, oft

   I mark her, when, upon a lofty hill

   Surrounded by her flock, erect she stands,

   With noble port, and bends her earnest gaze

   Down on the small domains of earth. To me

   She looketh then, as if from other times

   She came, foreboding things of import high.

   'Tis that precisely which displeases me!

   She shuns her sisters' gay companionship;

   Seeks out the desert mountains, leaves her couch

   Before the crowing of the morning cock,

   And in the dreadful hour, when men are wont

   Confidingly to seek their fellow-men,

   She, like the solitary bird, creeps forth,

   And in the fearful spirit-realm of night,

   To yon crossway repairs, and there alone

   Holds secret commune with the mountain wind.

   Wherefore this place precisely doth she choose?

   Why hither always doth she drive her flock?

   For hours together I have seen her sit

   In dreamy musing 'neath the Druid tree,

   Which every happy creature shuns with awe.

   For 'tis not holy there; an evil spirit

   Hath since the fearful pagan days of old

   Beneath its branches fixed his dread abode.

   The oldest of our villagers relate

   Strange tales of horror of the Druid tree;

   Mysterious voices of unearthly sound

   From its unhallowed shade oft meet the ear.

   Myself, when in the gloomy twilight hour

   My path once chanced to lead me near this tree,

   Beheld a spectral figure sitting there,

   Which slowly from its long and ample robe

   Stretched forth its withered hand, and beckoned me.

   But on I went with speed, nor looked behind,

   And to the care of God consigned my soul.

   Yon holy image of the Virgin blest,

   Whose presence heavenly peace diffuseth round,

   Not Satan's work, leadeth thy daughter here.

   No! not in vain hath it in fearful dreams

   And apparitions strange revealed itself.

   For three successive nights I have beheld

   Johanna sitting on the throne at Rheims,

   A sparkling diadem of seven stars

   Upon her brow, the sceptre in her hand,

   From which three lilies sprung, and I, her sire,

   With her two sisters, and the noble peers,

   The earls, archbishops, and the king himself,

   Bowed down before her. In my humble home

   How could this splendor enter my poor brain?

   Oh, 'tis the prelude to some fearful fall!

   This warning dream, in pictured show, reveals

   The vain and sinful longing of her heart.

   She looks with shame upon her lowly birth.

   Because with richer beauty God hath graced

   Her form, and dowered her with wondrous gifts

   Above the other maidens of this vale,

   She in her heart indulges sinful pride,

   And pride it is through which the angels fell,

   By which the fiend of hell seduces man.

   Who cherishes a purer, humbler mind

   Than doth thy pious daughter? Does she not

   With cheerful spirit work her sisters' will?

   She is more highly gifted far than they,

   Yet, like a servant maiden, it is she

   Who silently performs the humblest tasks.

   Beneath her guiding hands prosperity

   Attendeth still thy harvest and thy flocks;

   And around all she does there ceaseless flows

   A blessing, rare and unaccountable.

   Ah truly! Unaccountable indeed!

   Sad horror at this blessing seizes me!

   But now no more; henceforth I will be silent.

   Shall I accuse my own beloved child?

   I can do naught but warn and pray for her.

   Yet warn I must. Oh, shun the Druid tree!

   Stay not alone, and in the midnight hour

   Break not the ground for roots, no drinks prepare,

   No characters inscribe upon the sand!

   'Tis easy to unlock the realm of spirits;

   Listening each sound, beneath a film of earth

   They lay in wait, ready to rush aloft.

   Stay not alone, for in the wilderness

   The prince of darkness tempted e'en the Lord.