Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 04, February, 1858 - Various - Страница 2

  This is GOETHE, with a forehead

    Like the fabled front of Jove;

  In its massive lines the tokens

    More of majesty than love.

  This is SCHILLER, in whose features,

    With their passionate calm regard,

  We behold the true ideal

    Of the high heroic Bard,

  Whom the inward world of feeling

    And the outward world of sense

  To the endless labor summon,

    And the endless recompense.

  These are they, sublime and silent,

    From whose living lips have rung

  Words to be remembered ever

    In the noble German tongue:

  Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling

   Into loftiest speech or song,

  Still through all the listening ages

    Pours its torrent swift and strong.

  As to-day in sculptured marble

    Side by side the Poets stand,

  So they stood in life's great struggle,

    Side by side and hand to hand,

  In the ancient German city,

    Dowered with many a deathless name,

  Where they dwelt and toiled together,

    Sharing each the other's fame:

  One till evening's lengthening shadows

    Gently stilled his faltering lips,

  But the other's sun at noonday

    Shrouded in a swift eclipse.

  There their names are household treasures,

    And the simplest child you meet

  Guides you where the house of Goethe

    Fronts upon the quiet street;

  And, hard by, the modest mansion

    Where full many a heart has felt

  Memories uncounted clustering

    Round the words, "Here Schiller dwelt."

  In the churchyard both are buried,

    Straight beyond the narrow gate,

  In the mausoleum sleeping

    With Duke Charles in sculptured state.

  For the Monarch loved the Poets,

    Called them to him from afar,

  Wooed them near his court to linger,

    And the planets sought the star.

  He, his larger gifts of fortune

    With their larger fame to blend,

  Living, counted it an honor

    That they named him as their friend;

  Dreading to be all-forgotten,

    Still their greatness to divide,

  Dying, prayed to have his Poets

    Buried one on either side.

  But this suited not the gold-laced

    Ushers of the royal tomb,

  Where the princely House of Weimar

    Slumbered in majestic gloom.

  So they ranged the coffins justly,

    Each with fitting rank and stamp,

  And with shows of court precedence

    Mocked the grave's sepulchral damp.

  Fitly now the clownish sexton

    Narrow courtier-rules rebukes;

  First he shows the grave of Goethe,

    Schiller's next, and last—the Duke's.

  Vainly 'midst these truthful shadows

    Pride would daunt her painted wing;

  Here the Monarch waits in silence,

    And the Poet is the King!