ÓVER hill and plain and válley
Ónward ás I trável aimless,
Óften, tóward the close of évening, Tó my sécret sélf I thús say:
"Yonder see the same sun setting Nearly where he sét last évening, Yónder, grówn a little larger, See the same moon silent rísing.
"Thoú too 'rt grówn one whóle day older Thán thou wást at this hour last night, Bút thou 'rt not grown óne day wiser, Ánd still léss grown one day better.
"Whát though Titus, whát though Cáto Hád in thý case moúrned a day lost, Heárt, rejoice, and count each hour won
That no wound inflicts in pássing."
Walking from GIEBELSTADT in BAVARIA to MERGENTHEIM in WÜRTTEMBERG, Oct. 22, 1855.
TÉLL me nót how much thou lóv'st me, Love by words was never measured,
Bút look kindly and I'll soón know Without words how múch thou lóv'st me.
Lét me see thine eye grow brighter
my cóming and thy lid droop
if I bút talk of depárting
And I'll know how much thou lóv'st me.
When thou síngest, when thou playest Síng and play those aírs alóne which Thou hast heard me say I like best, And I'll knów how múch thou lóv'st me.
Walk no roads but those which I walk, Choose no flowers but those which I choose, Háve no friends but those whom I have, And I'll knów how much thou lóv'st me.
Love me and thou need'st not tell it, Love that 's told 's already less love; Love me and thou canst not hide it, Love me and I can't but know it.
'LL not tell thee hów I love thee, Love by words was never measured,
Bút look at me thoú, and tell me Dóst thou nót see how I love thee
Dóst thou not mine eye see brighten Át thy cóming, and my líd droop If thou bút talk'st of depárting I'll not tell thee how I love thee.
Í no sóngs sing, Í no airs play, Bút those songs and airs thou lík'st best, When thou 'rt ábsent Í am túneless
f'll not tell thee hów I love thee.
Í no roads walk which thou walk'st not, Choose no flowers but those thou choosest, Háve no friénds but those whom thou hast I'll not tell thee how I love thee.
Hów I love thee I'll not tell thee, Love that 's tóld 's alreády less love; Hów I love thee I cannót hide,
Ére I knew it myself thou knew'st it.
ANNIVERSARY OF SCHILLER'S BIRTHDAY.
STUTTGART, NOV. 10, 1855.
THIS day is Schiller's birthday; there's rejoicing In Stuttgart from the highest to the lowest; All Württemberg rejoices, king and court, Láic and priést; the square before Old Palace Is ódorous of flowers strown round his statue; Children his name lisp, and the very bells That call on Sundays to the house of prayer
Are this day éloquent with the name of Schiller.
Silence, vile soúnds! false flowers, grow pale and wither! Húsh, children! let no tongue pronounce his name,
Th' expatriated fugitive's, whose bones
Sánctify Weimar's earth, whom ye disowned,
And from among ye sent to seek a poor,
Hard earned subsistence in a foreign land,
Because he would not have his free thoughts scissored, And from another cog what he should say.
Hé has his túrn now and disowns thee, Stuttgart, Disówns thee, Suábia; bids ye keep your honors, Úseless to him, reproachful to yourselves;
He was yours; yé despised him, would not have him; In vain ye claim him now he is the world's. And yét ye did no more than other Stuttgarts And Württembergs have done to other Schillers, No more than, from all time, the seized of power Háve done, and tó all time will do, to those Who dare to touch or even so much as point at The incohérent rúbbish, silt and offal,
Which underlie the lowest foundation stone
Of all power, and may any day give way. And slip from underneath, and down falls power Amid the loud hurrahs of those who take The ruins to erect with them a like
Proud, tówering structure on like dunghill basis Pérmanent perhaps a while, but sure at last To rót and stink and ooze and slip away From underneath, and down, as old tower fell, Falls new tower headlong, amid like hurrahs, Cúrses, and thanks to God, and hymns of triumph.
Thirty nine birthdays Mårbach's son had counted, Ere fár Iérne from my mother's womb Received me first, and to his fate had bowed, And yielded úp, resigned, his painful breath, Ánd his eyes closed upon the sweet daylight And his own rádiant fame, as my seventh year. By the hand toók me, and, beside the lap Of Watts and Bárbauld placing, bade me listen For the first time to sweéter sound than lark's Or thróstle's song, the numbers of the poet. Then other years came and to other laps Léd me succéssive, and mine ear drew in Eáger the various lore, and I grew on To be a man, and in the busy world
Mixed with the busiest, and toiled hard for bread, Ánd for vile góld, alas! and rank and honor,
But never at my busiest did I quite
Forgét my seventh year, or not now and then
At eárly mórn, late eve, or deep midnight,
Retired and áll alóne, entreat to hear
Númbers melódious Goldsmith's, Scott's or Pope's, Spenser's or Shakespeare's, or divinest Milton's.
Late láte, and almost last, fell on mine ear
« PredošláPokračovať » |