ÓVER hill and plain and valley
Ónward ás I trável aimless,
Óften, toward the close of évening,
Tó my sécret sélf I thús say: -
"Yónder seé the same sun sétting
Nearly where he sét last évening,
Yónder, grówn a little larger,
See the same moon silent rísing.
"Thoú too 'rt grówn one whole day older
Thán thou wást at this hour last night,
Bút thou 'rt nót grown óne day wiser,
Ánd still less grown óne day better.
"Whát though Títus, whát though Cáto
Hád in thý case moúrned a day lost,
Heárt, rejoice, and coúnt each hoúr won
Thát no wound inflicts in passing.”
Walking from GIEBELSTADT in BAVARIA to MERGENTHEIM in WÜRTTEMBERG, Oct. 22, 1855.
TÉLL me nót how much thou lov'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
Át my cóming and thy lid droop
if I bút talk of departing
And I'll knów how múch thou lóv'st me.
When thou singest, when thou playest
Sing and play those airs 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 neéd'st not téll it,
Love that 's told 's alreády less love;
Love me and thou canst not híde it,
Love me and I can't but knów it.
'LL not tell thee hów I love thee,
Love by words was néver measured,
Bút look at me thoú, and tell me
Dóst thou nót see hów I love thee
Dóst thou not mine eye see brighten
Át thy cóming, and my, líd droop
if thou bút talk'st óf depárting
Í 'll not tell thee how I love thee.
no sóngs sing, Í no airs play, Bút those sóngs and airs thou lík'st best, When thou 'rt ábsent Í am túneless
I'll not tell thee how I love thee.
Í no roads walk which thou walk'st not,
Choose no flowers but those thou choósest,
Háve no friends but those whom thou hast
I'll not tell thee hów I love thee.
Hów I love thee I'll not téll thee,
Love that 's told 's already léss love;
Hów I love thee I cannót hide,
Ére I knew it myself thou knew'st it.
TÜBINGEN, Oct. 28, 1855.
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 Súndays 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' expátriated 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 turn now and disowns thee, Stuttgart,
Disówns thee, Suábia; bids ye keep your honors,
Úseless to hím, 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 yet 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 loúd 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 Márbach'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 búsiest, and toiled hard for bread,
Ánd for vile gold, 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
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