« AnteriorContinuar »
Oh! hath his smile departed?-Could the grave
Still weep'st thou, wanderer?-some fond mother's glance
THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT.
FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.
This Song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of his friends respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of "Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.
""Tis not merely
The human being's pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Coleridge's Translation of Wallenstein.
ASK'Sт thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know, When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd?
Was not my work fulfill'd and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved?—my lot was cast.
Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
Gave the spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its tone?
-But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!
Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? -Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met, Where nought again may part what love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest,
There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest,
And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of Heaven his mortal ken,
There shall each feeling beautiful and high,
RING, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
They are here-the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
-But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh,
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath! -Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords !-but who art thou
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
-Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee-
Ring, joyous chords !-ring out again!
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth—
-Back to thy silent hearth!