Schiller's "Lament of Ceres." 101
Is there then no holy link of union
Found between the child and mother more? Hold the left-in-life no sweet communion
With the wanderers on the phantom shore? No! not sundered for eternal years
Must we languish,—she shall yet be mine: Lo! in pity to the mother's tears,
Heaven accords a symbol and a sign;
Soon as Autumn dies, and Winter's blast
From the north is chillily returning,
Soon as leaf and flower their hues have cast,
And in nakedness the trees are mourning,-
Then from out Vertumnus' lavish horn,
Slowly, silently, the gift I take,
Overcharged with life,—the golden corn-
As mine offering to the Stygian lake.
Into earth I sink the seed with sadness,
And it lies upon my daughter's heart;
Thus an emblem of my grief and gladness,
Of my love and anguish impart.
When the handmaid hours, .n circling duty,
Once again lead round the bowery spring,
Then upbounding life, and new-born beauty
Unto all that died, the sun shall bring.
Lo! the germ that lay from eyes of mortals
Long while coffined by the earth's cold bosom,
Blushes, as it bursts the clayey portals
With the dyes of heaven on its blossom,
While the stem ascending, skyward towers,
Bashfully the fibres shun the light,—
Thus, to rear my tender ones, the powers
Both of heaven and of earth unite.
Half-way in the land where light rejoices,
Half-way in the night-world of the tomb,
These to me are blessed herald voices,
Earthward wafted up from Orcus' gloom;
Yea, though dungeoned in the hell of hells,
Would I from the deep abyss infernal
Hear the silver peal, whose music swells
Gently from these blossoms young and vernal,
Singing that where old in rayless blindness
Darklingly the mourner phantoms move,
Even THERE are bosoms filled with kindness,
Even THERE are breasts alive with love.
Oh, my flowers! that, round the mead so sunny,
Odour-loaded, freshly bloom and blow,
Here I bless you, may redundant honey
Ever down your chalice petals flow!
Flowers! I'll bathe you in celestial light,
Blent with colours from the rainbow borrowed,
All your bells shall glisten with the bright
Hues that play around Aurora's forehead;
So, whene'er the days of springtime roll,
When the Autumn pours his yellow treasures,
May each bleeding heart and loving soul
Read in you my mingled pains and pleasures!
Translated by D. U. M.
HE leaves are falling from the trees,
The flowers are fading all :
More chill and boisterous is the breeze,
More hoarse the waterfall:
The sky o'ermantled now with clouds,
Looks gray, and wan,
The mist-fog spreads its hoary shrouds
O'er mountain, grove, and vale.
How lapse our years away! how fade
The raptures of the mind'
Onward we pass to storm and shade,
And leave blue skies behind:
Like yellow leaves, around us fall
The friends best loved and known;
And when we most have need of all,
We oft are most alone.
Still more alone! blithe Spring comes round; Rich Summer-tide smiles by;
And golden Autumn paints the ground,
Till Winter's storm blasts fly.
One after one, friends drop away,
As months on months roll on; And hour by hour, and day by day, The old are more alone.
Still more alone! alas! tis vain
New hopes, new hearts to find;
What magic can restore again
The visions of youth's mind?
Age walks amid an altered world,
'Mid bustling crowds unknown:
New scenes have novelty unfurled,
And left the old alone!
"Sear leaves that dangle from Life's tree,"
The whole might well have said,
"A relic of the past are we,
A remnant of the dead:
Like emblems of forlorn decay,
We linger till the last;
But death's long night shall turn to day,
When Time itself is past!"
BLOSSOMING BENEATH A WALL-FLOWER.
ELCOME, wild harbinger of Spring!
To this small nook of earth;
Feeling and fancy fondly cling
Round thoughts which owe their birth
To thee, and to the humble spot
Where chance has fixed thy lowly lot.
To thee, for thy rich golden bloom,
Like heaven's fair bow on high,
Portends, amid surrounding gloom,
That brighter hours draw nigh,
When blossoms of more varied dyes,
Shall ope their tints to warmer skies.
Yet not the lily, nor the rose,
Though fairer far they be,
Can more delightful thoughts disclose
Than I derive from thee:
The eye their beauty may prefer ;
The heart is thy interpreter !
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