The Bride of Messina, and On the Use of the Chorus in Tragedy. Friedrich von Schiller

             To the wild woods away!

             Quick let us follow in the train

            Of her, chaste huntress of the silver bow;

             And from the rocks amain

            Track through the forest gloom the bounding roe,

             The war-god's merry bride,

            The chase recalls the battle's fray,

             And kindles victory's pride: —

            Up with the streaks of early morn,

             We scour with jocund hearts the misty vale,

            Loud echoing to the cheerful horn

             Over mountain – over dale —

            And every languid sense repair,

            Bathed in the rushing streams of cold, reviving air.

            Or shall we trust the ever-moving sea,

            The azure goddess, blithe and free.

            Whose face, the mirror of the cloudless sky,

            Lures to her bosom wooingly?

             Quick let us build on the dancing waves

            A floating castle gay,

            And merrily, merrily, swim away!

            Who ploughs with venturous keel the brine

            Of the ocean crystalline —

            His bride is fortune, the world his own,

            For him a harvest blooms unsown: —

             Here, like the wind that swift careers

            The circling bound of earth and sky,

            Flits ever-changeful destiny!

            Of airy chance 'tis the sportive reign,

            And hope ever broods on the boundless main

            Nor on the watery waste alone

             Of the tumultuous, heaving sea; —

            On the firm earth that sleeps secure,

             Based on the pillars of eternity.

            Say, when shall mortal joy endure?

            New bodings in my anxious breast,

              Waked by this sudden friendship, rise;

            Ne'er would I choose my home of rest

             On the stilled lava-stream, that cold

              Beneath the mountain lies

             Not thus was discord's flame controlled —

            Too deep the rooted hate – too long

             They brooded in their sullen hearts

            O'er unforgotten, treasured wrong. In warning visions oft dismayed,

             I read the signs of coming woe;

            And now from this mysterious maid

             My bosom tells the dreaded ills shall flow:

            Unblest, I deem, the bridal chain

             Shall knit their secret loves, accursed

            With holy cloisters' spoil profane.

            No crooked paths to virtue lead;

            Ill fruit has ever sprung from evil seed!

         And thus to sad unhallowed rites

         Of an ill-omened nuptial tie,

         Too well ye know their father bore

         A bride of mournful destiny,

         Torn from his sire, whose awful curse has sped

         Heaven's vengeance on the impious bed!

         This fierce, unnatural rage atones

         A parent's crime – decreed by fate,

         Their mother's offspring, strife and hate!

         No! 'tis not he: 'twas but the playful wind

         Rustling the pine-tops. To his ocean bed

         The sun declines, and with o'erwearied heart

         I count the lagging hours: an icy chill

         Creeps through my frame; the very solitude