The Poems of Schiller — Third period. Friedrich von Schiller

         I see her still — by her fair train surrounded,

          The fairest of them all, she took her place;

         Afar I stood, by her bright charms confounded,

          For, oh! they dazzled with their heavenly grace.

         With awe my soul was filled — with bliss unbounded,

          While gazing on her softly radiant face;

         But soon, as if up-borne on wings of fire,

         My fingers 'gan to sweep the sounding lyre.

         The thoughts that rushed across me in that hour,

          The words I sang, I'd fain once more invoke;

         Within, I felt a new-awakened power,

          That each emotion of my bosom spoke.

         My soul, long time enchained in sloth's dull bower,

          Through all its fetters now triumphant broke,

         And brought to light unknown, harmonious numbers,

         Which in its deepest depths, had lived in slumbers.

         And when the chords had ceased their gentle sighing,

          And when my soul rejoined its mortal frame,

         I looked upon her face and saw love vieing,

          In every feature, with her maiden shame.

         And soon my ravished heart seemed heavenward flying,

          When her soft whisper o'er my senses came.

         The blissful seraphs' choral strains alone

         Can glad mine ear again with that sweet tone,

         Of that fond heart, which, pining silently,

          Ne'er ventures to express its feelings lowly,

         The real and modest worth is known to me —

          'Gainst cruel fate I'll guard its cause so holy.

         Most blest of all, the meek one's lot shall be —

          Love's flowers by love's own hand are gathered solely —

         The fairest prize to that fond heart is due,

         That feels it, and that beats responsive, too!

         She sought to breathe one word, but vainly;

          Too many listeners were nigh;

         And yet my timid glance read plainly

          The language of her speaking eye.

         Thy silent glades my footstep presses,

          Thou fair and leaf-embosomed grove!

         Conceal within thy green recesses

          From mortal eye our sacred love!

         Afar with strange discordant noises,

          The busy day is echoing;

         And 'mid the hollow hum of voices,

          I hear the heavy hammer ring.

         'Tis thus that man, with toil ne'er ending

          Extorts from heaven his daily bread;

         Yet oft unseen the Gods are sending

          The gifts of fortune on his head!

         Oh, let mankind discover never

          How true love fills with bliss our hearts

         They would but crush our joy forever,

          For joy to them no glow imparts.

         Thou ne'er wilt from the world obtain it —

          'Tis never captured save as prey;

         Thou needs must strain each nerve to gain it,

          E'er envy dark asserts her sway.

         The hours of night and stillness loving,

          It comes upon us silently —

         Away with hasty footstep moving

          Soon as it sees a treacherous eye.

         Thou gentle stream, soft circlets weaving,

          A watery barrier cast around,

         And, with thy waves in anger heaving,

          Guard from each foe this holy ground!

         Hear I the creaking gate unclose?

          The gleaming latch uplifted?

         No — 'twas the wind that, whirring, rose,

          Amidst the poplars drifted!

         Adorn thyself, thou green leaf-bowering roof,

          Destined the bright one's presence to receive,

         For her, a shadowy palace-hall aloof

          With holy night, thy boughs familiar weave.

         And ye sweet flatteries of the delicate air,

          Awake and sport her rosy cheek around,

         When their light weight the tender feet shall bear,

          When beauty comes to passion's trysting-ground.

         Hush! what amidst the copses crept —

          So swiftly by me now?

         No-'twas the startled bird that swept

          The light leaves of the bough!

         Day, quench thy torch! come, ghostlike, from on high,

          With thy loved silence, come, thou haunting Eve,

         Broaden below thy web of purple dye,

          Which lulled boughs mysterious round us weave.

         For love's delight, enduring listeners none,

          The froward witness of the light will flee;

         Hesper alone, the rosy silent one,