The Poems of Schiller — Suppressed poems

BOOK II

 
   The grumbler, in his usual tone,
    Received him with a curse:
   "To Pomerania straight begone!
   Ugh! how he smells of eau de Cologne!
    Why, brimstone isn't worse.
   He'd best be off to heaven again,
   Or he'll infect hell's wide domain."
 
 
   The god of pills, in sore surprise,
    A spring then backwards took:
   "Is this his highness' usual guise?
   'Tis in the brain, I see, that lies
    The mischief — what a look!
   See how his eyes in frenzy roll!
   The case is bad, upon my soul!
 
 
   "A journey to Elysium
    The infectus would dissolve,
   Making the saps less tough become,
   As through the Capitolium
    And stomach they revolve.
   Provisionally be it so:
   Let's start then — but incognito!"
 
 
   "Ay, worthy sir, no doubt well meant!
    If, in these regions hazy,
   As with you folk, so charged with scent,
   You dapper ones who heaven frequent,
    'Twere proper to be lazy,
   If hell a master needed not,
   Why, then I'd follow on the spot!
 
 
   "Ha! if the cat once turned her back,
    Pray where would be the mice?
   They'd sally forth from every crack,
   My very mufti would attack,
    Spoil all things in a trice!
   Oddsbodikins! 'tis pretty cool!
   I'll let him see I'm no such fool!
 
 
   "A pleasant uproar happened erst,
    When they assailed my tower!
   No fault of mine 'twas, at the worst,
   That from their desks and chains to burst
    Philosophers had power.
   What, has there e'er escaped a poet?
   Help, heaven! what misery to know it!
 
 
   "When days are long, folks talk more stuff!
    Upon your seats, no doubt,
   With all your cards and music rough,
   And scribblings too, 'tis hard enough
    The moments to eke out.
   Idleness, like a flea will gnaw
   On velvet cushions, — as on straw.
 
 
   "My brother no attempt omits
    To drive away ennui;
   His lightning round about him flits,
   The target with his storms he hits
    (Those howls prove that to me),
   Till Rhea's trembling shoulders ache,
   And force me e'en for hell to quake.
 
 
   "Were I grandfather Coelus, though,
    You wouldn't soon escape!
   Into my belly straight you'd go,
   And in your swaddling-clothes cry 'oh!'
    And through five windows gape!
   First o'er my stream you'd have to come,
   And then, perhaps, to Elysium!
 
 
   "Your steed you mounted, I dare say,
    In hopes to catch a goose;
   If it is worth the trouble, pray
   Tell what you've heard from me to-day,
    At shaving time, to Zeus.
   Just leave him then to swallow it;
   I don't care what he thinks a bit;
 
 
   "You'd better now go homeward straight!
    Your servant! there's the door!
   For all your pains — one moment wait!
   I'll give you — liberal is the rate —
    A piece of ruby-ore.
   In heaven such things are rareties;
   We use them for base purposes."
 

BOOK III

 
   The god at once, then, said farewell,
    At small politeness striving;
   When sudden through the crowds of hell
   A flying courier rushed pell-mell,
    From Tellus' bounds arriving.
   "Monarch! a doctor follows me!
   Behold this wondrous prodigy!"
 
 
   "Place for the doctor!" each one said —
    He comes with spurs and whip,
   To every one he nods his head,
   As if he had been born and bred
    In Tartarus — the rip!
   As jaunty, fearless, full of nous
   As Britons in the Lower House.
 
 
   "Good morrow, worthy sirs! — Ahem!
    I'm glad to see that here
   (Where all they of Prometheus' stem
   Must come, whene'er the Fates condemn)
    One meets with such good cheer!
   Why for Elysium care a rush?
   I'd rather see hell's fountains gush!"
 
 
   "Stop! stop! his impudence, I vow,
    Its due reward shall meet;
   By Charles's wain, I swear it now!
   He must — no questions I'll allow, —
    Prescribe me a receipt.
   All hell is mine, I'm Pluto hight!
   Make haste to bring your wares to light!"
 
 
   The doctor, with a knowing look,
    The swarthy king surveyed;
   He neither felt his pulse, nor took
   The usual steps, — (see Galen's book), —
    No difference 'twould have made
   As piercing as electric fire
   He eyed him to his heart's desire.
 
 
   "Monarch! I'll tell thee in a trice
    The thing that's needed here;
   Though desperate may seem the advice —
   The case itself is very nice —
    And children dragons fear.
   Devil must devil eat! — no more! —
   Either a wife, — or hellebore!
 
 
   "Whether she scold, or sportive play,
    ('Tween these, no medium's known),
   She'll drive the incubus away
   That has assailed thee many a day
    Upon thine iron throne.
   She'll make the nimble spirits fleet
   Up towards the head, down towards the feet."
 
 
   Long may the doctor honored be
    Who let this saying fall!
   He ought to have his effigy
   By Phidias sculptured, so that he
    May be discerned by all;
   A monument forever thriving,
   Boerhaave, Hippocrates, surviving!
 

REPROACH — TO LAURA

 
   Maiden, stay! — oh, whither wouldst thou go?
   Do I still or pride or grandeur show?
     Maiden, was it right?
   Thou the giant mad'st a dwarf once more,
   Scattered'st far the mountains that of yore
     Climbed to glory's sunny height.
 
 
   Thou hast doomed my flowerets to decay,
   All the phantoms bright hast blown away,
     Whose sweet follies formed the hero's trust;
   All my plans that proudly raised their head
   Thou dost, with gentle zephyr-tread,
     Prostrate, laughing, in the dust.
 
 
   To the godhead, eagle-like, I flew, —
   Smiling, fortune's juggling wheel to view,
     Careless wheresoe'er her ball might fly;
   Hovering far beyond Cocytus' wave,
   Death and life receiving like a slave —
     Life and death from out one beaming eye!
 
 
   Like the victors, who, with thunder-lance,
   On the iron plain of glory dance,
     Starting from their mistress' breast, —
   From Aurora's rosy bed upsprings
   God's bright sun, to roam o'er towns of kings,
     And to make the young world blest!
 
 
   Toward the hero doth this heart still strain?
   Drink I, eagle, still the fiery rain
     Of thine eye, that burneth to destroy?
   In the glances that destructive gleam,
   Laura's love I see with sweetness beam, —
     Weep to see it — like a boy!
 
 
   My repose, like yonder image bright,
   Dancing in the waters — cloudless, light,
     Maiden, hath been slain by thee!
   On the dizzy height now totter I —
   Laura — if from me — my Laura fly!
     Oh, the thought to madness hurries me!
 
 
   Gladly shout the revellers as they quaff,
   Raptures in the leaf-crowned goblet laugh,
     Jests within the golden wine have birth,
   Since the maiden hath enslaved my mind,
   I have left each youthful sport behind,
     Friendless roam I o'er the earth.
 
 
   Hear I still bright glory's thunder-tone?
   Doth the laurel still allure me on?
     Doth thy lyre, Apollo Cynthius?
   In my breast no echoes now arise,
   Every shamefaced muse in sorrow flies, —
     And thou, too, Apollo Cynthius?
 
 
   Shall I still be, as a woman, tame?
   Do my pulses, at my country's name,
     Proudly burst their prison-thralls?
   Would I boast the eagle's soaring wing?
   Do I long with Roman blood to spring,
     When my Hermann calls?
 
 
   Oh, how sweet the eye's wild gaze divine
   Sweet to quaff the incense at that shrine!
     Prouder, bolder, swells the breast.
   That which once set every sense on fire,
   That which once could every nerve inspire,
     Scarce a half-smile now hath power to wrest!
 
 
   That Orion might receive my fame,
   On the time-flood's heaving waves my name
     Rocked in glory in the mighty tide;
   So that Kronos' dreaded scythe was shivered,
   When against my monument is quivered,
     Towering toward the firmament in pride.
 
 
   Smil'st thou? — No? to me naught's perished now!
   Star and laurel I'll to fools allow,
     To the dead their marble cell; —
   Love hath granted all as my reward,
   High o'er man 'twere easy to have soared,
     So I love him well!