(Rapture.)

Laura—above this world methinks I fly,
And feel the glow of some May-lighted sky,
When thy looks beam on mine!
And my soul drinks a more ethereal air,
When mine own shape I see reflected there,
In those blue eyes of thine!
A lyre-sound from the Paradise afar,
A harp-note trembling from some gracious star,
Seems the wild ear to fill;
And my muse feels the Golden Shepherd-hours,
When from thy lips the silver music pours
Slow, as against its will.
I see the young Loves flutter on the wing—
Move the charm'd trees, as when the Thracian's string
Wild life to forests gave;
Swifter the globe's swift circle seems to fly,
When in the whirling dance thou glidest by,
Light as a happy wave.
Thy looks, when there love sheds the loving smile,
Could from the senseless marble life beguile—
Lend rocks a pulse divine;
Into a dream my very being dies,
I can but read—for ever read—thine eyes—
Laura, sweet Laura, mine![13]

[Footnote 13: We confess we cannot admire the sagacity of those who have contended that Schiller's passion for Laura was purely Platonic.]

* * * * *

TO LAURA PLAYING.

When o'er the chords thy fingers steal,
A soulless statue now I feel,
And now a soul set free!
Sweet Sovereign! ruling over death and life—
Seizes the heart, in a voluptuous strife
As with a thousand strings—the SORCERY![14]

[Footnote 14: "The Sorcery."—In the original, Schiller has an allusion of very questionable taste, and one which is very obscure to the general reader, to a conjurer of the name of Philadelphia who exhibited before Frederick the Great.]

Then the vassal airs that woo thee,
Hush their low breath hearkening to thee.
In delight and in devotion,
Pausing from her whirling motion,
Nature, in enchanted calm,
Silently drinks the floating balm.
Sorceress, her heart with thy tone
Chaining—as thine eyes my own!

O'er the transport-tumult driven,
Doth the music gliding swim;
From the strings, as from their heaven,
Burst the new-born Seraphim.
As when from Chaos' giant arms set free,
'Mid the Creation-storm, exultingly
Sprang sparkling thro' the dark the Orbs of Light—
So streams the rich tone in melodious might.

Soft-gliding now, as when o'er pebbles glancing,
The silver wave goes dancing;
Now with majestic swell, and strong,
As thunder peals in organ-tones along;
And now with stormy gush,
As down the rock, in foam, the whirling torrents rush.
To a whisper now
Melts it amorously,
Like the breeze through the bough
Of the aspen tree;
Heavily now, and with a mournful breath,
Like midnight's wind along those wastes of death,
Where Awe the wail of ghosts lamenting hears,
And slow Cocytus trails the stream whose waves are tears.

Speak, maiden, speak!—Oh, art thou one of those
Spirits more lofty than our region knows?
Should we in thine the mother-language seek
Souls in Elysium speak?

FLOWERS.

Children of Suns restored to youth,
In purfled fields ye dwell,
Rear'd to delight and joy—in sooth
Kind Nature loves ye well!
Broider'd with light the robes ye wear,
And liberal Flora decks ye fair
In gorgeous-colour'd pride.
Yet woe—Spring's harmless infants—woe!
Mourn, for ye wither while ye glow—
Mourn for the soul denied!

The sky-lark and the nightbird sing
To you their hymns of love;
And Sylphs that wanton on the wing,
Embrace your blooms above.
Woven for Love's soft pillow were
The chalice crowns ye flushing bear,
By the Idalian Queen.
Yet weep, soft children of the Spring,
The feelings love alone can bring
To you denied have been!

But me in vain my Fanny's [15] eyes
Her mother hath forbidden;
For in the buds I gather, lies
Love's symbol-language hidden.
Mute heralds of voluptuous pain,
I touch ye—life—speech—heart—ye gain,
And soul denied before.
And silently your leaves enclose,
The mightiest God in arch repose,
Soft-cradled in the core.

[Footnote 15: Literally "Nanny."]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE.

Heavy and solemn,
A cloudy column,
Thro' the green plain they marching came!
Measureless spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
The looks are bent on the shaking ground,
And the heart beats loud with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breasts that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the Major along the front—
"Halt!"
And fetter'd they stand at the stark command,
And the warriors, silent, halt!

Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
What on the hill-top shines in flowing?
"See you the Foeman's banners waving?"
"We see the Foeman's banners waving!"
Now, God be with you, woman and child,
Lustily hark to the music wild—
The mighty trump and the mellow fife,
Nerving the limbs to a stouter life;
Thrilling they sound with their glorious tone,
Thrilling they go, through the marrow and bone.
Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!
See the smoke how the lightning is cleaving asunder!
Hark the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder!
From host to host, with kindling sound,
The shouting signal circles round,
Ay, shout it forth to life or death—
Freer already breathes the breath!
The war is waging, slaughter raging,
And heavy through the reeking pall,
The iron Death-dice fall!
Nearer they close—foes upon foes
"Ready!"—From square to square it goes,
Down on the knee they sank,
And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank.
Many a man to the earth it sent,
Many a gap by the balls is rent—
O'er the corpse before springs the hinder-man,
That the line may not fail to the fearless van.
To the right, to the left, and around and around,
Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground.
The sun goes down on the burning fight,
And over the host falls the brooding Night.
Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!
The dead men lie bathed in the weltering blood,
And the living are blent in the slippery flood,
And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go,
Stumble still on the corpses that sleep below.
"What, Francis!" "Give Charlotte my last farewell."
Wilder the slaughter roars, fierce and fell.
"I'll give——Look, comrades, beware—beware
How the bullets behind us are whirring there——
I'll give thy Charlotte thy last farewell,
Sleep soft! where death's seeds are the thickest sown,
Goes the heart which thy silent heart leaves alone."
Hitherward—thitherward reels the fight,
Darker and darker comes down the night—
Brothers, God grant when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!
The Adjutants flying,—
The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
Their thunder booms in dying—
Victory!
The terror has seized on the dastards all,
And their colours fall.
Victory!
Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight.
And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night.
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,
The triumph already sweeps marching in song.
Live—brothers—live!—and when this life is o'er,
In the life to come may we meet once more!

* * * * *