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1 854.] JAN 2 '40

SCHILLER.

165

A

the festival.-But where is Schiller? Far up an infinite series of staircases near the region of perpetual congelation, indulging freely in as good wine as poverty can command, talking over the prospect with a wayward classmate and "chum." His "chum," however, is not his confident. The "chum " is yet to be a military man. He is not inclined to sympathize with the enthusiasm of the poet. The latter walks out a block or two to Streicher's room. Streicher is playing a melancholy tune on the clavigo. The musician is suddenly startled from his wavy reveries by "A Sail! A Sail!!" He agrees that any change is reform, and the determination and plan are the work of a moment. They pack up their wardrobes, but neglect to pack any florins—no great difference between the deserters in this respect; Schiller, twenty-three; Streicher, twentyeight. The disguises are adjusted, Schiller takes a farewell look at "meine mutter," and this grand army is en route for the next province. There they go, saying little, but thinking grand things. The musician is busied in composing for some great occasion which fancy has just presented him. The poet is electrifying thousands with Fiesco, into whom he has already breathed the daring of conspiracy. They are arrived at the Gate, where the musings are interrupted by the Lieutenant of the Guard: "Halt! Who's there?" "Dr. Ritter and Dr. Wolf, both bound to Esslingen." "Pass."

But our space will not permit a minute combination of the life and works of Schiller, as influencing each other. Suffice it to say, that his flight from Stuttgard immediately confirmed his life for authorship; authorship more varied than that of any writer of his age, and yet, in the distinct provinces of criticism, dramatic and lyric poetry, history, and, to some extent, philosophy, presenting uniformly a high degree of excellence.

To examine any one of those distinct phases of literature in connection with any single name, would require more time and space than our limits would permit; and it will, only be necessary briefly to review Schiller's excellence in one department.

The minor poems and ballads of every true poet afford as favorable material for estimating the scope and characteristics of his genius as any of those works in which the object is to present a greater variety of thought, by reason of an enlarged plan. If Milton had written nothing but his Odes to Joy and Melancholy, these would have been of themselves sufficient to evince a capacity for greater works. If Schiller had written nothing but the Walk, the Artist, the Four Ages, the Diver, and the Lay of the Bell, these would have sufficed as foundations for the

more magnificent, but not more perfect, structures of Don Carlos, Wallenstein, and the Maid of Orleans. In these poems we have also the best clue to the author's ideas of life and men, of Art and Civilization.

"The Diver" is a ballad taken from a legend of one of the kings of Sicily in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The ballad opens with the address of the king to his knights and squires. He throws a goblet of gold into "the howling Charybdis below." The knights and the squires were silent.

They looked on the dismal and savage profound,

And the peril chill'd back every thought of the prize.

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And all, as before, heard in silence the King,

Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle,
'Mid the tremulous squires stepp'd out from the ring,
Unbuckling his girdle and doffing his mantle;
And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder,
On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.

Then follows a description which is nowhere surpassed for its truth and grandeur, yet everywhere preserving the musical flow of the verse:

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars,
As when fire is with water commix'd and contending;
And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars,
And flood upon flood hurries on, never-ending;
And it never will rest, nor from travail be free,

Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.

The spell of the spectators at the leap of the youth and the sudden calm are powerfully harmonized. The beauty of the King's daughter and the sternness of the father are contrasted in strong light. The temptation to quote from any part of this ballad is almost irresistible. Sufficient, however, has been given to show that in the difficult sphere of ballad-writing Schiller has shown capacities for description, and the simplicity of narrative verse, unsurpassed by any author. It is not pretended that they are the highest class of poems, or that they are the best of his works, but that their excellences are not on that account less striking or peculiar to the author.

Among Schiller's minor poems The Walk, The Artist, and The Four Ages, are intended only to exhibit his peculiar ideas of the influence of Art in Civilization. They are generally less interesting considered apart from the value of his views, and are necessarily more elaborate. They

are also of much greater length, and hence the greater difficulty of quoting any part with justice to the whole.

"The Lay of the Bell" is a poem singularly beautiful and ingenious in design, and presents, under the continued simile of the Bell, the gradual development of the man. It is characterized more than any other of his poems by those pleasant incidents and reflections drawn from real life, which afford a grateful relief from the tedium and occasional obscurity of his didactic poems, which convey invariably the author's peculiar tenets concerning the value of Art, and his enthusiastic fondness for tracing the progress of a Poet's ideal throughout the mazes of history. Few of his poems, from the prevalence of this disposition to theorize and idealize, exhibit any full descriptions from real life. Few found their interest on depth of feeling, few on love, none on humor. "The Lay of the Bell" differs from these only in being less elaborate, but more spirited. He traces the formation of the Bell from the clay to the heating, from the heating to the casting, from the casting to the moulding, from the moulding to the hanging, and thence to its various uses:

Deep hid within this nether cell,

What force with Fire is moulding thus,

In yonder airy tower shall dwell,

And witness wide and far of us.

It shall, in later days, unfailing,

Rouse many a year to rapt emotion;
Its solemn voice with sorrow wailing,
Or choral chiming to devotion.
Whatever Fate to man may bring,
Whatever weal or woe befall,
That metal tongue shall backward ring
The warning moral drawn from all.

Many passages from this Lay might be quoted, but none is sufficient of itself to give an adequate idea of the vivid impression of the whole. Life-like is his description of the bell tolling for the fire, the hurry and commotion of the city, the crackling of the flames, the falling of the timbers; sad the bell tolling the departure of friends. But time will permit us to quote but a few passages, full of all the peaceful associations of the vesper-bell:

While the mass is yielding now,

Let the labor yield to leisure;

As the bird upon the bough,

Loose the travail to the pleasure!

When the soft stars a waken,

Each task be forsaken!

And the vesper-bell lulling the Earth into peace,
If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release!

Homeward from the tasks of day,

Through the greenwood's welcome way
Wends the wanderer, blithe and cheerly,
To the cottage loved so dearly!
And the eye and ear are meeting,
Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating-
Now, the wonted shelter near,
Lowing the lusty-fronted steer;
Creaking, now the heavy wain

Reels with the happy harvest grain.
While, with many-colored leaves,
Glitters the garland on the sheaves;
For the mower's work is done,
And the young folks' dance begun!
Desert street and quiet mart;
Silence is in the city's heart;
And the social taper lighteth

Each dear face that HOME uniteth;
While the gate the town before
Heavily swings with sullen roar !

This, like many of these poems, has some reflections on the Revolution then raging at its height of atrocity in France. Such, however, are generally the least happy portions of Schiller's poems.

We have now given specimens of Schiller's poems only in the two distinct classes of Ballads and Odes. Imperfect must such be toward giving any idea to those who have not diligently read and studied his works, of the more general and powerful characteristics of his poetry. Few have succeeded so well in uniting harmoniously the force and beauty of intellect and imagination. Nowhere, in all his works, is there one, however lively the invention and tone, which does not show along the fiery train of mingled passion and fancy, somewhat of truth gleaned from rich mines of reflection, or deep stores of learning. It was his peculiarity, too, to leave, on every effort, numerous traces of his own genius. While the intellect is constantly charmed with rich invention, with inspiring thoughts, the spell is never broken by one foreign note. The thought is always that of the Suabian poet, or a thought whose gilding and use are peculiarly his own. He is always original.

Passing from the consideration of Schiller's poetry to that of his cha

racter, as young men, we owe him a debt of gratitude which can never be measured. For his early misfortunes and trials, his early hopes and confidence, we cannot esteem him too highly. For his energy in want, and his courage in despair, for that high and ardent restlessness of soul, ever prompting him to new efforts, that enthusiastic worship of ideal excellence, as well in Art as in character, and the success which all these noble qualities contributed to his works, we owe him a debt which gratitude can alone repay.

M.

To the New Hall.

LAST-BORN Of Yale! daughter of Eloquence!
Thou who for ages wert a listless rock

Deaf to the call of noisy elements

The winds, and waves, and the loud thunder-shock,
Whom nothing from thy slumbers could unlock
Till man stretched forth his arm and bid thee rise-
Thine be this feeble song. Let me not mock
What I would celebrate; but may mine eyes
Be clear to see the matchless worth that in thee lies.

Fairest of all thy sisters! thou art young.
Age hath not stole thy beauties, nor hath time
Around thy lofty brows his gray locks flung;
But there thou standest in thy strength sublime,
Like rocks that do aspire on high to climb.
Thine elder sisters look on thee with pride-
A noble throng-though some are past their prime,
And stand in hidden beauty thee beside;

Yet live they in their names, which time shall never hide.

With that pure fire which glowed in men of yore
Do thou inspire us. We are come from where

The old Atlantic surges on the shore,

Or where the orange trees perfume the air,

Or the wide prairies wave in beauty rare.

Come we young patriots in our country's cause—
Friends to the right, but foes to those who dare
Insult her might, or majesty, or laws-

Traitors be they, or kings, whose thrones are built on straws.

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