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    Schiller's Poems, Volume 1
    Schiller's Poems, Volume 1
    Schiller's Poems, Volume 1
    Ebook77 pages49 minutes

    Schiller's Poems, Volume 1

    By Friedrich Schiller

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    About this ebook

    Schiller's Poems of the First Period including: Hector and Andromache, Amalia, A Funeral Fantasie,To Laura at the Harpsichord, Group from Tartarus, Friendship, Elysium, The Fugitive, To Minna, The Flowers, The Triumph of Love, To a Moralist, Count Eberhard, To the Spring. Semele, and Other Poems.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSovereign
    Release dateOct 10, 2017
    ISBN9781787243330
    Schiller's Poems, Volume 1
    Author

    Friedrich Schiller

    Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller, ab 1802 von Schiller (* 10. November 1759 in Marbach am Neckar; † 9. Mai 1805 in Weimar), war ein Arzt, Dichter, Philosoph und Historiker. Er gilt als einer der bedeutendsten deutschen Dramatiker, Lyriker und Essayisten.

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      Book preview

      Schiller's Poems, Volume 1 - Friedrich Schiller

      Friedrich Schiller

      Schiller’s Poems

      Volume 1

      LONDON ∙ NEW YORK ∙ TORONTO ∙ SAO PAULO ∙ MOSCOW

      PARIS ∙ MADRID ∙ BERLIN ∙ ROME ∙ MEXICO CITY ∙ MUMBAI ∙ SEOUL ∙ DOHA

      TOKYO ∙ SYDNEY ∙ CAPE TOWN ∙ AUCKLAND ∙ BEIJING

      New Edition

      Published by Sovereign Classic

      www.sovereignclassic.net

      This Edition

      First published in 2017

      Copyright © 2017 Sovereign

      All Rights Reserved.

      ISBN: 9781787243330

      Contents

      POEMS OF THE FIRST PERIOD

      NOTES

      POEMS OF THE FIRST PERIOD

      HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

      [This and the following poem are, with some alterations, introduced

      in the Play of The Robbers.]

      ANDROMACHE.

      Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain,

      Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain,

      Stalks Peleus’ ruthless son?

      Who, when thou glid’st amid the dark abodes,

      To hurl the spear and to revere the gods,

      Shall teach thine orphan one?

      HECTOR.

      Woman and wife beloved—cease thy tears;

      My soul is nerved—the war-clang in my ears!

      Be mine in life to stand

      Troy’s bulwark!—fighting for our hearths, to go

      In death, exulting to the streams below,

      Slain for my fatherland!

      ANDROMACHE.

      No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall—

      Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall—

      Fallen the stem of Troy!

      Thou goest where slow Cocytus wanders—where

      Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air

      Is dark to light and joy!

      HECTOR.

      Longing and thought—yes, all I feel and think

      May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink,

      But my love not!

      Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls!—I hear!

      Gird on my sword—Beloved one, dry the tear—

      Lethe for love is not!

      AMALIA.

      Angel-fair, Walhalla’s charms displaying,

      Fairer than all mortal youths was he;

      Mild his look, as May-day sunbeams straying

      Gently o’er the blue and glassy sea.

      And his kisses!—what ecstatic feeling!

      Like two flames that lovingly entwine,

      Like the harp’s soft tones together stealing

      Into one sweet harmony divine,—

      Soul and soul embraced, commingled, blended,

      Lips and cheeks with trembling passion burned,

      Heaven and earth, in pristine chaos ended,

      Round the blissful lovers madly turn’d.

      He is gone—and, ah! with bitter anguish

      Vainly now I breathe my mournful sighs;

      He is gone—in hopeless grief I languish

      Earthly joys I ne’er again can prize!

      A FUNERAL FANTASIE.

      Pale, at its ghastly noon,

      Pauses above the death-still wood—the moon;

      The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;

      The clouds descend in rain;

      Mourning, the wan stars wane,

      Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!

      Haggard as spectres—vision-like and dumb,

      Dark with the pomp of death, and moving slow,

      Towards that sad lair the pale procession come

      Where the grave closes on the night below.

      With dim, deep-sunken eye,

      Crutched on his staff, who trembles tottering by?

      As wrung from out the shattered heart, one groan

      Breaks the deep hush alone!

      Crushed by the iron fate, he seems to gather

      All life’s last strength to stagger to the bier,

      And hearken—Do these cold lips murmur Father?

      The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear,

      Pierces the bones gnawed fleshless by despair,

      And the heart’s horror stirs the silver hair.

      Fresh bleed the fiery wounds

      Through all that agonizing heart undone—

      Still on the voiceless lips my Father sounds,

      And still the childless Father murmurs Son!

      Ice-cold—ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies—

      Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanished there—

      The sweet and golden name of Father dies

      Into thy curse,—ice-cold—ice-cold—he lies!

      Dead, what thy life’s delight and Eden were!

      Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora,

      While the air like Elysium is smiling above,

      Steeped in rose-breathing odors, the darling of Flora

      Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.

      So gay, o’er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss,

      The silver wave mirrored the smile of his face;

      Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss,

      And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.

      Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world,

      As a deer

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