| |
| THIS is Goethe, with a forehead | |
| Like the fabled front of Jove; | |
| In its massive lines the tokens | |
| More of majesty than love. | |
| |
| This is Schiller, in whose features, | 5 |
| With their passionate calm regard, | |
| We behold the true ideal | |
| Of the high heroic bard, | |
| |
| Whom the inward world of feeling | |
| And the outward world of sense | 10 |
| To the endless labor summon, | |
| And the endless recompense. | |
| |
| These are they, sublime and silent, | |
| From whose living lips have rung | |
| Words to be remembered ever | 15 |
| In the noble German tongue; | |
| |
| Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling | |
| Into loftiest speech or song, | |
| Still through all the listening ages | |
| Pours its torrent swift and strong. | 20 |
| |
| As to-day in sculptured marble | |
| Side by side the poets stand, | |
| So they stood in life’s great struggle | |
| Side by side and hand to hand, | |
| |
| In the ancient German city, | 25 |
| Dowered with many a deathless name, | |
| Where they dwelt and toiled together, | |
| Sharing each the other’s fame: | |
| |
| One till evening’s lengthening shadows | |
| Gently stilled his faltering lips, | 30 |
| But the other’s sun at noonday | |
| Shrouded in a swift eclipse. | |
| |
| There their names are household treasures, | |
| And the simplest child you meet | |
| Guides you where the house of Goethe | 35 |
| Fronts upon the quiet street; | |
| |
| And, hard by, the modest mansion | |
| Where full many a heart has felt | |
| Memories uncounted clustering | |
| Round the words “Here Schiller dwelt.” | 40 |
| |
| In the churchyard both are buried, | |
| Straight beyond the narrow gate, | |
| In the mausoleum sleeping | |
| With Duke Charles in sculptured state. | |
| |
| For the monarch loved the poets, | 45 |
| Called them to him from afar,— | |
| Wooed them near his court to linger, | |
| And the planets sought the star. | |
| |
| He, his larger gifts of fortune | |
| With their larger fame to blend, | 50 |
| Living, counted it an honor | |
| That they named him as their friend; | |
| |
| Dreading to be all-forgotten, | |
| Still their greatness to divide, | |
| Dying, prayed to have his poets | 55 |
| Buried one on either side. | |
| |
| But this suited not the gold-laced | |
| Ushers of the royal tomb, | |
| Where the princely House of Weimar | |
| Slumbered in majestic gloom. | 60 |
| |
| So they ranged the coffins justly, | |
| Each with fitting rank and stamp, | |
| And with shows of court precedence | |
| Mocked the grave’s sepulchral damp. | |
| |
| Fitly now the clownish sexton | 65 |
| Narrow courtier-rules rebukes; | |
| First he shows the grave of Goethe, | |
| Schiller’s next, and last—the Duke’s. | |
| |
| Vainly midst these truthful shadows | |
| Pride would flaunt her painted wing; | 70 |
| Here the monarch waits in silence, | |
| And the poet is the king! | |
| |
