Nor will its tiger-gleam be quenched save in thy flowing Which scorns to brook the infamy or pangs of such a blood! Ay, slave-thy youth and passion a desperate game have played; Seraglio smiles are dearly bought when these with life are paid! Full rash and reckless wert thou in that thou durst be found, With loitering and forbidden step, on that enchanted ground! There lies the fatal parchment, whose import thou hast guessed, death! 'Tis true there's no atonement for such a sin as this. And what Revenge so cordial, so exquisite, so great, Ha! the spiced wine! bethink thee-thy master's joy and pride! Fill up the golden goblet, and bear it to his side He smiles upon the nectar, bright beading to the brim, And unsuspicious quaffs the cup Revenge hath mixed for him! Although that calm bland visage would lull thy fears to Up, Hafed, from thy bended knee-the fatal deed is done! rest, Of doom to secret torture, where none will heed thy groans Finish the work thy hardened heart hath darkly thus begun Go drain a draught as deadly, nor look behind thee moreWhere the wild dogs lap thy gushing gore, and banquet Master and slave shall meet to-night upon the Stygian on thy bones! shore! SCHILLER'S SONG OF THE BELL. A NEW TRANSLATION. BY THE REV. W. H. FURNESS, D. d. THE poetry of this poem has been made familiar to English readers rather by the Outlines of Retzsch and the music of Römberg, than by any translation that has yet been published. The attempt to translate this, or any genuine poem, from one language to another is a very formidable one. In the present case, translators, despairing apparently of everything that might be pronounced success, seem to have satisfied themselves with a very remote approximation to the beauty of the original. They appear to have been thankful to get through with the work anyhow. Although not without their felicities, yet in no one of the four translations which we have seen-two published in this country and two in Englanddoes the design seem to have been cherished of preserving in the English the varied music of the German. The double rhymes have been continually neglected. In the following translation, while the closest adherence has been attempted to the letter, the aim has been to convey some idea of the music of the original. As the present translator, in presuming thus to pass judgment on his predecessors, betrays perhaps an undue appreciation of his own success, he wishes to remark, ex gratiâ modestiæ, that, as one of the greatest perils to a translator of poetry arises from the excitement, in the course of his labour, of his own poetical faculty, whereby he is constantly liable to mistake, amidst the thick-coming fancies which the original starts, one of his own vivid images for the thought of the poet, it follows that he, who has barely enough of the poetical sentiment to enable him to have some appreciation of the work he undertakes to translate, may, on this account, have a better chance of success than others of a higher poetical temperament. It is observable that the latter part of the Song of the Bell was composed by the lurid light of the old French Revolution, from which so many of the first men of the time, Burke, for instance, like Schiller, "shrunk almost blinded by the glare." THE SONG OF THE BEL L. Vivos voco. Mortuos plango. Fulgura frango. EE the mould, of clay well heated, From the glowing brow, Sweat must freely flow, So the work the master showeth; Yet the blessing Heaven bestoweth. The work, we earnestly are doing, So let us then with care now ponder "Tis this indeed that man most graceth, Take the wood, from pine trunks riven, Boil the copper now! That the thick bell-metal flowing, What in the pit, by help of fire, Still will it last while years are rolling, Strikes on this metal crown, which, ringing, Bubbles white I see are starting; Clean too from the scum For with Joy's festive music ringing, With watchful love his golden morning *The allusion here is to the custom of carrying the child to church, a few days after birth, to be christened. See Retzsch's Outlines, No. 6. The years they fly like arrows fleet. O that, for ever fair and vernal, See how brown the pipes are getting! If it show a glazed coating, Now, my lads, enough! The brittle with the tough combining, For when the Strong and Mild are pairing, If heart with heart be in communion! Is the wreath that crowns the bride, Love must be enduring, So fortune securing; Then streameth in wealth, all untold in its measure, The chaste gentle housewife, And sweet-scented presses with treasures is filling, ing, And the neat burnished chests-she gathers them full Of linen snow-white, and of glistering wool, And resteth never. And the father with look elate, Yet with thy great laws, O heaven, Be the casting now beginning; Let the metal go! God protect us now! Through the bending handle hollow Smoking shoots the fire-brown billow, Benignant is the might of Flame, When man keeps watch and makes it tame. From the heavens Blessings pour, Streams the shower; From the heavens, all the same, Lightnings gleam. Dost hear it from the tower moan? 'Tis th' alarm! Blood-red now Heaven is flushing; That is not the daylight's glow! What a rushing, Streets all up! Smoke rolls up! Flick'ring mounts the fire-column, Through the long streets onward growing, Going swift as winds are going; As from out a furnace rushing, Glows the air, and beams are crashing, Pillars tumble, children crying, 'Mid the ruin Beasts are lowing; This line is obscure in the original. Literally: "Seeth the projecting beams (or trees) of the pillars." Perhaps the line is elucidated by reference to the method of constructing the outhouses on German farms. It is said that the framework is left visible, and the pillars or supporters, the spaces between which are filled in with bricks or stone, bear a resemblance to trees. See Retzsch's Outlines, No. 26. Whatever may be the precise meaning of the line, Schiller probably intended to describe the farmer as taking satisfaction in the number and substantial character of his outhouses. All is fleeing, saving, running, Goes the bucket; bow like bending, Mounts the flame to heaven, growing Hopeless all, Man to God at last hath yielded, Idly sees what he hath builded, Wond'ring, to destruction going. All burnt out Are the places, Where the tempest wild reposes. In the hollow windows dreary, Horror's sitting, And the clouds of heaven, flitting High, look in. Ere he goes, On the ashes, Where his riches Buried lie, one look man throws- Earth our work is now entombing, And the mould is filled right well; Will it, fair to light forthcoming, Recompense our pains and skill? If the casting crack? If the mould should break? Ah! perhaps, while we have waited, Mischief hath its work completed. To holy Earth's dark, silent bosom The husbandmen the seed consign, And hope that, from the coffin springing, "Twill bloom in brighter beauty forth. From the tower, Heavy, slow, Tolls the fun'ral Note of wo. Sad and solemn, with its knell attending Ah! the wife it is, the dear one, Which alarms the bad benighted; For the eye of Law doth watch and mark. Holy Order, rich in blessing, There to dwell-no more to ravage; And dearest ties hath wov'n round us, Busy hands, by thousands stirring, In a lively league unite, And it is in fiery motion That all forces come to light. Briskly work, by Freedom guarded, Work, the blessing doth command, That the work, without a fracture, The master wise alone is knowing Wo! if, heaped up, the fire-tinder "Equality and Freedom" howling, Rushes to arms the citizen, And bloody-minded bands are prowling, The good man's place, the bad are taking, Joy to me now God hath given! From the shell, all bright and even, Bright from top to rim, E'en the 'scutcheon, formed completely, Come all! come all! My comrades, stand around and listen, And this its office be henceforth, |