The glorious heavens above, the earth beneath;Observe, investigate, with searching eyes,And nature will disclose her mysteries.
So with contests, strivings, triumphs,Flying now, and now returning,Is an artful net soon woven,In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,That, from light amid the darkness,Draw their streaky lines so varied,As e'en colours scarce can draw them.
ALL my weary days I pass'd
Vengeance takes suddenly, vengeance takes soon.Let them whirl round, then, and leave us to wander!
Then with emphasis answer'd the druggist:--" The terrible storiesTold me to-day will serve for a long time to make me unhappy.Words would fail to describe the manifold pictures of mis'ry.Far in the distance saw we the dust, before we descendedDown to the meadows; the rising hillocks hid the processionLong from our eyes, and little could we distinguish about it.When, however, we reach'd the road that winds thro' the valley,Great was the crowd and the noise of the emigrants mix'd with the waggons.We unhappily saw poor fellows passing in numbers,Some of them showing how bitter the sense of their sorrowful flight was,Some with a feeling of joy at saving their lives in a hurry.Sad was the sight of the manifold goods and chattels pertainingUnto a well-managed house, which the careful owner's accustom'dEach in its proper position to place, and in regular order,Always ready for use, for all are wanted and useful.--Sad was the sight of them now, on many a waggon and barrowHeap'd in thorough confusion, and hurriedly huddled together.Over a cupboard was placed a sieve and a coverlet woollen;Beds in the kneeding troughs lay, and linen over the glasses.Ah! and the danger appear'd to rob the men of their senses,Just as in our great fire of twenty years ago happen'd,When what was worthless they saved, and left all the best things behind them.So on the present occasion with heedless caution they carriedMany valueless chattels, o'erlading the cattle and horses,--Common old boards and barrels, a birdcage next to a goosepen.Women and children were gasping beneath the weight of their bundles,Baskets and tubs full of utterly useless articles, bearing.(Man is always unwilling the least of his goods to abandon.)Thus on its dusty way advanced the crowded procession,All in hopeless confusion. First one, whose cattle were weaker,Fain would slowly advance, while others would eagerly hasten.Then there arose a scream of half-crush'd women and children,And a lowing of cattle, with yelping of dogs intermingled,And a wailing of aged and sick, all sitting and shaking,Ranged in their beds on the top of the waggon too-heavily laden.Next some lumbering wheel, push'd out of the track by the pressure,Went to the edge of the roadway; the vehicle fell in the ditch then,Rolling right over, and throwing, in falling, the men who were in itFar in the field, screaming loudly, their persons however uninjured.Then the boxes roll'd off and tumbled close to the waggon.Those who saw them failing full surely expected to see themSmash'd to pieces beneath the weight of the chests and the presses.So the waggon lay broken, and those that it carried were helpless,For the rest of the train went on, and hurriedly pass'd them,Thinking only of self, and carried away by the current.So we sped to the spot, and found the sick and the agedWho, when at home and in bed, could scarcely endure their sad ailments,Lying there on the ground, all sighing and groaning in anguish,Stifled by clouds of dust, and scorch'd by the fierce sun of summer.
Till thou to action art roused, waked by the swift-rolling flood.Kindly be to the people, as when thou still wert a mortal,
THE reluctance which must naturally be felt by any one inventuring to give to the world a book such as the present, wherethe beauties of the great original must inevitably be diminished,if not destroyed, in the process of passing through thetranslator's hands, cannot but be felt in all its force when thattranslator has not penetrated beyond the outer courts of thepoetic fane, and can have no hope of advancing further, or ofreaching its sanctuary. But it is to me a subject of peculiarsatisfaction that your kind permission to have your nameinscribed upon this page serves to attain a twofold end--onedirect and personal, and relating to the present day; the otherreflected and historical, and belonging to times long gone by. Ofthe first little need now be said, for the privilege is whollymine, in making this dedication: as to the second, one word ofexplanation will suffice for those who have made the greatestpoet of Germany, almost of the world, their study, and to whomthe story of his life is not unknown. All who have followed thecareer of GOETHE are familiar with the name and character ofDALBERG, and also with the deep and lasting friendship thatexisted between them, from which SCHILLER too was not absent;recalling to the mind the days of old, when a Virgil and a Horaceand a Maecenas sat side by side.