C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Extracts from ‘The Song of the Bell’
By Friedrich von Schiller (1759–1805)
S
In the earth walled firmly, stand.
Be the bell to-day created!
Come, my comrades, be at hand!
From the glowing brow
Sweat must freely flow,
So the work the master showeth;
Yet the blessing Heaven bestoweth.
Befitteth well an earnest word;
Then toil goes on, more briskly flowing,
When good discourse is also heard.
So let us then with care now ponder
What through weak strength originates:
To him no reverence can we render,
Who never heeds what he creates.
’Tis this indeed that man most graceth,
For this ’tis his to understand,—
That in his inner heart he traceth
What he produces with his hand….
This little rod I dip it in;
If it show a glazèd coating,
Then the casting may begin.
Now my lads, enough!
Prove me now the stuff,
The brittle with the tough combining,
See if they be rightly joining.
The manly with the tender sharing,
Then is the concord good and strong.
See ye, who join in endless union,
If heart with heart be in communion!
For fancy’s brief, repentance long….
Finely jaggèd is the grain.
But before we set it running,
Let us breathe a pious strain.
Let the metal go!
God protect us now!
Through the bending handle hollow
Smoking shoots the fire-brown billow.
When man keeps watch and makes it tame;
In what he fashions, what he makes,
Help from this heaven’s force he takes:
But fearful is this heaven’s force
When all unfettered in its course;
Thy daughter, Nature, wild and free.
Woe! when once emancipated,
With naught her power to withstand,
Through the streets thick populated,
Waves she high her monstrous brand!
By the elements is hated
What is formed by mortal hand,…
From the tower,
Heavy and slow,
Tolls the funeral
Note of woe,
Sad and solemn, with its knell attending
Some new wanderer on the last way wending.
Ah! it is the faithful mother,
Whom the angel dark is tearing
From the husband’s arms endearing,
From the group of children, far,
Whom she, blooming, to him bare,
Whom she on her faithful breast
Saw with joy maternal rest;
Ah! the household ties so tender
Broken are for evermore,
For the shadow-land now holds her,
Who the household rulèd o’er!
For her faithful guidance ceases;
No more keepeth watch her care;
In the void and orphaned places
Rules the stranger, loveless there….
Should the still heart of cities fill,
Their fetters rending all asunder,
The people work then their own will!
Then at the bell-ropes tuggeth riot;
The bell gives forth a wailing sound,—
Sacred to peace alone and quiet,
For blood it rings the signal round.
“Equality and Freedom” howling,
Rushes to arms the citizen,
And bloody-minded bands are prowling,
And streets and halls are filled with men;
Then women, to hyenas changing,
On bloody horrors feast and laugh,
And with the thirst of panthers ranging,
The blood of hearts yet quivering quaff.
Naught sacred is there more, for breaking
Are all the bands of pious awe;
The good man’s place the bad are taking,
And vice acknowledges no law.
’Tis dangerous to rouse the lion,
Deadly to cross the tiger’s path,
But the most terrible of terrors
Is man himself in his wild wrath.
Alas! when to the ever blinded
The heavenly torch of light is lent!
It guides him not,—it can but kindle
Whole States in flames and ruin blent.