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Best Famous Friedrich Von Schiller Poems

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Written by Friedrich von Schiller |


 Friend!--the Great Ruler, easily content,
Needs not the laws it has laborious been
The task of small professors to invent;
A single wheel impels the whole machine
Matter and spirit;--yea, that simple law,
Pervading nature, which our Newton saw.
This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein, Their radiant labyrinths to weave around Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain, Which into interwoven systems bound All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun As brooks that ever into ocean run! Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond? Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go To that perfection which the angels know! Happy, O happy--I have found thee--I Have out of millions found thee, and embraced; Thou, out of millions, mine!--Let earth and sky Return to darkness, and the antique waste-- To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be, Still shall each heart unto the other flee! Do I not find within thy radiant eyes Fairer reflections of all joys most fair? In thee I marvel at myself--the dyes Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there, And in the bright looks of the friend is given A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven! Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes From the intolerant storm to rest awhile, In love's true heart, sure haven of repose; Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile From that bright eloquence affection gave To friendly looks?--there, finds not pain a grave? In all creation did I stand alone, Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find, Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone, My griefs should feel a listener in the wind; My joy--its echo in the caves should be! Fool, if ye will--Fool, for sweet sympathy! We are dead groups of matter when we hate; But when we love we are as gods!--Unto The gentle fetters yearning, through each state And shade of being multiform, and through All countless spirits (save of all the sire)-- Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire.
Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade, From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek, Who the fine link between the mortal made, And heaven's last seraph--everywhere we seek Union and bond--till in one sea sublime Of love be merged all measure and all time! Friendless ruled God His solitary sky; He felt the want, and therefore souls were made, The blessed mirrors of his bliss!--His eye No equal in His loftiest works surveyed; And from the source whence souls are quickened, He Called His companion forth--ETERNITY!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Shakespeares Ghost - A Parody

 I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty,--
Saw his shade.
He himself was not, alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds, the screams of tragedians, And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended, And the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.
"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture, Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?"-- "'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?" "If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them.
" "Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured, Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count.
" "What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then, Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus' gloom?"-- "There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness-clad.
" "Doubtless 'tis well! Philosophy now has refined your sensations, And from the humor so bright fly the affections so black.
"-- "Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren, But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist.
" "But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia, Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?"-- "Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral; And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain.
" "What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now, Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?" "No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons, and syndics of commerce, Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse.
" "But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with That can be truly called great?--what that is great can they do?" "What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed.
" "Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic, Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?"-- "All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also, And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here.
" "But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,-- Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?" "Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question; Ever is destiny blind,--ever is righteous the bard.
" "Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature, While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?" "There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning; And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!"

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Beauteous Individuality

 Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one,--art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever; If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.

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Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Conflict

 No! I this conflict longer will not wage,
The conflict duty claims--the giant task;--
Thy spells, O virtue, never can assuage
The heart's wild fire--this offering do not ask

True, I have sworn--a solemn vow have sworn,
That I myself will curb the self within;
Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn--
Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin.
Rent be the contract I with thee once made;-- She loves me, loves me--forfeit be the crown! Blessed he who, lulled in rapture's dreamy shade, Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down.
She sees the worm that my youth's bloom decays, She sees my spring-time wasted as it flees; And, marvelling at the rigor that gainsays The heart's sweet impulse, my reward decrees.
Distrust this angel purity, fair soul! It is to guilt thy pity armeth me; Could being lavish its unmeasured whole, It ne'er could give a gift to rival thee! Thee--the dear guilt I ever seek to shun, O tyranny of fate, O wild desires! My virtue's only crown can but be won In that last breath--when virtue's self expires!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Dance

 See how, like lightest waves at play, the airy dancers fleet;
And scarcely feels the floor the wings of those harmonious feet.
Ob, are they flying shadows from their native forms set free? Or phantoms in the fairy ring that summer moonbeams see? As, by the gentle zephyr blown, some light mist flees in air, As skiffs that skim adown the tide, when silver waves are fair, So sports the docile footstep to the heave of that sweet measure, As music wafts the form aloft at its melodious pleasure, Now breaking through the woven chain of the entangled dance, From where the ranks the thickest press, a bolder pair advance, The path they leave behind them lost--wide open the path beyond, The way unfolds or closes up as by a magic wand.
See now, they vanish from the gaze in wild confusion blended; All, in sweet chaos whirled again, that gentle world is ended! No!--disentangled glides the knot, the gay disorder ranges-- The only system ruling here, a grace that ever changes.
For ay destroyed--for ay renewed, whirls on that fair creation; And yet one peaceful law can still pervade in each mutation.
And what can to the reeling maze breathe harmony and vigor, And give an order and repose to every gliding figure? That each a ruler to himself doth but himself obey, Yet through the hurrying course still keeps his own appointed way.
What, would'st thou know? It is in truth the mighty power of tune, A power that every step obeys, as tides obey the moon; That threadeth with a golden clue the intricate employment, Curbs bounding strength to tranquil grace, and tames the wild enjoyment.
And comes the world's wide harmony in vain upon thine ears? The stream of music borne aloft from yonder choral spheres? And feel'st thou not the measure which eternal Nature keeps? The whirling dance forever held in yonder azure deeps? The suns that wheel in varying maze?--That music thou discernest? No! Thou canst honor that in sport which thou forgettest in earnest.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Fortune And Wisdom

 Enraged against a quondam friend,
To Wisdom once proud Fortune said
"I'll give thee treasures without end,
If thou wilt be my friend instead.
" "My choicest gifts to him I gave, And ever blest him with my smile; And yet he ceases not to crave, And calls me niggard all the while.
" "Come, sister, let us friendship vow! So take the money, nothing loth; Why always labor at the plough? Here is enough I'm sure for both!" Sage wisdom laughed,--the prudent elf!-- And wiped her brow, with moisture hot: "There runs thy friend to hang himself,-- Be reconciled--I need thee not!"

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |


 Oh thou degenerate child of the great and glorious mother,
Who with the Romans' strong might couplest the Tyrians' deceit!
But those ever governed with vigor the earth they had conquered,--
These instructed the world that they with cunning had won.
Say! what renown does history grant thee? Thou, Roman-like, gained'st That with the steel, which with gold, Tyrian-like, then thou didst rule!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Human Knowledge

 Since thou readest in her what thou thyself hast there written,
And, to gladden the eye, placest her wonders in groups;--
Since o'er her boundless expanses thy cords to extend thou art able,
Thou dost think that thy mind wonderful Nature can grasp.
Thus the astronomer draws his figures over the heavens, So that he may with more ease traverse the infinite space, Knitting together e'en suns that by Sirius-distance are parted, Making them join in the swan and in the horns of the bull.
But because the firmament shows him its glorious surface, Can he the spheres' mystic dance therefore decipher aright?

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Political Precept

 All that thou doest is right; but, friend, don't carry this precept
On too far,--be content, all that is right to effect.
It is enough to true zeal, if what is existing be perfect; False zeal always would find finished perfection at once.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

My Faith

 Which religion do I acknowledge? None that thou namest.
"None that I name? And why so?"--Why, for religion's own sake?

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Dangerous Consequences

 Deeper and bolder truths be careful, my friends, of avowing;
For as soon as ye do all the world on ye will fall.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

To A Moralist

 Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumbed with the winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
For you once a nymph had her charms, And Oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms-- All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
If Jove at that moment had hurled The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirled, You had felt not the shock of creation.
Learn this--that philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse,--quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,-- But it cannot make gods of us--No! It is well icy reason should thaw In the warm blood of mirth now and then, The gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men.
The spirit is bound by the ties Of its gaoler, the flesh;--if I can Not reach as an angel the skies, Let me feel on the earth as a man!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Honor To Woman

 Honor to woman! To her it is given
To garden the earth with the roses of heaven!
All blessed, she linketh the loves in their choir
In the veil of the graces her beauty concealing,
She tends on each altar that's hallowed to feeling,
And keeps ever-living the fire!

From the bounds of truth careering,
Man's strong spirit wildly sweeps,
With each hasty impulse veering
Down to passion's troubled deeps.
And his heart, contented never, Greeds to grapple with the far, Chasing his own dream forever, On through many a distant star! But woman with looks that can charm and enchain, Lureth back at her beck the wild truant again, By the spell of her presence beguiled-- In the home of the mother her modest abode, And modest the manners by Nature bestowed On Nature's most exquisite child! Bruised and worn, but fiercely breasting, Foe to foe, the angry strife; Man, the wild one, never resting, Roams along the troubled life; What he planneth, still pursuing; Vainly as the Hydra bleeds, Crest the severed crest renewing-- Wish to withered wish succeeds.
But woman at peace with all being, reposes, And seeks from the moment to gather the roses-- Whose sweets to her culture belong.
Ah! richer than he, though his soul reigneth o'er The mighty dominion of genius and lore, And the infinite circle of song.
Strong, and proud, and self-depending, Man's cold bosom beats alone; Heart with heart divinely blending, In the love that gods have known, Soul's sweet interchange of feeling, Melting tears--he never knows, Each hard sense the hard one steeling, Arms against a world of foes.
Alive, as the wind-harp, how lightly soever If wooed by the zephyr, to music will quiver, Is woman to hope and to fear; All, tender one! still at the shadow of grieving, How quiver the chords--how thy bosom is heaving-- How trembles thy glance through the tear! Man's dominion, war and labor; Might to right the statue gave; Laws are in the Scythian's sabre; Where the Mede reigned--see the slave! Peace and meekness grimly routing, Prowls the war-lust, rude and wild; Eris rages, hoarsely shouting, Where the vanished graces smiled.
But woman, the soft one, persuasively prayeth-- Of the life that she charmeth, the sceptre she swayeth; She lulls, as she looks from above, The discord whose bell for its victims is gaping, And blending awhile the forever escaping, Whispers hate to the image of love!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Power Of Song

 The foaming stream from out the rock
With thunder roar begins to rush,--
The oak falls prostrate at the shock,
And mountain-wrecks attend the gush.
With rapturous awe, in wonder lost, The wanderer hearkens to the sound; From cliff to cliff he hears it tossed, Yet knows not whither it is bound: 'Tis thus that song's bright waters pour From sources never known before.
In union with those dreaded ones That spin life's thread all-silently, Who can resist the singer's tones? Who from his magic set him free? With wand like that the gods bestow, He guides the heaving bosom's chords, He steeps it in the realms below, He bears it, wondering, heavenward, And rocks it, 'twixt the grave and gay, On feeling's scales that trembling sway.
As when before the startled eyes Of some glad throng, mysteriously, With giant-step, in spirit-guise, Appears a wondrous deity, Then bows each greatness of the earth Before the stranger heaven-born, Mute are the thoughtless sounds of mirth, While from each face the mask is torn, And from the truth's triumphant might Each work of falsehood takes to flight.
So from each idle burden free, When summoned by the voice of song, Man soars to spirit-dignity, Receiving force divinely strong: Among the gods is now his home, Naught earthly ventures to approach-- All other powers must now be dumb, No fate can on his realms encroach; Care's gloomy wrinkles disappear, Whilst music's charms still linger here, As after long and hopeless yearning, And separation's bitter smart, A child, with tears repentant burning, Clings fondly to his mother's heart-- So to his youthful happy dwelling, To rapture pure and free from stain, All strange and false conceits expelling, Song guides the wanderer back again, In faithful Nature's loving arm, From chilling precepts to grow warm.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Knights Of St. John

 Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your mail afar,
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherub's sword before the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler armor far, When by the sick man's bed ye stood, O lions of the war! When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to tend the lowly weakness, The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled by Christian meekness-- Religion of the cross, thou blend'st, as in a single flower, The twofold branches of the palm--humility and power.