Seems ne'er returning; With strange and fiery glow

My heart is burning.

My grief no mortals know,

Except the yearning!

----- BOOK V., CHAP. X.

SING no more in mournful tones

Of the loneliness of night; For 'tis made, ye beauteous ones,

For all social pleasures bright.

As of old to man a wife

As his better half was given, So the night is half our life,

And the fairest under heaven.

How can ye enjoy the day,

Which obstructs our rapture's tide?

Let it waste itself away;

Worthless 'tis for aught beside.

But when in the darkling hours

From the lamp soft rays are glowing, And from mouth to mouth sweet showers,

Now of jest, now love, are flowing,--

When the nimble, wanton boy,

Who so wildly spends his days, Oft amid light sports with joy

O'er some trifling gift delays,-

When the nightingale is singing

Strains the lover holds so dear, Though like sighs and wailings ringing

In the mournful captive's ear,--

With what heart-emotion blest

Do ye hearken to the bell, Wont of safety and of rest

With twelve solemn strokes to tell!

Therefore in each heavy hour,

Let this precept fill your heart: O'er each day will sorrow loud,

Rapture ev'ry night impart.

----- EPILOGUE TO SCHILLER'S "SONG OF THE BELL."

[This fine piece, written originally in 1805, on Schiller's death, was altered and recast by Goethe in 1815, on the occasion of the performance on the stage of the Song of the Bell. Hence the allusion in the last verse.]

To this city joy reveal it!

Peace as its first signal peal it!

(Song of the Bell--concluding lines.)

AND so it proved! The nation felt, ere long,

That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught, A new-born joy appear'd; in gladsome song

To hail the youthful princely pair we sought; While in a living, ever-swelling throng

Mingled the crowds from ev'ry region brought, And on the stage, in festal pomp array'd The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS * we saw displayed.

(* The t.i.tle of a lyric piece composed by Schiller in honour of the marriage of the hereditary Prince of Weimar to the Princess Maria of Russia, and performed in 1804.)

When, lo! a fearful midnight sound I hear,

That with a dull and mournful echo rings.

And can it be that of our friend so dear

It tells, to whom each wish so fondly clings?

Shall death overcome a life that all revere?

How such a loss to all confusion brings!

How such a parting we must ever rue!

The world is weeping,--shall not we weep too?

He was our own! How social, yet how great

Seem'd in the light of day his n.o.ble mind!

How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate,

Now for glad converse joyously incline, Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught, elate,

Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it design'd, Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed!

This have we proved, this tasted, in our need.

He was our own! O may that thought so blest