By David Gosselin

“Trust me, the fountain of youth, it is no fable. It is running

Truly and always. Ye ask, where? In poetical art.”

– Friedrich Schiller, The Fountain of Youth

Friedrich Schiller was born on November 10th, 1759 in Marbach, Württemberg. He was without question one of the greatest poets and dramatists to have ever lived. While Schiller is not very well known in the English speaking world today, his influence in the realm of ideas can be seen across history.

Weimar classicism, generally considered the high point of German culture, was in great part a product of Schiller’s genius. Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms all held their cups to the divine springs of Schiller’s imagination as a source for their own creative inspiration. Some of the greatest musical settings have been based on Schiller’s poems, or on those of poets inspired by Schiller. After all, while perhaps little known today, Schiller’s “Ode to Joy” was the poem Beethoven chose to set his 9th symphony to:

Joy, thou beauteous godly lightning,

Daughter of Elysium,

Fire drunken we are ent’ring

Heavenly, thy holy home!

Thy enchantments bind together,

What did custom stern divide,

Every man becomes a brother,

Where thy gentle wings abide.

Chorus

Be embrac’d, ye millions yonder!

Take this kiss throughout the world!

Brothers—o’er the stars unfurl’d

Must reside a loving Father.

Beethoven’s hero and model for the sublime artist was none other than the character of Joan of Arc found in Schiller’splays “The Maid of Orleans.”

Since part of the barrier to Schiller’s ideas in our modern world has been the lack of authentic translations, The Chained Muse is proud to present a series of original translations. The purpose of producing such translations is not simply that of translating Schiller’s poems from German to English, but of presenting his works as new authentic English poems, whereby we might catch a glimpse of the poet singing in his rightful voice.

We have selected ten great examples of Schiller’s poetry—each of which presents a different facet of his genius as both poet and universal thinker. In this context, with the publication of these poems, we would add the following prefatory remarks in order to give the reader some potential insights into the nature of Schiller’s mind and his compositional method as he developed it in numerous literary essays and correspondences.

The Sublime

Schiller’s works are populated by the conception of the Sublime. In one of his late essays, “On the Sublime,” he elaborates his ideas in the following manner:

“The feeling of the sublime is a mixed feeling. It is a combination of woefulness, which expresses itself in its highest degree as a shudder, and of joyfulness, which can rise up to enrapture, and, although it is not properly pleasure, is yet widely preferred to every pleasure by fine souls. This union of two contradictory sentiments in a single feeling proves our moral independence in an irrefutable manner. For as it is absolutely impossible that the same object stand in two opposite relations to us, so does it follow therefrom, that we ourselves stand in two different relations to the object, so that consequently two opposite natures must be united in us, which are interested in the conception of the same in completely opposite ways. We therefore experience through the feeling of the sublime, that the state of our mind does not necessarily conform to the state of the senses, that the laws of nature are not necessarily also those of ours, and that we have in us an independent principle, which is independent of all sensuous emotions.”

Schiller viewed art as the sacred fount, the holy ground, in which man’s true nature could be captured. Despite the vicissitudes of time and the folly of the world, man’s higher nature was unchanging, and could be rediscovered in beautiful art, at any time, regardless of the tastes of the day and the caprice of the time. He never bent under the yoke of “contemporary” thinking, instead he revolutionized it by building on the work of the immortal poets who came before him, especially the Greeks.

In his ninth of his Letters on the Aesthetical Education of Man Schiller wrote the following:

“The Artist, it is true, is the son of his age; but pity for him if he is its pupil, or even its favorite! Let some beneficent Divinity snatch him when a suckling from the breast of his mother, and nurse him with the milk of a better time that he may ripen to his full stature beneath a distant Grecian sky. And having grown to manhood, let him return, a foreign shape, into his century; not, however, to delight it by his presence; but terrible, like the son of Agamemnon, to purify it. The matter of his works he will take from the present; but their Form he will derive from a nobler time, nay from beyond all time, from the absolute unchanging unity of his nature. Here from the pure aether of his spiritual essence, flows down the Fountain of Beauty, uncontaminated by the pollutions of ages and generations, which roll to and fro in their turbid vortex far beneath it.”

Schiller very consciously crafted his poetry with the humanity’s sublime nature in mind. He believed that human beings were creatures of both sense and reason, but that neither were in intrinsic opposition, and that a self-conscious individual could become independent of all the external forces of the world, both natural and arbitrary, in order that he might act as an independent force, were the need to ever be presented.

Thus, further in his essay “On the Sublime” he states:

“Does one now remember, what value it must have for a being of reason, to become conscious of his independence of natural laws, so one comprehends how it occurs that men of sublime bent of mind can hold out for compensation, through this idea offered to them of freedom, for every disappointment of cognition? Freedom, with all of its moral contradictions and physical evils, is for noble souls an infinitely more interesting spectacle than prosperity and order without freedom, where the sheep patiently follow the shepherd and the self-commanding will is degraded to the subservient part of a clockwork.”

Schiller’s Late Poetry

Schiller believed that every individual has an ideal self within them, and that it is the great task of their existence to realize this ideal and to bring it to its fullest potential in the world. Much of his early poetry was written in the form of philosophical verses, garbed with poetic imagery, in which he developed these initial ideals. Thus, in his second Aesthetical Letter, he stated the following:

“Ideal art must abandon reality and elevate itself with sufficient boldness above need, for art is the daughter of freedom, and she receives her rules from the necessity of the spirit, not from the pressing need of matter.”

As his poetic faculties developed and the sphere of his experience expanded, this ideal of man and the sublime potential found in each individual took on a much more concrete expression. He even went on to advise some of his contemporaries such as Hölderlin, who reminded him of his younger self, to avoid metaphysical themes and to stay as close as possible to the real (November 24, 1796; Briefe V, 11f.). Reflecting upon even some of his most recognized and inspired works such as the “Ode to Joy,” Schiller, from a more critical standpoint remarked that it was a “wretched poem,” which represented the kind of poetry he had to leave behind (October 21, 1800; Briefe, VI, 211). He also expressed dissatisfaction with what is arguably one of his most philosophically dense poems, “The Artists.” He spoke of trying to free it, as much as possible, from “certain abstract ideas” (September 3, 1800; Briefe, VI, 195).

Rather than serving a purely abstract ideal, his poetry would go on to express this same quality of sublime, only now it was increasingly presented in a direct interaction with the world at large, and in a struggle with the myriad forces of nature, history and the universe. Thus, Schiller wrote “temper the dreamer’s zeal with worldliness.”

Looking at his late poetry, we find the sublime quality in man populating his every piece, but it is now informed with a renewed “wordliness.” We see the sublime expressed in all its manifestations, from those instances in which man oversteps the bounds of nature or law, to when he rightly crosses or defies arbitrary laws in favor of a higher natural law. This was in direct relation to his increasing interest in the study of history.

In his inaugural lecture “What is and to What End Do we Study Universal History,” as professor of history at the University of Jena, Schiller made the following remarks:

“The field of history is fecund and vastly encompassing; in its sphere lies the entire moral world. It accompanies us through all the conditions mankind has experienced, through all the shifting forms of opinion, through his folly and his wisdom, his deterioration and his ennoblement; history must give account of everything man has taken and given. There is none among you to whom history had nothing important to convey.”

Schiller also emphasized the need to return to a study of the Greeks, to learn from the naturalness and simplicity of their beauty and pathos. We find much of Schiller’s work hearkening back to the ancients, only now, as a mature poet, dramatist, and historian, no longer in the age of the infancy of mankind, Schiller introduces the moral as a new “natural force” among all men. Thus, we find the sublime in man contending with all the forces of the world: with the forces of nature, history, fate and most of all, as in his epic “The Cranes of Ibycus,” with the force of natural law.

With these prefatory remarks, we are proud to present a selection of Schiller’s great poetry in hopes that a new age of timeless poetry might be informed by the greatest bards of the past, upon whose work, a new generation of immortal artists will build.

10. Sehnsucht (Longing)

If I could fly from this dark valley

Where the gloomy vapors creep,

And by some wonder swiftly flee,

My soul could blessedly weep!

Gazing upon this pure serene,

Eternal hills rise everywhere;

Had I wings to climb this scene,

My spirit would scale the air.

I hear those melodious strains

Descending in soothing streams,

While the gentle breeze and soft rains

Carry the heaven’s sweet dreams;

The luscious fruit hangs ripening

On never wilting branches,

The flowers never fear the fangs

Of the winter’s ravishes.

Oh! How sweet it must be to dwell

Under the eternal sun,

How the sanguine airs must softly blow

Through the woods so frolicsome.

But the foaming waters stifle

My frail attempts at crossing

And my frightened soul can but toil

Before those torrents frothing.

Yet see! A lonely bark is rocking

And it seems no helmsman’s there:

Sails are open, waves are foaming,

But should a mortal soul dare?

Then its courage and faith alone

Must direct it – no God’s hand;

Only magic carries a man

To that magic wonderland.

Translation © David B. Gosselin

9. Pegasus im Joche (Pegasus in Yoke)

In Greek mythology, Pegasus was the creature whose hoof stomped into Mount Helicon, created the initial spring from which the streams of Helicon gushed out.

Unto a horse-fair – maybe even travelling

To Haymarket, where other things wind up as wares,

A hungry poet once did bring

The muses’ steed, to sell him there.

So brightly neighed the hippogriff,

And reared up grandly, to the crowd’s acclaim;

The people all called out in disbelief:

The noble, kingly beast! But what a shame,

His slender form’s disfigured by an ugly pair

Of wings! The finest mail train he could ply.

The breed, so say they all, were rare,

But who would travel through the sky?

We’d all think twice before we’d buy.

At last a farmer found his nerve.

Indeed, he says, for wings no use is to be found,

But those could easily be cropped or bound,

For hauling, then, the horse will rightly serve.

So, twenty pounds on this I think I’ll dare;

The seller, highly pleased to so unload his wares,

Cries “Done! You’ll get your money’s worth!”

And with his booty Hans trots briskly forth.

The noble beast is put to yoke,

Yet when it feels the unaccustomed weight,

It runs amok with wild desire for flight

And hurls, by noble wrath provoked,

The cart up to a chasm’s very brink.

All right, thinks Hans. This crazy beast I may not trust

For hauling work. Experience makes one smart.

Tomorrow I have passengers I must

Convey, I’ll put him in the lead to start.

The frisky devil ought to save me two good horses,

His rages soon will run their courses.

At first it went quite well. The horse, so quick and proud,

Picks up the old jade’s pace, the wagon speeds along,

Yet what occurs? His gaze distracted by the clouds,

With hooves for which to tread the earth feels wrong,

He leaves the beaten track the wheels pursue,

And to his stronger nature true,

He runs through hedges, fertile fields, through marsh and fen;

All horses on the team together lurch about,

Despite the bridle and the driver’s shout,

At last they fright the wanderer when

The wagon, battered, bashed and shaken up,

Comes to a halt upon a mountain top.

There’s something very much amiss,

Says Hans with quite an apprehensive look.

We’ll never get things done like this;

Let’s see if meager food and heavy work

Won’t cure his crazed rebelliousness.

He puts it to the test. The lovely beast appears,

Before three days have come and gone,

Diminished to a shadow. Now we’re getting on!

Cries Hans. Now quick, let’s hitch him here

Before the plow, beside my strongest steer!

‘Tis done, a team so ludicrous, and now

One sees the ox and wingéd horse before the plow.

The griffin rears, indignant, and with what strength abides,

He strains his sinews, striving to take flight,

In vain; his neighbor purposefully strides,

And Phoebus’ proud steed must bend before its might.

Now spent at last from opposition’s course,

The strength from all his limbs is lost,

And bowed with grief, the noble, godly horse

Falls to the ground, and thrashes in the dust.

Accurséd beast! The fury comes to boil

As Hans scolds loudly, giving him a beating,

It seems thou art too bad to till the soil,

The rogue that sold thee must be cheating.

But as he in his rage lets fly

The horsewhip, there comes passing by

A merry fellow, brisk and full of cheer.

The zither jingles at his easy hand,

And through his blonde array of hair

There twines a graceful golden band.

Where to, friend, with this quaint, fantastic pair?

He calls out to the farmer down the way.

The bird there with the ox in double file,

You don’t see this team every day!

Wilt thou, for just a little while,

Entrust thy horse for just a trial with me?

Behold, a wonder shalt thou see.

The hippogriff unharnessed stands;

The youngster smiles and mounts his steed. They rise,

And when it feels the master’s steady hand,

It champs upon the bridle band,

And lightning flashes from the horse’s vivid eyes.

No more the former being, like a king,

A ghost, a god, he lets his wings

Unfurl in glory, with the roaring of

A tempest, shooting to the heavens dim,

And ere the eye can follow him,

Has vanished in the blue above.

Translation © Daniel Platt

8. Nänie

Even the beautiful must perish; it sways the gods, and rules mankind!

  Yet it does not move the iron breast of the Stygean Zeus.

Only once did love soften the heart of the ruler of shadows,

  And just on the threshold, he stiffened, and sternly withdrew his gift.

Not for Aphrodite to stanch the wounds of the lovely stripling,

  Torn in his delicate side by the terrible rage of the boar.

No, the immortal mother cannot save her godlike hero

  When he, at the Scaean gate falling, fulfills his unbending fate.

But she rises up out of ocean with all of Nereus’ daughters,

  And raises lament to the heavens for her so exalted son.

See! how the gods are weeping, the goddesses all are crying,

  Because the beautiful passes, because what is perfect, dies.

Even to be a song of sorrow on beloved lips is glorious,

  For the common goes down to Orcus without a single sound.

Translation by Paul Gallagher

Notes

The famous composer Brahms set Schiller’s Nänie to music in the form of a wonderful choral piece, his opus 82. For a much more in depth discussion on this poem and the nature of great poetry such as Schiller’s see this link here.

7. Cassandra

In Greek mythology, Cassandra was the daughter of King Priam of Troy. She was given the ability to foresee the future by the god Apollo, but also cursed because the populace would not believe her prophecies, including her warnings about the Trojan Horse and the destruction of Troy. Another daughter of Priam, Polyxena, was to marry the Greek leader Achilles, son of Thetis, which was to be the occasion of a peace treaty between Greece and Troy. Hymen was the god of weddings, Proserpina was the queen of the underworld, and Eris was the goddess of discord and sister of Ares, god of war. Ilion was the ancient name for Troy (as in the Iliad.)

Joy in Trojan congregations

Dwelt, before the fortress fell,

There were hymns of jubilation

Where the golden harp-strings swell.

All the people rested, weary

From the conflict fraught with tears,

Great Achilles sought to marry

Royal Priam’s daughter fair.

And adorned with wreathes of myrtle

They went surging line by line,

To the gods’ exalted temples

And Apollo’s holy shrine.

To the passageways they’d taken

In a writhing bacchanal,

And to sorrow was forsaken

Just the saddest heart of all.

Joyless there amidst joy’s fullness,

All alone she went to rove,

Just Cassandra shared the stillness

Of Apollo’s myrtle grove.

To the forest’s deepest quarter

Did the silent seeress flee,

Flung the headband of her order

To the ground most angrily:

“Everywhere is joy inherent,

Hearts rejoice throughout the lands,

Hope inspires my aging parents

And adorned my sister stands.

I alone must stay with sorrow,

Sweet delusion flies from me,

And approaching on the morrow

Dark disaster I foresee.

There’s a torch that I see glowing,

But it’s not in Hymen’s hand,

Toward the clouds I see it growing

But it lights no wedding band.

Festivals are making ready

Yet my troubled spirit hears

Godly footsteps, swift and steady,

Bringing tragedy and tears.

And they scold my lamentations

And they mock me for my pain,

I must bear my heart’s vexations

On the lonely desert plain,

Happy folk avoid me cooly

And the cheerful call me fraud!

Thou hast burdened me so cruelly,

O Apollo! Wicked god!

So that I might speak thy tidings

I received a prescient mind,

Why then must I be abiding

In the city of the blind?

Why have I prophetic fire

Yet can’t hinder what I fear?

What’s decreed must now transpire,

And the fearsome thing draws near.

When it hides the lurking terror,

Is it wise to lift the veil?

Human lives are only error

And with knowledge, death prevails.

Take away the bloody vision,

Take this wretched clarity,

Terrible! to be the living

Vessel of thy verity.

Give me back my darkened senses,

I’ll be gladly blind by choice,

No sweet song from me commences

Since I first became thy voice.

Thou didst give the Future to me

Yet the Moment now I lack,

I have lost my Present truly,

Take thy false gift – take it back!

Never have I decorated

With the bridal crown my hair,

Since when I was consecrated

At thy doleful altar there.

All my youth was only weeping,

All I knew was bitter smart,

With the loved ones I was keeping,

Every hardship hurt my heart.

All around I see them wheeling,

Youthful playmates I have known,

Living, loving with such feeling,

Troubled heart was mine alone.

Springtime is for me no treasure

That the earth so festive keeps,

Who can live his life with pleasure

After gazing in thy deeps!

Blessings I give Polyxena.

Balmy love writ on her face,

For the greatest Greek she means to

Welcome with a bride’s embrace.

How her breast with pride is swelling,

She can hardly grasp her bliss,

Even Ye, in heaven dwelling,

She doth not count blest like this.

And the suitor who entrances,

Whom I choose most longingly,

He implores with lovely glances

Fired by passion’s fervency.

Visiting his habitation,

Oh, it would be my delight,

Yet a shadow of damnation

Steps between us in the night.

Pallid larvas from down yonder

Proserpina sends to me,

And wherever I may wander

All her spirits I must see.

In my childhood recreations

They would gruesomely intrude,

With such dread abominations

I may have no blithesome mood.

And I see the death-blade gleaming

And the glowing murderer’s eye,

Nowhere, left nor right, ’tis seeming,

May I from this horror fly.

Seeing, knowing, never flinching,

I may not avert my gaze,

Now my fate comes closer inching,

All alone I’ll end my days.”

And as yet her words did echo,

Hark! There comes an eerie sound,

From the portal of the temple,

Thetis’ son, dead on the ground!

Eris shakes her serpent tresses,

All the gods are quickly gone,

And the thunder cloud oppresses

Heavy over Ilion.

Translation © Daniel Platt

6. Hero und Leander (Hero and Leander)

See ye there the ancient graying

Castles, ‘cross the straits surveying,

Sunny gilded citadels,

Where the Hellespont is rolling

Waves between the high patrolling

Portals of the Dardanelles?

Hear ye how the stormy billows

Break upon the cliffs above?

Asia they have torn from Europe,

Yet they do not frighten Love.

Hearts of Hero and Leander,

Made by Cupid’s arrow fonder,

Aching from his holy pow’r.

Hero, fine as Hebe blooming,

He, through mountains gladly roaming,

Hearty in the huntsman’s bow’r.

Yet the fathers’ opposition

Drove apart the couple’s bliss,

And the sweet fruit of affection

Hung upon the precipice.

There, on Sestos’ rocky towers,

Battered by the foaming powers

Of the Hellespont’s mad swells,

Sat the lonely maiden, gazing

Toward Anydos’ coast so pleasing,

Where the hot-belovéd dwells.

Ah, to that most distant shoreline

Doth no humble footbridge sway,

From the strand no craft emerges

And yet Love did find a way.

From the Labyrinth it guides you,

With the thread that it provides you,

Makes the fool a wise man now.

avage beasts it bends to harness,

Yokes the bull, its breath a furnace,

To the diamond-sparkling plow.

Not the Styx’s nine-fold current

Can prevent all-daring Love;

Pluto forfeits the belovéd,

Stolen to the world above.

Also through the watery surges,

Love, with fiery yearning, urges

on Leander’s courage now.

When the day’s resplendent glimmer

Fades, then the audacious swimmer

Plunges in the flood below,

Parts the waves with arms untiring,

Striving toward that dearest strand,

Where, upon the lofty platform,

Flickers now the burning brand.

In the soft arms of his lover

May the happy one recover

From the journey’s heavy trial,

‘Twas for this that Love should save him,

This reward the gods all gave him

In this blissful domicile,

‘Til the bordering Aurora

Wakes him from his ecstacy,

Frights him from Love’s dreamy bosom

To the cold bed of the sea.

Thirty suns did take their measures

Swiftly, as the stolen pleasures

That the happy pair had seen,

Like the wedding night’s sweet blisses,

Envied by the gods, these kisses,

Ever young and evergreen.

He has never tasted rapture,

He who never, at the verge,

Plucked the pilfered fruit of heaven

From the hellish watery scourge.

Hesper and Aurora taking

Turns, as sundown and day breaking,

Yet the lovers saw it not,

Not the hues of fall appearing,

Not the angry winter nearing

That the icy North begot.

Happily they watched the days grow

Shorter, shorter; for the use

Made of longer, longer nights, they

Offered up their thanks to Zeus.

Soon enough the scales stood even,

Days and nights divided heaven.

ero stood upon the heights,

Watching as Apollo’s horses

Fled along their solar courses

Where the ocean joins the nights.

And the sea lay still and placid,

Like a mirror, smooth and clean,

Not a breeze’s gentle weaving

Moved the crystal-perfect scene.

Merry dolphin-troops cavorted,

In the silver-clear they sported,

All along the placid coast,

And in grey processions wending,

From the ocean’s floor ascending,

Tethys’ multicolored host.

These and these alone had witnessed

Stolen trysts beside the sea;

Hecate, from out her darkness,

Sealed their lips eternally.

Hero, gladdened by the ocean,

Spoke with coaxing, mild emotion

To the lovely element:

Beauteous god, couldst thou betray me?

No! They lie that do portray thee

Faithless, mean and fraudulent.

False is Man, and cruel a father’s

Heart, that could my love disdain;

Ah, but thou art mild and gracious,

And art moved by lovers’ pain.”

“In these barren walls of sorrows

I should spend my sad tomorrows

Withering amongst these stones;

Yet upon thy back thou bearest

With no bridge nor boat, a dearest

Friend that I may call mine own.

Fearsome are thy depths, thy frightful

Flood of churning waves and foam,

Ah, but Love compels thy mercy,

Thou’rt by courage overcome.”

“And to thee, the god of oceans,

Eros’ bow brought strong emotions,

As when golden Aries flew,

Helle, borne upon her brother,

Bloomed in beauty like no other,

High above thy sea below.

Captured by her charms, thou’st quickly

Snatched the prize that Aries bore,

To thy dark abyss thou’st swept her,

Down upon the ocean floor.”

“Goddess and inamorato

In the deepest water grotto,

Now she lives eternally;

Helpful in her haunted fashion,

Now she tames thy savage passion,

Guides the sailor home from sea.

Lovely Helle, noble goddess,

Blesséd one, may I implore,

Bring my love across the channel,

Lead him safely to my door!”

And then soon the torrent darkened,

From her porch the maiden hearkened

As she lit the signal flare.

With the trusted sign providing

Light through empty realms, and guiding,

It should lead her lover there.

From afar it starts to rustle,

Foam appears upon the sea,

Stars begin to wink and vanish,

Storm approaches, dreadfully.

Night descends upon the surface

Of the vast and roiling Pontus,

Water plunges from the clouds;

From their ghastly, rocky niches

Storms emerge, and lightning twitches

Through the mist that all enshrouds.

Churning, now, the great abysses,

Each more monstrous than before,

Yawning, like a hellish vengeance,

Opens up the ocean’s floor.

Woe is me!” the maid lamented,

“Mercy, Zeus!” and so repented,

“Ah, what have I dared to crave!

If the gods have heard my praying,

If my love the price is paying

In the travails of the waves!”

All the birds that know the ocean

Head for home in hasty flight,

All the tempest-tested vessels

Safer harbors seek tonight.

“Yes, he gave himself to daring,

For it is a proud, unsparing

God that spurs him on to swim.

When he last did stand before me,

Love’s most holy oath he swore me,

Only death releases him.

Now the angry sea surrounds him

With the ocean’s nemesis,

Ah! This very moment, it shall

Hurl him down to the abyss!”

“Pontus, thy deceitful silence

Hid thy treachery and violence,

Like a mirror before mine eyes;

Calm thy ripples, mild thy season,

‘Til he’s captured by thy treason

In thy faithless realm of lies.

In the middle of thy torrent,

Now the pathway back is closed,

Now unto the poor betrayed one

All thy terrors are exposed!”

Furious, the storm is rending,

High as mountaintops ascending

Swells the sea, the billows break

Foaming in the awful suction;

Sturdy ships of oak construction

No such voyage undertake.

And the winds have quenched the beacon

That would guide the swimmer through;

Terror beckons in the waters,

Terror at the landing too.

And she prays to Aphrodite,

Begs her to appease the mighty

Waves, the ocean tempest-torn,

And, to calm the wind’s vexation,

Offers up for immolation

Now, a bull with golden horn.

All the goddesses below us!

All the gods that dwell on high!

Hero bids them, pour some soothing

Oil upon the storming sea.

“Listen to my cry resounding,

Rise up from thy green surroundings,

Blessed Leukothea, please!

When the sailor shakes with fear, then

Oftentimes dost thou appear, and

Save him from the angry seas.

Reach to him thy mystic garment,

Reach to him thy sacred veil,

Lift him, unafflicted, from a

Murky grave beneath the gale!”

And the savage winds are ending,

Eos’ flashing steed ascending

Up the heavens’ thoroughfare.

In its bed, with tranquil motion,

Mirror-smooth becomes the ocean,

Brightly smile the sea and air.

Now the waves are gently breaking

Up against the craggy land,

And the peaceful, playful ripples

Wash a corpse up on the sand.

Yes, ’tis he, though he be broken,

Honored is the vow last spoken!

Swiftly doth she recognize.

Such a silence is she keeping,

No lamenting and no weeping,

Stares with cold, despairing eyes.

Down into the barren depths she

Gazes, in the Aether’s glow,

And a lofty, noble fire

Reddens her pale visage now.

“Yes, I know ye, awful beings!

Stringently your rights decreeing,

Horrifying and malign.

Though my fate, I can’t postpone it,

Happiness supreme, I’ve known it,

And the sweetest lot was mine.

While I lived I served thy temple,

Thine own priestess have I been,

Now I sacrifice me gladly,

Noble Venus, mighty Queen!”

And with all her garments flying,

Hero leaps the tower, hying

Down into the foaming waves.

There resides the ocean god, he

Tumbles high her holy body,

And the sea becomes her grave.

Satisfied with this, his plunder,

Smiling, gladly forth he goes,

Pouring from his endless urn the

Current, that forever flows.

Translation © Daniel Platt

5. Die Ritter von Toggenburg (The Knight at Toggenburg)

Sir knight, I can a sister’s love

Happily offer you,

But any other kind love

Would not be true.

Softly I can appear to you,

And softly you may go,

But weeping eyes with flowery dew,

Those I cannot know.

And this he hears as his heart tears

Open – his heart strings bleed!

He holds her dear, besieged with fears

Then rides upon his steed.

He gathers all his gallant men

In the land of Switzerland;

Towards the holy grave they wend

With crosses tightly fastened.

So many deeds there have been done

By the heroic arm,

The noble plumes blown through the storm

Made foes retreat from harm.

And the Toggenburger’s name

Scared every Saracen,

Yet his heart, from its lonely grave,

No longer can ascend.

For one long year he’s carried on,

But no more can he strive,

Thus losing hope he can’t hang on

To home he must now drive.

A ship he see’s on Jopa’s strand

Its sails are fiercely swelling,

It takes him back to his dear land

Where his love is dwelling.

At his beloved’s castle gate

He finds himself once more,

But ah! will this wonderous fate

Open her castle door?

“The one you seek now wears the veil,

Her vows are made to heaven;

The celebrations we did hail

Just yesterday at even.”

From father’s castle he departs

And this time forever,

No more to touch a sword or darts,

His beaver’s noble feather.

The Toggenburg is faring

Rising all unseen,

Repentant robes he’s wearing,

He casts a mournful sheen.

He sets out to erect his shed

Close to those monasteries

Where over each hill is spread

Those lovely linden trees.

From when the morning rays first race

Until at night they’ve flown,

Hope gently paints his youthful face

Sitting  there all alone.

He gazed upon the convent there,

There he looked for hours;

Through the window he did stare

In hope of starry showers,

In hope those twinkling eyes appear,

In hope of that fair face,

Ascending from that valley dear,

That look of angel-grace.

He happily lies himself down

And finally takes his rest,

For joyfully again tomorrow

Again to make his test.                 

And so he sits for many a day

Sitting for many years,

Until he sees that morning gay

When her sweet face appears.

In hope those twinkling eyes appear,

In hope of that fair face,

Ascending from that valley dear,

That look of angel-grace.

And so he lies, a corpse all pale,

Still many mornings there,

Towards that window now so frail,

With cold and silent stare.

Translation © David B. Gosselin

4. Die Taucher (The Diver)

“Who dares enter this chasm of water,

Is there some brave knight or valiant youth?

Let him who can vanquish the frothing water

Bring me back my chalice as his proof.

As a prize I’ll happily grant this golden goblet

To he who accepts this perilous gauntlet.”

The king speaks, and hurls it from the height

Of the rising and dizzying cliffs.

Lying over the dark rolling sea,

The goblet flies to the mouth of Charybdis.

“Find one who is brave enough, who will

Fetch me that goblet from the depths below.”

Knights and vassals gather ‘round him,

All carefully listen, but silent remain,

Gazing on the depths of the harrowing

Sea, darkly rolling in the blinding horizon.

Now the king once more his challenge bares

“Is there some brave knight who to these depths dares?”

Each remains as silent as before

The while a noble squire, gentle and bold,

Steps from the clamorous choir to the fore:

Watching him undress, all the crowds behold

This strange and endearing youth whose ways command

The gaze and breath of every man.

As he steps towards the craggy cliffs

And looks into the waters below,

Ebbing, flowing, they whirl in the abyss

Of Charybdis’ throat, where all things flow.

As with the distant thunder’s roaring

The waters rise from the gulf outsoaring.

It whirls and bubbles and foams and blends

As when water with fire collides;

Steamy sprays reach up towards the heavens

As flood after flood unceasingly climbs—

Never draining, never emptying, flowing endlessly

As the sea newborn gives birth to the sea.

Finally, the powerful force sinks away

As darkness out of the foaming fissures

Gapes wide open, and then makes it hellish foray

To the cold depths of the infernal waters.

While raging ones sees the waves all surge,

Then drown once more in the silent ocean’s dirge.

Now fast, ‘ere the dark surge soon returns,

The stripling commends himself to his God,

And a cry through the air spurns

The crowd, but already the vortex sends

Him away. Then quickly with fervor,

The gaping mouth closes over the swimmer.

Now silence sweeps over the liquid surface,

But the depths below roar and swell,

And shaking, one reads the fear on each face

As the word travels ‘round: “Fare thee well!”

One hears the echoes and howls slowly fading

As each moment passesstill ever waiting.  

And should one the crown itself throw in

And say: Who ever brings me the crown

He shall wear it and crown himself king –

Such desire is by all surely unfound.

What the howling depths below keep concealed

Should never, to living mortals be revealed.

Many vessels stout and sturdy have held fast

Then quickly sped to the bottom of the sea,

While sundered into pieces, keel and mast,

They soon emerged from out their watery grave.

Clearer and clearer like stormy thunder

One can hear the roaring – ever louder. 

And it whirls and bubbles and foams and blends

As when water with fire collides,

Steamy sprays reach towards the heavens

As flood after flood unceasingly climbs;

Never draining, never emptying, flowing continuously

As the sea newborn gives birth to the sea.

Behold! From the dark gulf’s surge,

One see’s something like a swan appearing:

That glistening neck, those silvery wings emerge

As the choir from the hill stands peering.

It’s him: in his left hand he holds high

The goblet; joyous he waves, joyous they sigh.

The young squire takes in the solemn air,

Greeting the heavenly light that shines above.

He watches people embracing everywhere,

“He lives, it is him!” The choir sings with love.

From this dark whirlpool, from this eddying grave,

Despite all elements the youth stood brave.

He comes, and approaching, the crowd circles round,

As he walks towards the king, and falls at his feet:

The goblet he offers him newly found,

And the king calls his daughter over to meet

Them, filling the goblet with wine to the brim –

He watches, and as the youth then turns to him:

“Long live the king! For happy is he

Who breathes in the rosy hues of light.

While down there one lives terribly,

Let man never tempt the Godly might,

Never longing, and never hoping to see

What Gods veil with fright and terror graciously.

“It ripped me to the bottom fast like lightning,

And then it thrust me into craggy recesses,

The while the raging torrents were thrashing,

Seizing everything with myriad currents.

As a top wound about by opposite force,

I could no longer fight its powerful source.

“Then God showed me, to whom I cried

In my moment of helpless and dire need:

In the deepness rocky reefs were espied

And I reached for them, as Death did closely heed.

And there hung the goblet on the red coral

Over the fathomless depths of the dark whirlpool.

“For beneath me it still deeply lay

In the darkness of those purple hues;

And although to the ear it seems darkened day,

The shuddering scene the eye clearly views:

How salamanders and dragons and monsters

Creep and stir as the floor beneath tremors.

“Shadowy creatures filled up the scene,

In hideous clumps all swarmed together:

The rock fish, the ray fish with tenebrous sheen,

The hammerhead with his ghastly limbs,

And with evil grin and beastly elation

Swam the sharks, like hyenas in the ocean.

“Helpless, there I hung with terror gripped,

Far from each man, from the human race,

Among larvae the only one who sipped,

From sweet mother’s breast where solace

Lay; Far from any man’s gentle word,

I lay in that shadowy Netherworld.

“And there I saw approaching with horror possessed

Limbs of every sort coming into motion.

Surely they will with ravenous hunger

Devour me, I said, lest I flee from this ocean.

The whirlpool seized me with all its force

And threw me back up from a fate much worse.”

The king is taken by wonderment

Speaking: “The goblet is truly thine own

To grant thee this ring is now my intent.”

Adorned with the fairest jewels it shone.

“But now one more time I ask you to return,

For more of those tidings from the depths I yearn.”

His daughter listens with heartfelt emotion

And then graciously makes her plea

“Father, please, enough with your heartless vocation.

He has done what none would do for thee.

If your heart can’t find contentment,

Then to your brave knights you should lament.”

The king seizes the goblet quickly

Then throws it in the vortex.

“If you return me the goblet safely,

You shall be the knight that I choose next,

And will my beautiful daughter take as wife,

Who is graciously praying for your life.”

His soul is seized by Heaven’s power:

His emboldened eyes shimmer;

And as he beholds that maiden’s blushing figure,

He see’s her fall all pale while the waters glimmer.

Longing for that priceless prize, he crashes

Into the sea as life and death before him flashes.

One hears the waves ebbing and flowing,

Pronounced in one thunderous crash—

Gazes search below with ardent staring:

All the waves return, all the waves splash;

Rushing on upwards, rushing on down,

In the waves the boy is never found.

Translation © David B. Gosselin

3. The Power of Song

A stream of rain from fissured mountains,

It comes with thunder’s vehemence,

A shattered peak pursues its fountains,

And oaks beneath it tumble hence;

Amazed, with dread anticipation,

The wanderer listens, and he harks,

He hears the roaring inundation,

Yet knows not, whence its rush embarks;

And so a wave of singing courses

From out of ne’er discovered sources.

In league with dreadful beings fabled,

That calmly weave life’s fateful strands,

Who has the singer’s spell disabled,

Who can his melodies withstand?

As if with Hermes’ staff supernal,

So he commands the heart bestirred,

He dips it in the realms infernal,

He lifts it, dazzling, heavenward

And rocks the scale, ‘twixt grave and merry

Where myriad emotions vary.

As if at once, into joy’s sphere, it’s

Gigantic stride comes instantly,

Mysteriously, like to spirits,

Intrudes a monstrous destiny.

Then bow the great ones of all nations

To the stranger from another world,

The din of idle jubilation

Is stilled, away the masks are hurled,

And ‘fore the Truth’s triumphal splendor

There flees each work that Lies engender.

Thus roused from all the empty rigors,

Whene’er the call of Song resounds,

A man becomes a soul transfigured,

And enters into holy grounds;

Unto the gods on high he’s suited,

Naught earthly draws into his pale,

And every other power is muted,

And no misfortune may assail,

Each wrinkle born of worry dwindles,

Where reigns the magic Song enkindles.

And just as after hopeless yearning,

The bitter pain of years apart,

A child with tears remorseful burning

Will fall upon his mother’s heart,

So back to childhood’s habitations,

To innocent felicity,

From foreign ways of distant nations

The singing leads the refugee,

Away from frigid rules he races

To faithful Nature’s warm embraces.

Translation © Daniel Platt

2. Die Bürgschaft (The Pledge)

Upon Dionysus the tyrant

Damon crept, concealing his dagger;

Soon he found himself in the guard’s tether:

“Had my man been more hesitant

“Where would that dagger have been sent?”

He looked up: “In your heart, to free us from a despot!”

“Then upon the cross you now shall rot.”

“I am” he replies “ready to die;

I need no forgiveness, but I make one plea:

Were you to grant me my due mercy

I would ask that you let three days go by

Until I witness my sister tie

The knot. I offer my friend as a pledge,

Were I to flee, you have him hostage.”

The king looked on with a wily stare,

But after a moment’s hesitation

Made a tyrant’s declamation:

“I’ll grant you three days, but beware:

After that time, if you are nowhere

Found, your friend will have already perished –

And you will be mercilessly punished.”

Thus Damon looks to his friend: “The king

Has sentenced me to crucifixion

For his attempted assassination,

But he grants me three days for journeying

So that I may attend my sister’s wedding.

I ask only that you stay in my stead,

As a pledge, until I see her wed.”

He receives him with a true friend’s embrace

And willingly submits himself to the king

Then Damon leaves breathlessly rushing.

Before the sun reveals its glistening face

On that third day, he hands his sister, chaste

To her fresh groom, and then hurries home,

Before fate descends from that cloudy dome.

Rains come crashing from each mountain ridge,

The springs come rushing perilously,

The brooks and the streams flow endlessly;

He arrives with his wanderer’s staff

As whirlpools steal off with the bridge;

The white torrents thrash deep below,

The skies tremble and the gales blow.

Now, alarmed, he searches to and fro,

Frightened he runs about and shouts;

Alas, his call is never answered.

No boatman dares tempt the torrent’s flow,

Which guards the land where Damon must go;

Quickly the current rises like an ocean,

All his hopes vanish in the horizon.

So he gets down on his knees and prays

Imploring Zeus for divine mercy

“Oh let this tempest end finally!

The Hours are rushing and today’s

Dusk marks the third of three days.”

To mighty Zeus with outstretched arms,

He implores mercy, to end the storms.

But the force of the water renews,

Dark wave upon wave is crashing,

And hour after hour is fleeing,

Yet little time mens he must now choose:

Fear propels him, courage transports him,

So he cuts through the stream with the brawn

Of his arms – Jupiter has mercy.

He vanquishes the banks and escapes

The flood – he praises the grace of Zeus;

Just as soon a band of robbers runs loose

From the dark wood, like furious fates:

Impeding his path, as his friend awaits,

The furious robbers snarl with murder,

Threatening him with the clubs they harbor.

High above in the skies, the sun smolders,

And his knees abandon all effort:

He droops to the ground like a rose in the desert.

“You showed such mercy before the robbers,

And you pulled me from rushing waters,

Only now, to let me perish here,

The while my friend is left trembling with fear?

Yet listen! There it shines, with a light that’s silvery

Nearby, he hears sweet trickling whispers;

He listens to what sounds like murmurs.

Then see! From the crags, lively, quickly,

A crystal stream is flowing softly,

Moved, he approaches, and bends down

To the stream to wash his weary frown.

Soon the sunlight glares through the forest

Flowing onto the verdant meadows,

And casts the dark wood’s shadows;

There he sees two hikers rushing past

Him, trecking through hills ever so fast,

Then hears them speak with exasperation:

“Now, he must receive crucifixion.”

Fear strikes new life into his being,

Painful pangs endlessly spurn him on,

A crimson light appears in the horizon

As the towers of Syracuse are shining;

Philostratus is now approaching,

The kingdom’s honest guardian,

But Damon with terror beholds him.

“Turn back! There is no chance to rescue

Your friend, save your life while you still can!

Then only one must take Death’s hand.

Know from hour to hour his faith was true,

His spirit teemed with pity and rue,

Never abandoning hope for your return,

Never tainting his faith with the tyrant’s scorn.”

“Should it be too late, if I can no more

Offer a saving hand to my friend,

Death shall unite us in the selfsame end,

For the bloodied tyrant will not boast

Of a friend breaking the vow he swore;

Let him slaughter the two of us

And believe in what’s true and honest.”

The sun begins to set; there he stands

At the gate seeing a cross erected

And a crowd, stunned by a deed so wretched;

Tied by the rope, his friend already hangs,

But still Damon runs with flailing hands

To the hangman: “Me! Hang me!” he shouts,

Send me down to Pluto’s lightless House!”

The crowd is gripped with astonishment,

Seeing the friends embrace, despite the king’s ploy;

They watch them crying, with pain and joy.

Not one person’s cheek is dry at that moment,

The miracle quickly makes its way to the tyrant:

The stir of pity is born in his breast;

Soon both the friends are brought before the King

The Tyrant now looks on in disbelief

And then he speaks: “congratulations

You have conquered my heart’s emotions,

Truthfulness is not the tale told by a thief.

Please, if you would grant my soul relief,

I would like to be admitted as a new royal

Friend, the third in your loyal circle.

Translation © David B. Gosselin

1. Die Kraniche des Ibykus (The Cranes of Ibycus)

The Cranes of Ibycus treats the story of the murder of the ancient Greek poet Ibycus of Samos. He was considered one of the canonical Nine great lyric poets of ancient Greece. Schiller wrote his poem in the year 1797, during his friendly ballad competition with Goethe. It is arguably Schiller’s greatest poem.

In this epic ballad, we find a supreme example of Schiller’s genius as a universal poet. He presents the forces of fate, history and above them all, natural law, which must ultimately check those who believe themselves to be above the laws of the universe.

As a historian, Schiller studied the rise and fall of empires, and the folly of great wars. History demonstrated to him that processes such as empires were ultimately self-destructive and could not avoid sowing their own destruction. While in his Bürgschaft we saw an example of historical forces prevailing through the Goodness of man, without the intervention of natural law, in the Cranes of Ibycus, we see precisely this higher natural law intervening, as it has with all empires and the vast majority of their tyrants. Thus, Schiller presents the forces of history, fate, and natural law all as active principles in the affairs of man, be he aware or not.

Upon reading the poem, Wilhelm von Humboldt, the eminent philologist, classical Greek scholar, educational reformer, and founder of the University of Berlin, said the following:

“There is a greatness and a sublimity [in the Cranes], which is again completely their own. Especially from the moment the theater is mentioned, the depiction is godly. The painting of the amphitheater and the congregation is lively, great and clear, already the names of the peoples transpose one to such happier times, that I know of scarcely anything more magnificent for the fantasy. And then the chorus of the Eumenides, as it appears in its frightful greatness, wanders around the theater, and finally disappears, horrible even then. Here the language is at once so uniquely yours, and so appropriate for the task, that I can not deny that I felt, in the chorus, something greater and something even higher than in the Greek of Aeschylus, as closely as you have followed him. Already this language, this verse-style, even the rhyme scheme make that which is otherwise unique to modern works unite with antiquity. The sublimity for fantasy and heart, which is so unique to Greek expression, achieves here, I believe, an increased greatness for the mind.”

While The Chained Muse cannot yet offer an original translation of this epic ballad, we do plan on taking up the challenge in the reasonable future. In the meantime, we recommend readers take a look at the Schiller Institute’s translation for a first approximation of this monumental work.

David Gosselin is a poet, translator, and linguist based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse and New Lyre. His first collection of poems is entitled Modern Dreams.