THE SONG OF THE BELL.

Vivos voco. Mortuos plango. Fulgura frango.

EE the mould, of clay well heated,
In the earth wall'd 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.

The work, we earnestly are doing,
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 rev'rence 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.

Take the wood, from pine trunks riven,
Dry it must be through and through,
That the flame, straight inward driven,
Fiercely strike into the flue!

Boil the copper now!
Quick the tin add too,

That the thick bell-metal flowing,
Through the mould be rightly going.

What in the pit, by help of fire,
The hand of man is forming thus,
High in the belfry of the spire,
There will it tell aloud of us.

Still will it last while years are rolling,
And many hearts by it be stirred,
With all the mourner's woes condoling,
And with Devotion's choir accord.
Whate'er this changing life is bringing,
Here deep below, to Earth's frail son,
Strikes on this metal crown, which, ringing,
With warning tone, will sound it on.

Bubbles white I see are starting;
Good! the mass is fluid now.
Through it let the salts be darting,
Which promote its speedy flow.

Clean too from the scum
Must the mixture come,
That, composed of metal merely,
Full the Bell may sound, and clearly.

For with Joy's festive music ringing,
The child beloved it soon will greet
Upon his life's first walk, beginning
In the soft arms of Slumber sweet;*
For him rest yet in Time's dark bosom
Funereal wreath and joyous blossom;
A mother's tender cares adorning

With watchful love his golden morning

*The allusion here is to the custom of carrying the child to church, a few days after birth, to be christened. See Retzsch's Outlines, No. 6.

The years they fly like arrows fleet

The maiden's plays the proud boy scorneth,
He rushes forth, the world to roam
With pilgrim's staff, at last returneth,
A stranger in his father's home.

And brilliant, in her youthful splendor,
Like creature, come from heaven's height,
With cheeks all mantling, modest, tender,
The maiden stands before his sight.
A nameless longing then is waking
In the youth's heart; he goes alone;
The tears from out his eyes are breaking;
Joy in his brothers' sports is flown.
He blushes as her steps he traces,
Her greeting smile his heart elates,
For fairest flowers the fields he searches,
Wherewith his love he decorates.

O tender longing, hope the sweetest,
The golden time of young first love,
The eye beholdeth heaven unveiling,
Riots the heart in bliss above!

O that, for ever fair and vernal,
Love's beauteous season were eternal!

See how brown the pipes are getting!
This little rod I dip it in,

If it show a glazed 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.

For when the Strong and Mild are pairing,

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.
Lovely in her ringlets straying

Is the wreath that crowns the bride,
When the merry church bells playing
Call to pleasure far and wide.
Ah! the hour of Life most festal
Ends the May of Life also,
With the veil and girdle vestal
Breaks the lovely charm in two.
The passion it flies,

Love must be enduring,
The flower it dies,
Fruit is maturing.
The man must be out
In hostile life toiling,
Be toiling and moiling,
And planting, obtaining,
Devising and gaining,
And daring, enduring,
So fortune securing;

Then streameth in wealth, all untold in its measure,
And filled is the garner with costliest treasure;

The chambers increase, the house-it spreads out.
And in it presides

The chaste gentle housewife,
The mother of children,
And ruleth meetly
The household discreetly,
And teacheth the maidens,
The boys she restraineth,
And keeps ever moving
Hands busy and loving,
And adds to the gains
With ordering pains,

And sweet-scented presses with treasures is filling,
And thread round the swift humming spindle is reel-

ing,

14

And the neat burnished chests-she gathers them full

Of linen snow-white, and of glistering wool,
And adds to the useful the beautiful ever

And resteth never.

And the father with look elate,
From the high, far-seeing gable
Surveys his blooming, broad estate,
Seeth his buildings forest-like growing,*
And the barns with their lofts o'erflowing,
And the granaries, bent with the blessing,
And the corn as it waves unceasing;
Boasts he with pride-lit face:
Firm as the Earth's own base
'Gainst all misfortune's might
Stand now my riches bright!

Yet with thy great laws, O heaven,
Can no endless bond be woven,
And Misfortune strideth fast.

Be the casting now beginning;
Finely jagged 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.

Benignant is the might of Flame,

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,
It steps forth on its own fierce way,
Thy daughter, Nature, wild and free.
Wo! when once emancipated,
With nought 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 heavens

Blessings pour,

Streams the shower;

From the heavens, all the same,

Lightnings gleam.

Dost hear it from the tower moan?

"Tis th' alarm!

Blood-red now

Heaven is flushing;

That is not the daylight's glow!

What a rushing,

Streets all up!

Smoke rolls up!

Flick'ring mounts the fire-column,

Through the long streets onward growing,

Going swift as winds are going;

As from out a furnace rushing,

Glows the air, and beams are crashing,

Pillars tumble, children crying, Windows breaking, mothers flying, "Mid the ruin

Beasts are lowing;

This line is obscure in the original. Literally: "Seeth the projecting beams (or trees) of the pillars." Perhaps the line is elucidated by reference to the method of constructing the outhouses on German farms. It is said that the framework is left visible, and the pillars or supporters, the spaces between which are filled in with bricks or stone, bear a resemblance to trees. See Retzsch's Outlines, No. 26. Whatever may be the precise meaning of the line, Schiller probably intended to describe the farmer as taking satisfaction in the number and substantial character of his outhouses.

All is flecing, saving, running,
Light as day the night's becoming;
Through the chain of hands, all vying,
Swiftly flying,

Goes the bucket; bow like bending,
Spouts the water, high ascending.
Howling comes the blast, befriending
The flame it roaring seeks and fans.
Crackling 'midst the well-dried grains,
Seizing on the gran'ry chambers,
And the dry wood of the timbers,
And, as if it would, in blowing,
Tear the huge bulk of the world
With it, in its flight uphurl'd,

Mounts the flame to heaven, growing
Giant tall!

Hopeless all,

Man to God at last hath yielded, Idly sees what he hath builded, Wond'ring, to destruction going.

All burnt out Are the places,

Where the tempest wild reposes. In the hollow windows dreary, Horror's sitting.

And the clouds of heaven, flitting High, look in.

Ere he goes, On the ashes,

Where his riches

Buried lie, one look man throws-
His pilgrim's staff then gladly clutches.
Whate'er the fire from him has torn,
One comfort sweet is ever nearest,
The heads he counteth of his dearest,
And lo! not one dear head is gone.

Earth our work is now entombing, And the mould is filled right well; Will it, fair to light forthcoming, Recompense our pains and skill?

If the casting crack?

If the mould should break? Ah! perhaps, while we have waited, Mischief hath its work completed.

To holy Earth's dark, silent bosom
We our handiwork resign,

The husbandmen the seed consign,
And hope that it will swell and blossom
And bless the sower, by laws divine.
Still costlier seed, in sorrow bringing,
We hide within the lap of Earth,

And hope that, from the coffin springing, "Twill bloom in brighter beauty forth.

From the tower,

Heavy, slow,

Tolls the fun'ral

Note of wo.

Sad and solemn, with its knell attending
Some new wand'rer, on the last way wending.

Ah! the wife it is, the dear one,
Ah! it is the faithful mother,
Whom the angel dark is bearing
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 ruled o'er!
For her faithful guidance ceases,
No more keepeth watch her care,

By the dark,

Which alarms the bad benighted;

For the eye of Law doth watch and mark.

Holy Order, rich in blessing,
Born of Heaven, in peace unceasing
Dwell all ranks when by her shielded.
Mighty cities she hath builded,
Calling the unsocial savage

There to dwell-no more to ravage;
To the huts of men she goeth,
And to gentle ways allureth,

And dearest ties hath wov'n round us,
Ties, that to our country bind us.

Busy hands, by thousands stirring,

In a lively league unite,

And it is in fiery motion
That all forces come to light.

Briskly work, by Freedom guarded,
Both the master and the men,
Each one in his place rewarded,
Scorning every scoffer then.

Toil-it is our decoration,

Work, the blessing doth command,
Kings are honored by their station,
Honors us the toil-worn hand.

That the work, without a fracture,

May give delight to eye and heart.
Swing the hammer, swing,

Till the top shall spring!
When to light the bell arises,
First the mould we break in pieces.

The master wise alone is knowing
Just when the mould should broken be,
But wo! if, streams of fire flowing,
The glowing ore itself sets free!
Blind raging, with the crash of thunder,
It shivers the exploded house,

As if hell's jaws had yawned asunder,
Destruction far and wide it throws.
When brutal force is senseless storming,
There can no perfect work be forming;
When nations seek themselves to free,
There can no common welfare be.

Wo! if, heaped up, the fire-tinder
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 quiv'ring quaff.
Nought 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.

Joy to me now God hath given!
See ye! like a golden star,
From the shell, all bright and even,
Comes the metal-kernel clear.

Bright from top to rim,

Like the sun's own beam.
E'en the 'scutcheon, formed completely,
Shows its maker worketh neatly.

Come all! come all!

My comrades, stand around and listen,
While solemnly our work we christen!
Concordia we the Bell will call.

To harmony, by heartfelt love united,
May all be ever by its voice invited.

And this its office be henceforth,
Whereto the master gave it birth:
High, this low earthly being over,
Shall it, in heaven's blue, spacious tent,
The neighbour of the thunder, hover,
And border on the firmament.
And let it be a voice from Heaven,
Joined with the starry host afar,
By which high praise to God is given,
And which lead on the crowned year.
And be its metal mouth devoted
Only to grave and solemn things,
And hourly, Time, still onward flying,
Shall touch it with his rapid wings.