Admetus and other poems / Emma Lazarus [electronic text]

TRANSLATIONS.

FRAGMENT FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIACOMO LEOPARDI.

MANY a night I muse upon this shore: And high above the varied plain I see In the pure blue of heaven the flickering stars, Glassed by the sea, and in the vault serene They shine out scintillant around the world. Steadfast I gaze upon those lights of heaven, Which to mine eyes appear but points of flame, And yet, in truth, are such stupendous worlds, That unto them this earth is but a point. Yea, unto them, not only man himself, But all this great globe, whereon man is naught, Is utterly unknown. And when I see Clusters of stars, which unto us are film, To which not only man, and this huge world, But all these infinite orbs and golden suns Are quite unknown, or else appear to them, As they to us, a track of nebulous light, Ah! then what seemest thou unto mine eyes,

O race of man? And when I call to mind Thy state on earth, and then remember me That thou dost deem thyself the lord of all, And how thou dost presume to fable here (On this dark grain of sand we call the earth) Of the Creator of the universe; When I recall the dreams that even now Insult the wise,— what feelings and what thoughts Rise in my heart, unhappy race of man! Pity or scorn, I know not which prevails.

DEDICATION OF GOETHE'S "FAUST."

O HOVERING forms, ye come to me once more, Ye whom I saw in youth with troubled eyes. Do I believe this dream as heretofore? Shall I essay to grasp it, ere it flies? Ye crowd upon me, ye encompass me, As from the mist and vapor ye arise. My bosom trembles at the breath again Of the enchanted air about your train.

Ye bring to me the scenes of happy days, And many a lovely shadow reappears; Like an old, half-forgotten tale, ye raise First-Love and Friendship of my early years. Once more of all life's labyrinthine maze, The sad strain is repeated with fresh tears. Ye name dear friends who have preceded me, Cheated of lovely hours by Destiny.

The souls to whom I sang my early lay Hear not this last,— that friendly throng is gone,

The echo of the first has died away. Unto an alien public I intone This my new song; their very plaudits make My heart grow sick, and all who for my sake In other days, on hearing me, made mirth, If they still live, are scattered o'er the earth.

There seizes me a long unfelt desire For that calm spirit-region far away. Above me floats, like an Æolian lyre, With indistinct, vague tones, my lisping lay. I glow and tremble while tear follows tear, And mild and soft becomes my heart severe. All I have now seems strange and far to me, And what hath gone becomes reality.

PROLOGUE FOR THE THEATRE.

(MANAGER. POET. MERRYMAN.)

MANAGER.

YE who so oft have stood by me in need And trouble, say what hopes ye entertain Of this our enterprise, on German ground. I fain would please the public, —for they live And let live,— now the posts are up, the boards Are raised, and every one expects a feast. They sit already, calm, with eyebrows arched, And long to be amazed. I understand How to propitiate the people's heart; But I have ne'er before been thus perplexed. True, they are not accustomed to the best, But they are terribly well-read. And we, How may we work, that all seem new and fresh, And yet seem pleasing and instructive too? I dearly love to see the multitude, When towards our booth they throng,—a living stream, — And press with powerful and constant waves

Unto the narrow entrance to our grace. In the broad daylight, yea, ere four o'clock, They thrust themselves towards the ticket-box, And almost break their necks to buy a seat, As I have seen them, in a year of dearth, Crowd round the baker's shop for loaves of bread. This miracle can only be performed, On such a varied multitude, by one, The Poet,— O perform it, friend, to-day.

POET.

Speak not to me of yonder motley throng, Whose very aspect bids the Muse take flight. Hide from mine eyes that crowd whose billows strong Would drag us in the whirlpool with their might. To some sweet, quiet corner lead my song, Where purest joy can bloom in heavenly light; Where Love and Friendship can create and cherish, With hands divine, delights that may not perish.

Ah! what hath sprung therein from out our soul, Or what the trembling, stammering lips let fall (Now faltering, mayhap reaching now the goal), The power of the moment swallows all. And often, after years successive roll, In perfect shape it riseth to enthrall.

The glittering is for the hour we see, The true abides for all posterity.

MERRYMAN.

Posterity! I ne'er would hear that name! Were I to prate about posterity, Who would make laughter for the present age? For that they will, and that they ought to have. The presence of a brave young lad, I think, Is always something. He who understands How to communicate his thoughts with grace, Need never suffer from the public's whims. His circle also must be very large, That he may stir it with more certainty. Be worthy thou, and make thyself a type; Let Phantasy with all her followers, Reason, Emotion, Sense, and Passion too (Nor yet omit thou, Folly) find a voice.

MANAGER.

But more than all, find incident enough. The world will come to look, and loves to see. If much be spun before the public's eyes, That they may gape with wonder and amaze, Then you have gained in breadth immediately, You are at once a popular young man. The mass can only be subdued by mass.

Each one at last finds something for himself, And every one goes home contentedly. If you must give a piece, give it at once In pieces; such a hash must needs succeed. 'Tis easily served, as easily as conceived. What profits it to offer them a whole? The public plucks it into pieces soon!

POET.

You cannot feel the baseness of such work. How little it becomes the artist true! The hurried daubing of the finest spark Already is a maxim, then, with you.

MANAGER.

Such a reproof affects me in no wise. Who works aright, must use the best of tools. Consider this,—you have soft wood to split, And only think for whom you are to write. This one is driven here by tedium; That one comes satiate from an o'erstocked board; And worst of all, a goodly number come Fresh from the daily papers. Here they haste, With scattered wits as to a masquerade. Mere curiosity wings every step. The ladies give their presence and their dress, And play for us without a salary.

What dream you on your heights of poetry? What can amuse a crowded audience? Look closely at the patrons of your art. One half of them is cold, —one half is raw. While one looks forward to a game of cards, After the play, another one expects A wild night on the bosom of some wench. Wherefore, poor fools, to such an end as this, Do ye torment the lofty Muse? I say, Give more, and more, and ever more and more, Then you can never fail to hit the mark. Try only thou to mystify the world; To satisfy is hard. What have you gained? Delight or pain?

POET.

Away! And seek thyself another slave, I say. The poet, then, must cast by, wantonly, The highest human privilege for thee; The right of man that Nature has bestowed! By what means has he found the royal road To every heart? What arms to him are lent, That he may vanquish every element? What is it but the rare, harmonious strain Within his breast, that sucks the world again, Back to his heart? When Nature's listless hands

Spin the long thread that endlessly expands; When the discordant crowd of beings clash, Untuned and jarring, with a jangling crash, Who re-creates them, and with gentle word, Makes every circle move in sweet accord? Who calls the individual to share The universal, consecrating prayer, With its celestial tones? Who maketh rage The passion's storm, or can at once assuage, And bid the rosy evening red abide Within the mind serene? Who scatters wide, Upon the loved one's path, fair buds of spring? Or weaves the meaningless green leaves, to bring A wreath that crowns the brow of genuine worth? Who can ensure to dwellers on the earth, Olympus, and with gods can meet and rest? Man's power in the poet manifest!

MERRYMAN.

Employ these noble powers, and conduct Your lyric business like a love affair. You first approach by chance, — you feel, — you stay, And get entangled by degrees. Joy grows,— Anon it is disturbed; you are in bliss, — Then enters Grief: and ere you are aware, It is a romance. Be our play like this!

Grasp only in the thick of human life. Each lives it, but 'tis known to very few, And seize it where you will, it has a charm. A little clearness among motley scenes, Much error and a feeble spark of truth, Thus is the liquor brewed that edifies And quickens all the world. Youth's fairest flower Assembles then to see your play, and hear The revelation; then each tender mind Imbibes therefrom its melancholy food. Now one and now another is aroused, And each sees what in his own heart he bears. As yet they are prepared to laugh or cry; They honor still the flight, and still rejoice To see the sparkle. One completely formed, Can ne'er be pleased; but one still being formed, Is always grateful.

POET.

Give me back the times When I myself was being formed. My rhymes Then gushed unbroken, fresh from their pure spring; The world was veiled with mists,— a hidden thing. The bud still promised wonders; I could cull The thousand flowers whereof the vale was full. Then I had nothing,— yet enough, forsooth! Joy in delusion and the thirst for truth.

Give back those wild emotions of the boy, The strength of hate, the deep and painful joy, The might of love. Give back to me my youth!

MERRYMAN.

Thou hast true need of youth, my worthy friend, When foes press round thee in the bitter fight; When lovely maids cling close around thy neck; When the wreathed guerdon of the rapid course Still beckons from the distant hard-won goal; When, after the swift whirl of the mad dance, You drink away the night in wassail wild. But now, to strike the lyre with grace and strength With sweet meanderings towards a self-made aim, Must be your task, old gentleman; and we, No less on that account, will honor you. Age does not make us childish as they say, It only find us all true children still.

MANAGER.

A truce to words and show us deeds at last; While you exchange your compliments, the time Goes by when something useful might be done. Of what avail to talk of the fit mood? It never comes to him who hesitates. Declare yourself a poet openly,

And you command the Muse. You know our need; We wish strong liquor,—brew away at once. That which is not begun to-day, my friend, To-morrow is not finished. Not one day Is to be lost in idle dallying. The firm man boldly grasps the possible, Nor lets it slip, but works because he must. You know each one upon our German stage Can try whatso he please; so spare me not Machinery nor scenic ornament. Make use of heaven's great and lesser lights,— Yea, you are free to squander e'en the stars. We lack not water, rocks, beasts, birds, nor fire. So traverse, in this narrow booth of ours, The whole great circle of created things, And journey on, with well-considered speed, From highest heaven through the world to hell.

SCENE FROM "FAUST."

NIGHT. — In a narrow, vaulted Gothic chamber, seated restlessly in his chair before his desk, FAUST is discovered.

FAUST.

I have, alas! by zealous energy Mastered philosophy and medicine, With law, and, woe is me! theology; Yet grow, poor fool, no wiser than before. They call me Master, yea, and Doctor too; For nine years I have led my pupils round, By crooked ways and straight, and to and fro, And see at last that nothing can be known. This thought will break my heart! 'Tis true, indeed, I am more clever than the solemn fools, The doctors, authors, magistrates, and priests. No doubts nor scruples vex me. I fear not Hell nor the Devil; therefore joy is dead. I dream no more my knowledge valuable,— I dream no longer I can teach mankind Aught to ennoble or to elevate. Besides, I have not either money, lands,

Honor, nor rank: no dog would live like this! So I devote myself to magic arts. Perchance, through power of the soul and voice, Many a mystery will be clear to me, So that no longer I, with bitter sweat, Must speak of what I do not understand; So that I may discover what that is That holds the world together at its heart, See all the germs and forces of creation, And drive no more a petty trade with words.

O that thou looked, full radiance of the moon, For the last time upon my misery! Thou for whose sake I waited at my desk So many a midnight, till above my scrolls And books, thou shone, my melancholy friend, O that I might, upon the mountain-tops, Roam in thy blessed light; with spirits flit Above the mountain caves, and hover then Over the meadow in thy misty light, And there, disburdened of experience, Make myself whole by bathing in thy dew.

Alas! and am I in my prison yet, Penned in this damp, accursed hole, where even The precious light of heaven scarce can pierce Mournfully through the painted window-panes;

Encompassed with worm-eaten, dusty heaps Of hooks, piled upward to the vaulted roof, Enwrapped with smoky paper; while around Lie myriad boxes, glasses, instruments, And ancient lumber? This, then, is thy world; Thou callest this a world! Dost thou still ask Why in thy breast thy heavy heart throbs loud, And why an indefinable, vague fear Smothers the aspirations of thy soul? Thou art surrounded but by smoke and mould, By wild beasts' skeletons and dead men's bones, Instead of living nature, for which God Created man. Away! away! escape To the large fields! is this mysterious book Of Nostradamus insufficient guide? There thou wilt learn the orbits of the stars; If Nature speaks, thy soul will apprehend, As spirit talks with spirit. All in vain, The dry thought here expounds the sacred sign. O spirits, ye are hovering near me now; Answer me, if ye hear me.

[He opens the book and gazes at the sign of the macrocosm.

Ah! what bliss Thrills all my being at the very sight!

I feel the fresh, pure warmth of joyous life Glow once again through all my nerves and veins. Was it a god who traced this blessed sign, That calms the tempest in my soul, that fills My heart with joy, and by mysterious force Reveals the powers of nature lying near? Am I a god? all is so clear to me! In these pure lines, I see before my soul Nature at work. Ah! now I understand For the first time the sage's apothegm: "The world of spirits is not closed to thee, But thine own sense is shut, thy heart is dead. Up, scholar! rise and bathe thy earthly breast Unwearied in the morning's rosy red."

[He contemplates the sign.

LO! how each weaves itself to form the whole! One for the other only works and lives. How heavenly forces rise and then descend, And pass the golden buckets each to each, With grace-diffusing wings from heaven to earth, All making harmony throughout the All!

What a display! but only a display! Where shall I seize thee, nature infinite? O, where, ye breasts? ye sources of all life, Whereon the heavens and the earth do hang,

Towards which the desolate soul aspires and yearns, Ye gush, ye flow, and must I faint in vain?

[He closes reluctantly the book, and gazes upon the sign of the microcosm.

How differently this sign affects my soul; Thou, spirit of the earth, art nearer me. Already do I feel my strength increased, Already do I warm as with new wine. Now I feel brave to meet the world, endure The fullness of the grief and joy of earth; To wrestle with the storm, and not to sink 'Midst all the crash of shipwreck. Overhead, The sky is clouded and the moon concealed, The lamp-light flickers, noisome grows the air, Red rays flash round my head, a tremor falls From the high vault, and makes my flesh to creep. I feel thee, thou art near me, spirit charmed By prayer. Unveil! Alas, my heart is torn, With strange emotions is my being thrilled; I feel my whole soul given up to thee,—Thou must! thou must! though it should cost my life!

[He seizes the book and repeats the incantation mystically. A rosy flame flashes up, and the spirit appears in the flame.

SPIRIT.

Who calls me?

FAUST.

Awful apparition! Hence!

SPIRIT.

Thou hast compelled me with a mighty spell, By sucking at my sphere— and now—

FAUST.

Away! I cannot bear thee!

SPIRIT.

Thou hast long implored Breathless to gaze upon me, hear my voice, And see my countenance. Thy spells-have worked Upon my essence. I am here, and now What miserable fear unmans thee thus? Where is the invocation of thy soul? Where is the breast that could create its world, Cherish, uphold it, and with tremulous joy Swell to uplift itself to equal height With us the spirits? Where art thou, O Faust, Whose voice rang through me, who aspired to me With all thine energies? Art thou the same Who shudder'st at my breath through all thy being, A trembling, writhing worm?

FAUST.

Creature of flame! To thee shall I surrender? I am he, Thine equal, Faust!

SPIRIT.

'Midst the tides of life, amidst action's storm, Up and down I toss, to and fro I wave, On infinite seas, 'twixt cradle and grave; With various woof I spin bright life warm, At Time's whirring shuttle eternally, For the living apparel of Deity.

FAUST.

Ah, busy spirit, thou who compassest The mighty world, how near I feel to thee!

SPIRIT.

Thou art that spirit's equal whom thy soul Can understand, not mine!

[Vanishes.

FAUST.

Not thine! then whose? I image of the Godhead, not even thine!

[A knock at the door.

O death! I know it is my secretary, My fairest fortunes he annihilates.

O that the dull, prosaic groveler Should this profusion of bright dreams destroy!

[Enter WAGNER in his dressing-gown and night-cap, with a lamp in his hand. Faust turns to him with displeasure.

WAGNER.

Pardon! I thought I heard your voice declaim; Doubtless it was some Grecian tragedy. Fain would I learn this art, for nowadays It hath much influence; I oft have heard That a good actor may instruct a priest.

FAUST.

Yea, if the priest be but an actor too, As it may easily happen in these days.

WAGNER.

Ah! if one always must be thus confined To study, and can only see the world On holidays, as through a telescope, Far, far remote, how can he lead it then By his persuasion?

FAUST.

If you feel it not, You ne'er may hope to find by seeking it. If it flows not from out your inmost soul,

With influences irresistible, Subduing all the hearers' hearts, remain Inactive ever; glue it, serve a hash From others' feasts, and blow the petty flame From out your little ash-heap with your breath, Then you may gain applause from children, apes, If you are able to endure such praise; But your words ne'er will touch another's heart, Unless they issue from the heart themselves.

WAGNER.

'Tis action makes the orator's success; I feel it, but I my not yet attain.

FAUST.

Try honest means, and be no jingling fool. Good sense and reason can express themselves With little art. When you have aught to say In earnest, have you then to hunt for words? Yea, all the glittering eloquence wherewith Men twist in shape the poorest shreds of thought, Is unrefreshing as the misty wind, That rustles through the autumn's withered leaves.

WAGNER.

Good Lord! but art is long, and life is short. Oft in my critical pursuits, my head

And heart are both oppressed. How difficult To gain the wherewithal to reach aright The fountain-head! When we are but half-way, Poor devils, we must die!

FAUST.

Is parchment, then, The holy well, whereof a single draught Allays our thirst forever? You have gained No cordial, if it gush not from your soul.

WAGNER.

Pardon, 'tis pleasant to transport one's self Into the spirit of the times,— to see How some wise man before us thought, and now How gloriously far we have progressed.

FAUST.

O yea, up to the very stars! My friend, The past is as a book with seven seals. And what you call the spirit of the times, At bottom is no more than your own soul, Wherein the times are. mirrored. Verily, A pitiable sight, from which we flee, At the first glance,—a dust-box, lumber-room, At best a ceremonious puppet-show, With excellent, pragmatic axioms, Such as befit the mouths of puppets well.

WAGNER.

Ah! but the world, the heart and soul of man, Fain would we all know something more of these.

FAUST.

What we call " knowing," — who dares name the child By its right name? The few who aught have known, Yet foolishly ne'er guarded their full hearts, But showed the rabble all they felt and saw, These have been ever crucified and burned. Excuse me, friend, the night is far advanced; We must break off at present our discourse.

WAGNER.

I still most willingly would keep awake, To talk so learnedly. To-morrow morn Will be the Easter; you will then permit A few more questions. I have zealously Pursued my studies, —much I know e'en now, But I would fain know all.

[Exit.

FAUST (alone).

How Hope ne'er leaves entirely the brain, That always clingeth to insipid trash, And gropes for treasures with an eager hand,

And when it findeth earth-worms, is rejoiced! Dare such a human voice sound in this place, Where spirits have surrounded me? Alas! I thank thee, ne'ertheless, most poor of all The sons of men, who snatched me from despair, That well-nigh had destroyed mine intellect. Ah! so gigantic was the apparition, That I could only feel myself a dwarf.

I, image of the Godhead, thought myself Near to the mirror of eternal Truth, Stripped of the earthly, 'midst the purity And radiance of heaven,—whose free soul, Above the cherubim, aspiring, strove To flow through nature's veins, and to enjoy The life of gods with their creative power. For my presumption, how must I atone? A thunder-word has swept me wide away.

I dare not now compare myself with you: Albeit I had power to draw you here, I had no power to hold you. In that hour, I felt myself so little and so great, You thrust me fiercely back upon the lot Uncertain of humanity. And who Will teach me now, and what must I avoid? Must I obey that impulse? Ah, in sooth,

No less than our misfortunes, our own acts Impede the progress of our lives.

To the sublime conceptions of the soul A something strange and alien ever clings; And when we have attained all worldly good, We call the better, vanity and lies. The glorious feelings that have given us life, Grow torpid 'midst the turmoil of the world.

Though hopeful Fancy once, with daring flight, Dilated to infinity, yet now A narrow, humble space sufficeth her, When fortune after fortune hath gone down, Wrecked in Time's whirlpool. Care hath built her nest In the heart's lowest depths, and hatches there All secret sorrows, rocking ceaselessly, Destroying all our pleasures and our peace. She dons forever some new mask,—appears Now as our house and land, our wife and child, Now water, now as poison, sword, or fire. We quake at all that never happeneth, And what we never lose, we still deplore. I am not like the gods, I feel it well, But like the worm that burrows in the dust, And, while it seeks its living in the earth, Is crushed and buried 'neath the passer's foot.

Is not all dust that on a hundred shelves Narrows for me these walls? this frippery, With myriad forms of empty nothingness, That limits me unto this world of moths? Shall I find here the thing that I require? And must I in a thousand volumes read That men have everywhere been miserable, That here and there hath been one happy soul?

What mean'st thou by that grin, thou hollow skull, Save that thy brain, distracted like mine own, Once groped for daylight in its zeal for Truth, And went in twilight miserably astray? O instruments, ye also gird at me, With wheels and cylinders, with cogs and springs. I waited at the door,— ye were the keys. Your wards are twisted cunningly and well, But ye will never raise the bolt. Alas! In the broad light of day, inscrutable, Will Nature not be robbed yet of her veil. And what she opes not freely to the soul, Thou canst not force with levers and with screws. Thou, ancient lumber, though I use thee not, Art here because my father needed thee. Thou, scroll, hast-been discolored by the smoke, Since my dim lamp first flickered o'er my desk 'Twere better had I spent my little all,

Than here to toil, o'erburdened by that little. Wouldst thou possess that which thy sires bequeathed, Make use thereof,— for what we do not use, Is a sore burden. What the hour creates, That only can it profit by. But why Are mine eyes fastened still upon that spot? Has, then, that phial a magnetic power? Why does all grow at once serenely bright, As though the moonlight in the woods at night Breathed suddenly around? All hail! Thou precious phial, which I reverent grasp, In thee I honor human wit and art. Thou essence sweet of mild and sleepy drugs, Strong extract of fine fatal juices, grant Unto thy lord a token of thy grace. I see thee, and mine anguish is assuaged; I grasp thee, and the struggle doth abate. The flood-tide of my spirit slowly ebbs. Forms beckon to me from an ocean vast, The glassy billows glitter at my feet. Another day allures to other shores.I see a chariot of flame descend, As if on airy wings,— I am prepared, Upon an unknown path, to dart through space,

Towards other spheres of pure activity. This lofty life, this godlike ecstasy, Hast thou deserved it, thou erewhile a worm? Yea, only resolutely turn thy back Upon the lovely sun of earth, —be firm To rend the gates asunder, Which all men Would willingly steal past. The hour hath come To prove by action that man's dignity Yields not to God's sublimity. Fear not, At that dark hell where Fancy damns herself To her own tortures,— struggle ever on, Unto that pass around whose narrow mouth All hell is flaming. Resolutely act, Though at the peril of annihilation!

Then come to me, O pure and crystal cup, Whereon I have not thought for many years, From out your old receptacle. You shone At merry-makings of my fathers, warmed The serious guests who pledged you each to each. It was the drinker's task to illustrate By rhyme the rich and cunning images Upon you painted, and with one long draught To drain your contents. At the sight of thee, I can recall how many youthful nights! Now I will pass thee to no neighbor guest, I will not test my wit upon thine art.

Here is a juice that soon intoxicates, And with its dark brown liquor fills thy bowl. Let this last draught, which I have here prepared And chosen, now be quaffed with all my soul, A sacred, festal greeting to the morn!

[He raises the goblet to his lips. Ringing of bells, and singing of choruses.

CHORUS OF ANGELS.

Lo, Jesus hath arisen! Joy in His resurrection, O men, whom imperfection, Deceitful and pernicious, Hereditary, vicious, Doth limit and imprison!

FAUST.

What mellow music, what deep humming draws The goblet from my mouth? O hollow bells, Are ye announcing now the festal hour Of Easter morn? Already, O ye choirs, Do ye begin the sweet, consoling hymn, That once, amid the darkness of the grave, Rang forth from angels' lips,— assurance glad Of a new covenant?

CHORUS OF WOMEN.

With myrrh and spicery We have embalmed Him,— we, The faithful, laid Him out. We swathed him round about, His cerements did wind Cleanly upon His bier. Alas! and now we find Christ no longer here.

CHORUS OF ANGELS.

Christ from the grave hath soared. The loving One is blest, Who stood the chastening test, In sad affliction bore The wholesome trial sore, And suffered for his Lord!

FAUST.

Wherefore, O soft yet strong celestial tones, Have ye thus sought and found me in the dust? Resound ye rather where weak men abide. I hear the message, but I lack the faith. The favorite child of Faith is Miracle. Unto those spheres, whence these sweet tidings sound, I dare not e'en aspire; yet from my youth,

Familiar with this strain, it even now Recalleth me to life. In former days I felt the very kiss of heavenly love, In the still Sabbath's solemn quietude. The full tones of the bell resounded then With such a depth of meaning, and a prayer Was ardent happiness! Through wood and field A yearning unimaginably sweet Impelled me, —'midst a thousand burning tears I saw a world arise. This hymn announced The sports of youth, the all-unfettered bliss Of the spring festivals. Now memory Restrains me with a child-like feeling still, From the last solemn step. Ring forth again, Ye sweet and heavenly refrains,— ring forth! The tear is flowing, earth hath won me back!

CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN.

The Buried One has soared Already to the skies, Our living, supreme Lord In glory doth arise. His joy in resurrection, Is equal and akin To God's joy in creating. We suffer still and sin.

He left us here, the faithful, His glad return to wait, Alas! we are lamenting, Master, Thy happy fate!

CHORUS OF ANGELS.

From mortality's womb, Lo, Christ hath arisen! As He from the tomb, Escape ye from prison. Ye bowing before Him, Who by actions adore Him, With joyful thanksgiving, In brotherhood living, Who promise and preach of Him, The ignorant teach of Him, For you is the Master here, You is He near!

SONG FROM HEINE.

MY heart, my heart is heavy, Though merrily blooms the May; Out on the ancient bastion, Under the lindens I stay.

There stands by yon gray old tower, The sentry-house of the town; A red clad peasant soldier Goes pacing up and down.

He toys with his shining musket, That gleams in the sunset red, Presenting and shouldering arms now,— I wish he would shoot me dead!