Grief checks the rushing Victor-van—­
      Fierce eyes strange moisture know—­
    On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan,
    “My son is like another man—­
      March, children, on the Foe!”

    And fiery lances whirr’d around,
      Revenge, at least, undying—­
    Above the blood-red clay we bound—­
    Hurrah! the burghers break their ground,
      Through vale and woodland flying!

    Back to the camp, behold us throng,
      Flags stream, and bugles play—­
    Woman and child with choral song,
    And men, with dance and wine, prolong
      The warrior’s holyday.

    And our old Count—­and what doth he? 
      Before him lies his son,
    Within his lone tent, lonelily,
    The old man sits with eyes that see
      Through one dim tear—­his son!

    So heart and soul, a loyal band,
      Count Eberhard’s band, we are! 
    His front the tower that guards the land,
    A thunderbolt his red right hand—­
      His eye a guiding star!

    Then take ye heed—­Aha! take heed,
      Ye knaves both South and North! 
    For many a man, both bold in deed
    And wise in peace, the land to lead,
      Old Swabia has brought forth!

    [10] Of the two opening lines we subjoin the original—­to the
    vivacity and spirit of which it is, perhaps, impossible to do
    justice in translation:—­

        “Ihr—­Ihr dort aussen in der Welt,
        Die Nasen einges pannt!”

Eberhard, Count of Wurtemberg, reigned from 1344 to 1392.  Schiller was a Swabian, and this poem seems a patriotic effusion to exalt one of the heroes of his country, of whose fame (to judge by the lines we have just quoted) the rest of the Germans might be less reverentially aware.

* * * * *

TO A MORALIST.

    Are the sports of our youth so displeasing? 
      Is love but the folly you say? 
    Benumb’d with the Winter, and freezing,
      You scold at the revels of May.

    For you once a nymph had her charms,
      And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing,
    All Olympus embraced in your arms—­
      All its nectar in Julia’s breathing.

    If Jove at that moment had hurl’d
      The earth in some other rotation,
    Along with your Julia whirl’d,
      You had felt not the shock of creation.

    Learn this—­that Philosophy beats
      Sure time with the pulse—­quick or slow
    As the blood from the heyday retreats,—­
      But it cannot make gods of us—­No!

    It is well, icy Reason should thaw
      In the warm blood of Mirth now and then,
    The Gods for themselves have a law
      Which they never intended for men.

    The spirit is bound by the ties
      Of its jailer, the Flesh—­if I can
    Not reach, as an angel, the skies,
      Let me feel, on the earth, as a Man.