THE GUIDES OF LIFE.

(THE SUBLIME AND THE BEAUTIFUL.)

TWO genii are there, from thy birth through

weary life to guide thee;

Ah, happy when, united both, they stand to aid, beside thee!

With gleesome play, to cheer the path, the One comes blithe with beauty—

And lighter, leaning on his arm, the destiny and

duty.

With jest and sweet discourse, he goes unto the rock sublime,

Where halts above the Eternal Sea,1 the shuddering Child of Time.

The Other here, resolv'd and mute, and solemn claspeth thee,

And bears thee in his giant arms across the fearful

sea.

Never admit the one alone!-Give not the former

guide

Thy honor-nor unto the last thy happiness confide!

1 By this, Schiller informs us elsewhere that he does not mean Death alone; but that the thought applies equally to every period in life, when we can divest ourselves of the body, and perceive or act as pure spirits; we are truly then under the influence of the Sublime.

RUDOLF OF HAPSBURG;

A BALLAD.

HINRICHS properly classes this striking ballad (together with the yet grander one of the "Fight with the Dragon") amongst those designed to depict and exalt the virtue of Humility. The source of the story is in Ægidius Tschudi, a Swiss chronicler; and Schiller appears to have adhered, with much fidelity, to the original narrative. The metre in the translation is slightly altered from that in the original, which has, when strictly rendered into English, a certain jerk in its rhythm, not pleasing to the ear.

T Aachen, in imperial state,

AT

In that time-hallowed hall renown'd,

At solemn feast King Rudolf sate,

The day that saw the hero crown'd!
Bohemia and thy Palgrave, Rhine,
Give this the feast, and that the wine;'
The Arch Electoral Seven,

Like choral stars around the sun,
Gird him whose hand a world has won,
The anointed choice of Heaven.

In galleries raised above the pomp,
Pressed crowd on crowd their panting way;
And with the joy-resounding tromp,

Rang out the million's loud hurra!
For after rapine, strife, and crime
Has closed the fearful kingless time,
Earth knows a JUDGE again :

No longer rules the iron spear,
No longer need the feeble fear

That Might alone shall reign.

In Rudolf's hand the goblet shines—
And gayly round the board looks he;
"And proud the feast, and bright the wines,
My kingly heart feels glad to me!
Yet where the Gladness-Bringer-blest
In the sweet art which moves the breast
With lyre and verse divine?

Dear from my youth the craft of song,
And what as knight I loved so long,
As Kaisar, still be mine."

Lo, 'mid the princely circle there,
With sweeping robe the Bard appears,
As silver white his gleaming hair,

Bleach'd by the winds of many years:
"Sweet music sleeps in golden strings-
Love's rich reward the minstrel sings;
The highest and the best

That heart can wish, or sense desire,
He praises;-dictate to my lyre
Theme for thy stateliest feast."

The Great One smil'd-"Not mine the swayThe minstrel owns a loftier power—

A mightier king inspires the lay

Its hest-THE IMPULSE OF THE HOUR!

As spring the storm-winds to the skies,
And none can guess from whence they rise,
As streams from founts unseen,

Song gushes from within-revealing,
The while it wakes, the realm of Feeling,
Hush'd in the souls of men!"

Swift with the fire the minstrel glow'd, And loud the music swept the ear:"Forth to the chase a Hero rode,

To hunt the bounding chamois-deer;
With shaft and horn the squire behind ;—
Through greensward meads the riders wind—
A tinkling bell they hear.

Lo, with the HOST, a holy man,-
Before him strides the sacristan,

And the bell sounds near and near.

"The noble hunter bared his head,

And humbly to the earth inclin'd, Revering, as becomes our creed,

The meek Redeemer of Mankind!
Loud through the plain a brooklet raves,
And checks the path with swollen waves,
Down rushing from the hill.

His sandle shoon the priest unbound,
And laid the Host upon the ground,
To ford the angry rill!

"What wouldst thou, priest?' the Count began, And gazing, wondering, halted there.

Sir Count, I seek a dying man,

Who hungers for the heavenly fare.
The bridge o'er which my journey lay
By the strong torrent swept away,
Drifts down the tide below.

That the sick soul of health may taste,
Now barefoot through the stream I haste,
God's healing to bestow.'

"The Count has placed him on the steed,
And given the priest the lordly reins,
That he might serve the sick man's need,
And speed the task that heaven ordains.
He took the horse the squire bestrode ;-
On to the chase the hunter rode,

666

The priest the sick man sought. And back the steed, when morn was red. All meekly by the bridle led,

With thankful looks he brought.

Now Heaven forefend!' the Hero cried,
'That e'er to chase or battle more
These limbs the sacred steed bestride
That once my Maker's image bore;

If not a boon allowed to thee,

Thy Lord and mine its Master be.
To Him in tribute given,