At the feet of that Count, sorely tired,

Who slumber most truly desired.

'We've ventured, Sir Count, in your castle to feast,

Since you went the Moslems to fight;

And as we believed you afar in the East,
Our revels were fixed for to-night.

And if you permit it, and know not of fear,

The dwarfs they will revel right merrily here,
Our fair little bride at her wedding to cheer.'

The Count in his dream, calm and still,

'Make use of my chamber at will.'

Then forth came three riders, careering about,

Who under the bedstead had been;

Then follows a chorus with song and with shout,

And quaintest of figures and mien.

And waggons and waggons with luxuries rare
That none but the dwellings of royalty share,

That seeing and hearing scarce credit we dare,
At last in a carriage of gold

The bride and the guests we behold.

Anon through the chamber they speedily hie,

And each tries to find him a place;

To waltz and to reel, and to gallop they fly,

The dance with their fair ones to grace.

They whistle and pipe, and they fiddle and ring,

They circle and sweep, and they rustle and swing,

They whisper and murmur, and chatter and sing ;

The Count, as he gazed on the scene,

Himself in a fever did ween.

Now rappings and tappings and clappings resound

Of benches and tables and chairs,

And each to the feast drawing merrily round,

A seat by his lady prepares.

They bear in the ham and the sausages small,

The venison, the fish, and the poultry and all;

The costliest wine flows at ev'ry one's call;

They frolic and revel so long,

And vanish at last with a song.

And shall I the rest of the story make known?

Then frolic and noise must be stilled,

For what by the dwarfs was so pleasantly shown,

Himself hath enjoyed and fulfilled.

With trumpets and singing, and chariots gay,

With horses, and riders, and bridal array,

They come, and they bow, and their grandeur display,

An endless rejoicing, and revelling train :

Thus it happened, and happens again and again.

FRIEDERICH VON SCHILLER.

[1759 — 1805.]

THE LAMENT OF CERES.*

Is the joyous spring-time nearing?

Has the earth grown young again?

Verdant are the hills appearing,

Broken is the icy chain.

In the streamlet's mirror brightly

Laughs the blue unclouded sky,

Zephyr's pinions flit more lightly,

And the budding plants grow high;

Through the woods the birds are singing,

And the Dryad speaks to me;

* In this, as in the other classical poems of Schiller, I have followed his example of using indifferently the Greek and Roman names of gods, &c.

All thy flow'rs the year is bringing,

Not thy daughter unto thee!

Ah! how long I've wandered sadly!

O'er all earth my way I wend.

Titan, all thy rays how gladly

On the precious track I'd send.

Never one to me unfoldeth

Tidings of the lovèd face;

And the day, who all beholdeth,

Of my lost one sees no trace.

From my side didst, Zeus, thou tear her?

Or, enamoured of her charms,

Did to Hades Pluto bear her

Captive in his dusky arms?

Who to yonder gloomy river

Will my tale of sorrow bear?